Page 39 of Until the Storm Breaks
It doesn’t work.
CHAPTER 11
MAREN
Laila snores beside my bed, little huffs and sighs that usually lull me to sleep. Not tonight. The clock on my nightstand glows 12:07 AM, and I’ve been staring at the ceiling for the past hour.
My brain won’t shut off. We’ve been planning the memorial for three days now, endless group texts about flowers and music and logistics. Theo and Alex are handling the food since they own the restaurant. Jack had flown out for something Formula 1 related and promised he’d make it back the day before the memorial. They’d all tried to cover the bar costs too, but I’d shut that down quickly. Susan gave me a home when I had nothing. Providing drinks and the bar space for her memorial is the least I can do.
Calvin’s been active in the group chat, responding to every question, weighing in on decisions. But I’ve barely seen him in person since our conversation in the sunroom several days ago. Just glimpses—him hauling lumber to the house this morning, working on the porch yesterday afternoon (shirt off in the heat, not that I was looking), his truck leaving for the hardware store.It’s like we’re living parallel lives, connected by text but avoiding actual contact.
A faint sound drifts from the direction of the shared kitchen. The soft scrape of something on the counter, Calvin moving quietly.
As if pulled by some external force, I slide out of bed, wearing just my sleep shorts and an old tank top that’s been washed thin. The cabin floor is cool under my bare feet as I cross to the door.
The shared kitchen glows with soft light when I push through the door. Calvin stands at the counter with his back to me, slowly pouring hot water over coffee grounds in a pour-over setup. Papers scattered beside him, a pen tucked behind his ear.
“Can’t sleep either?”
He startles, nearly dropping the kettle. “You startled me.”
“Sorry.” I step fully into the kitchen, hyperaware of my bare legs, my thin shirt. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
His eyes do a quick sweep before he catches himself, jerking his gaze back to my face. His hair is sticking up in places like he’s been running his hands through it while working. There’s a crease on his cheek from leaning on his hand, and ink stains on his fingers. He looks softer somehow, less guarded in the middle of the night.
“Sorry, did I wake you? I tried to be quiet.”
“You were quiet. I was already awake.” I move to the cabinet for a glass, reaching up to the second shelf. The movement makes my tank top ride up, exposing a strip of skin above my sleep shorts. I feel his eyes on me. The awareness of his gaze makes my skin prickle and I instinctively hold my hand up to my side to obscure the tattoo. “Insomnia club meeting?”
“Apparently.” He finishes pouring the water, sets the kettle down. “Though I brought work to mine.”
I fill the glass with water from the tap, taking a long drinkbefore glancing at his papers. His handwriting is cramped, with lots of crossed-out lines. “What’s all this?”
“Conference presentation. Found Words Festival at the end of August.”
“Right,” I say. “You mentioned that the other night. The academic circuit?”
“Unfortunately.” He lifts the pour-over, sets it in the sink. “They want me to talk about my work. The book, the essays. And of course they emailed yesterday asking what I’m working on now.”
“Let me guess. You told them you’re deep into your next masterpiece.”
“Of course.” He smiles. “It’s called ‘How to Bullshit Your Way Through Academia.’ Very meta.”
I laugh. “Chapter one: Midnight Coffee and Existential Dread?”
“Chapter two: Why Everything I Write Sounds Like I Swallowed a Thesaurus.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Though honestly, that might be an improvement at this point.”
I lean against the counter. “So what are you actually going to tell them?”
“The truth, probably. That I haven’t written anything real in years. That I’m a fraud coasting on one good book I wrote in a grief fugue.”
“Don’t you write articles and essays? Things like that?” I twist the glass in my hands. “Susan was always mentioning something you’d published. Made us all read that piece about Pacific Northwest Gothic.”
“Magazine pieces, yeah. Essays here and there. Enough to keep my department happy.” He pushes a hand through his hair, making it stick up even more. “But no books. No real work. The conference people want to hear about the next book. The next big thing.”
“And I take it from our conversation the other day that there isn’t one?”
“Not even close.” He looks down at his coffee like it holds answers. “The first book came from this desperate place. Like if I didn’t write it, I’d drown. Now I just feel empty. Like I used up all my words on Dad and have nothing left for Mom.”
