Page 57 of Until the Storm Breaks
Or maybe it’s not polite. Maybe she’s actually interested.
What the fuck am I doing?
But I’m already out of the truck, afternoon heat hitting me like a wall after the air conditioning. The door’s unlocked when I try it. The familiar smell of the bar wraps around me as I step inside. Wood polish and the ghost of last night’s crowd, undertones of citrus from the garnish station.
Adrian’s voice carries in the empty space. “—next Thursday. Very intimate venue. They only do about fifty seats, so it sells out fast. But I can get you on the list.”
“Sounds nice,” Maren says, but she’s already seen me. Surprise flickers across her face, then something else I can’t read. “Calvin.”
Adrian turns, and his expression shifts from charming to calculating. He’s wearing all black despite the heat. Fitted t-shirt and jeans that look painted on. His hair’s doing that artfully messy thing that probably takes him forty minutes to achieve.
“Professor Midnight.” He doesn’t move from his position against the bar, claiming his territory. “Didn’t expect to see you here so early. Maren and I were just discussing Seattle’s poetry scene.”
“How nice. I was driving by and saw the cars,” I say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. “Thought I’d stop in and say hi.”
Maren’s wiping down the already clean bar, that thing she does when she needs her hands busy. “Adrian stopped by to invite me to a reading.”
“Several readings, actually,” Adrian corrects, his smile widening. “There’s a whole fall series. Though the Thursday one is special. Sarah Martinez is performing. She just won the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize.”
I’ve heard of the prize. It’s a big deal. Fifty thousand dollars for young poets. I move further into the bar, noting how Adrian doesn’t step back. How he maintains his position like he belongs there.
“Sounds impressive,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral.
“It is.” His smile is practiced, the one I’ve seen him use on donors at university events. “You should come too. Though I suppose literary readings aren’t really your thing anymore.”
“Calvin’s been pretty busy with the estate,” Maren says, and I can’t tell if she’s defending me or just filling silence.
“Right, the estate.” Adrian’s expression shifts to sympathy when he looks back at her. “Maren told me about the cabin situation. That’s rough, especially after so many years.”
My stomach drops. She told him.Of course she told him.Why wouldn’t she? He’s offering her sympathy while I’m the brother of the man kicking her out.
“You should really call that lawyer I mentioned,” Adrian continues, pulling out his phone. “Jennifer Hartley. She’s fantastic with property law, especially tenant rights. Let me send you her contact.”
“That’s kind of you,” Maren says, but she’s looking at me now, something uncertain in her expression.
“It’s nothing.” He types quickly, and Maren’s phone buzzes on the bar.
He already has Maren’s number. Of course he does.
“She’s helped several of my friends with similar situations. Property disputes, unclear lease agreements, that sort of thing.” He pockets his phone. “The real estate market here is getting brutal. Everyone wants waterfront property now.”
The comment lands exactly where he intended. He’s talking about my family, about what we’re doing to Maren, without saying it directly. And the worst part is he’s right.
Maren shifts uncomfortably, glancing between us, clearly sensing the tension. Her fingers twist the bar towel she’s holding.
“I should probably get back to inventory,” she says, trying to escape whatever this is.
I want to say something to ease that look on her face. To make her stop feeling like she has to manage everyone else’semotions while her world falls apart. But what can I say that won’t make it worse?
But Adrian’s not done. Of course he’s not. “Have you thought more about what we discussed last week? About the writing?”
What writing?
Maren’s face colors slightly. “I haven’t really had time.”
“Writing?” I ask, even though it’s none of my business.
Adrian looks delighted to explain. “Maren mentioned she used to write one night at the bar. I reached out and offered to look at some of her work. I have connections with a few literary magazines that might be interested. The editor at Tin House owes me a favor.”
