Page 46 of Until the Storm Breaks
I exit near the University of Washington, muscle memory navigating the familiar streets. There’s the coffee shop where I used to grade papers, windows still dark at this hour. The bookstore where I did my first reading, terrified and trying not to show it.
There was a time I loved being here. The academic life felt like armor. Papers to grade, lectures to plan, enough work to fill every quiet moment. I threw myself into being the youngprofessor who’d published a successful book, convinced that achievement could substitute for actually dealing with grief.
But sitting at a red light, watching early morning joggers in their expensive athletic wear, I realize that version of me feels like a stranger now. The one who performed vulnerability for audiences. Who used work to avoid going home to watch Mom fade. Who believed if I just stayed busy enough, successful enough, far enough away, none of it could really touch me.
Dark River caught me anyway. Or maybe Maren did.
The bookstore is tucked on a quiet corner in the U District. Red Fern Rare Books, the sign says in faded gold lettering. I sit in my truck for a few minutes, waiting for them to open, watching the neighborhood wake up. A woman walks by with three dogs, all different sizes, all pulling in different directions.
At nine on the dot, I push through the door. A bell announces my arrival to what seems like an empty store.
The place smells like old paper and dust, that particular quiet of thousands of books. Shelves stretch to the ceiling, books crammed at every angle with no apparent system. Morning light filters through dusty windows.
“Be right with you,” a voice calls from somewhere in the back.
I wander while I wait, running my fingers along familiar spines. First editions mixed with reading copies, literary fiction next to genre paperbacks.
A woman emerges from behind a tower of boxes. Silver hair in a long braid, wool shawl despite the morning warmth, glasses on a chain around her neck.
“Calvin Midnight,” I say. “I’m here for the Elias Shaw book. The first edition.”
Her eyebrows lift slightly. “You’re the writer. The one with the essays.”
I nod, waiting for whatever comes next.
But she just hums thoughtfully and disappears into the back.I hear boxes shifting, muttered curses, what sounds like an avalanche of paperbacks. She returns with a package wrapped in dark blue paper, tied with rough twine.
“You said it was a gift,” she says, setting it carefully on the counter. “So I wrapped it. That’ll be four hundred.”
I pull out my wallet, count out the bills. More than I should be spending, but I need Maren to have this.
“Thank you,” I say, tucking the package under my arm. “For the wrapping.”
She just nods, already turning back to her boxes.
The bell chimes as I leave, stepping back into the brightening morning. The package feels solid against my side, weighted with everything I can’t say out loud. I set it carefully on the passenger seat.
The drive back to Dark River stretches ahead, but for once I’m not runningfromsomething. I’m running toward it.
The drive back feels longer, even with the morning traffic cleared. I keep glancing at the package on the passenger seat, second-guessing myself. What if she thinks it’s too much? What if I’ve completely misread what’s between us?
When I reach Dark River, I head straight to the cabins. The property feels too quiet for late morning. Maren’s car isn’t in its usual spot. Probably at the bar already.
I sit in my truck for a moment, package in hand, debating. I could drive to The Black Lantern, give it to her in person. But that feels too public, too much pressure. This gift needs space, privacy. She should be able to open it alone, react however she needs to without me watching.
I walk to her cabin, slide a little note inside the package, and set it carefully on the wooden table beside her door where she’llsee it immediately. I stand there for a moment like an idiot, rearranging it twice to make sure it won’t fall.
Back in my own cabin, I’m restless. The walls feel too close. I should work on the sunroom, but I can’t focus on measurements and cuts right now. My mind keeps circling to what I might be starting by doing this. What it means to give her something this personal.
I grab my keys again. Hardware store. I need a few more supplies anyway, and moving feels better than sitting still.
I’m barely out of the driveway when my phone rings through the truck’s Bluetooth. Dominic’s name fills the dashboard screen.
I hit accept on the steering wheel.
“Where are you?” he asks without preamble.
“Just leaving the cabins. Why?”
