Page 49 of Until the Storm Breaks
We stare at each other across the scarred wood where Dad taught us both to arm wrestle, where Mom spread college applications, where we signed papers after Dad’s funeral. All that history, and here we are.
“We’re done here,” Dominic says finally, cold and dismissive.
“This isn’t over, Dom.” I straighten, head for the door, then turn back. My whole body is coiled with the need to act, to fix this. “Maren keeps that cabin. Whatever it takes, however I have to make it happen. She’s not losing her home.”
“You can’t stop this sale,” he says.
“Try me.”
I leave before he can respond, anger burning through me as I head to the truck. My hands are shaking slightly as I grip the steering wheel. I don’t know how yet, but I’ll find a way to protect Maren.
She’s spent years making sure everyone else is okay, checking on Mom, keeping the bar running so the whole town has somewhere to gather.
She’s been everyone’s safety net for years. Now I’ll be hers, even if she doesn’t know she has one.
CHAPTER 13
MAREN
The Black Lantern empties out slowly tonight, regulars settling tabs and making their way into the dark. I count the till twice, wipe down the bar one last time, and lock up. The walk home through the trees usually helps me decompress from a shift, but tonight my mind keeps circling back to Calvin and the strange distance that’s grown between us these past few days.
The path through the Douglas firs is familiar even in darkness. I know every root that rises up to catch your toe, every spot where the gravel turns to dirt, every turn where you can catch a glimpse of the Sound through the branches. My feet ache in my boots and my shoulders are tight from carrying trays, and all I want is to fall into bed with the romance novel Eleanor lent me last week.
When I reach my cabin and climb the porch steps, I notice something on the little wooden table beside my door. A package wrapped in dark blue paper, almost black in the porch light. I pick it up, surprised by the weight of it. A book, definitely, from the shape and heft. There’s a small envelope tuckedunder the twine that holds it closed, my name written across the front.
I unlock my door and step inside, holding the package carefully in my hands. Laila lifts her head from her dog bed in the corner, tail giving a few halfhearted thumps of greeting before she settles back into sleep.
“That sleepy, huh? Not even curious?” I ask Laila as I kick off my boots by the door. She sighs in response, already going back to whatever dream dogs have.
I sit cross-legged on my bed with the package in my lap and open the envelope first. Inside, a small card:
For you.
- C
The wrapping paper is beautiful, the expensive kind with weight to it, and someone has tied it with rough twine instead of ribbon. I untie it slowly, not wanting to tear the paper. Inside is a book, old from the look of the binding, the particular smell of aged paper rising up. When I turn it over to see the cover, my heart stops completely.
The Burned Hour, by Elias Shaw.
This is one of the books that saved me when I was twenty and drowning. The one I’ve read so many times my paperback copy literally fell apart, pages coming loose from the spine until I had to rubber band it together. But this copy is different. I open it with careful hands and find the copyright page. First edition. First printing. My hands start to shake because I know what these cost. I’ve looked them up online, dreaming of someday owning one.
The title page makes my breath catch. There’s Shaw’s actual signature in faded brown ink from decades ago.
There’s more beneath the book. A notebook, linen-covered, the kind of notebook that makes you want to write something worthy of its pages. The paper inside is thick and cream-colored, with faint lines that won’t interfere with the words. Afountain pen is clipped to the spine, silver and perfectly balanced when I pick it up. Inside the notebook’s front cover is another note from Calvin:For all the stories you have in you. It’s time to write your own.
I sit there holding them. Not just any book but this specific one that held me together when I thought I might fall apart. Not just any notebook but one that feels like possibility. The tears come steady and quiet, and I don’t try to stop them.
Calvin did this. Went somewhere to find a first edition Shaw that must have cost hundreds of dollars. Chose this specific notebook, this specific pen. Left them for me to find like it was nothing, like it wasn’t the most thoughtful gift anyone’s ever given me.
I run my fingers over the notebook’s linen cover, feeling the texture of it, the weight of all those blank pages.
My fingers trace where the tattoo sits against my ribs, his words permanently etched there, reminding me of all the reasons this is dangerous. He doesn’t do relationships. He’s leaving. I’m already in too deep.
But sitting here with these gifts in my lap, I can’t make myself care about being sensible.
I wake with the Shaw edition still on my nightstand, morning light filtering through the curtains. For a moment I just lie there, running my finger along the book’s spine, still not quite believing it’s real.
Laila stretches at the foot of my bed, yawning wide before padding over to nose my hand.
