Page 74 of Until the Storm Breaks
And it’s true. I’ve had plenty of mornings after with women, but they always felt awkward, like we were both trying to figure out how to politely extricate ourselves. This feels different. This feels like the beginning of something instead of an ending.
Evening settles over Dark River with that particular Northwest light that makes everything look softer than it really is. The last few days have been a blur of tangled sheets and shared showers, of her reading my old essays out loud in ridiculous voices while I cook breakfast, of fixing the deck while she hands me tools and tells me stories about Dark River’s most notorious bar fights. We’ve been existing in this bubble where nothing matters except the next kiss, the next laugh, the next time I can get her naked. It’s been perfect.
I walk toward the Black Lantern with my hands in my pockets, trying not to think about how I’m already heading to the bar when Maren only left for her shift six hours ago.
Six hours. That’s all it took for the cabin to feel too quiet, too empty, too much like all the other places I’ve lived without her in them.
The Black Lantern’s neon sign flickers as I approach. Through the windows, I can see the Friday night crowd is already building. Tourists mixed with locals, the energy ramping up toward that sweet spot between busy and chaos.
I push through the door, and the familiar sounds wash over me—music from the jukebox, the crack of pool balls, the layered conversations of people well into their Friday night drinks. But I only have eyes for Maren.
She’s behind the bar, pulling beers and laughing at something Lark’s saying. Her hair is up in that messy bun she always wears when she works, and she’s wearing jeans that fit perfectly. She hasn’t seen me yet. I could turn around, go back to the cabin, pretend I have some dignity left. Pretend I’m not completely gone for a woman I’ve only been with for a few days. Pretend that watching her work isn’t becoming my favorite evening activity.
But then she looks up, our eyes meet and her whole face transforms. The smile she gives me is bright and surprised andso genuinely happy that my pulse kicks up like I’m sixteen again.
Fuck it. Dignity is overrated.
I make my way through the crowd toward the bar, and she watches me approach, still smiling.
“Couldn’t stay away?” she teases as I claim an empty stool.
“Apparently not,” I admit, not bothering to pretend otherwise. She pours a bourbon for me and I pull out the weathered paperback from my back pocket. It’s an old copy ofThe Sun Also Risesthat’s been with me since college, pages soft from years of handling.
Lark slides over, her eyes bright with amusement. “Six whole hours. Must be some kind of record.”
“I brought a book,” I say defensively, holding it up. “Totally here for the reading atmosphere.”
“Right. Nothing to do with staring at Maren every thirty seconds,” she says, grinning.
“I read between stares,” I deadpan.
“An efficient system,” Lark laughs, then grabs a bottle as a customer waves her over. “Be right back.”
From down the bar, Eddie raises his Rainier in our direction, already a few drinks in judging by his relaxed posture. “You two are ridiculous,” he announces, chuckling into his beer.
“Thanks, Eddie,” I say dryly.
“In a good way,” he clarifies, raising his shot glass. “This place needed more fools in love. Good for business when the bartenders are happy.”
Maren rolls her eyes at him fondly, then turns back to me. “Hemingway tonight?” she asks, glancing at the book with a smile.
“Always a good choice for a bar,” I say, running my thumb over the worn spine. “It’s comfort reading at this point. Like going back to visit an old friend who never changes, never surprises you, just exists exactly how you remember.”
“Like literary mac and cheese?” she suggests, her eyes crinkling with understanding.
“Exactly like that,” I agree, watching her move to help another customer.
I open the book to a random page, content just to be in her space, to look up and see her there. The early evening crowd is steady but manageable, the bar humming with that perfect level of energy where conversations flow but don’t compete. The jukebox plays something low and bluesy, warm string lights hanging above make everything look warmer.
I settle into the rhythm, reading a few pages, watching Maren work, chatting when she has a moment. She tells me about her day. I tell her about the progress on the sunroom, how close I am to finishing it.
Around nine, the bar hits a lull. She’s drying glasses, moving slower now that there’s time to breathe, her movements relaxed and easy.
“Read to me,” she says, leaning against the bar across from me, the glass and towel still in her hands.
“Here?” I ask, glancing around at the mostly empty bar. Just Eddie in his corner, a couple sharing nachos by the window, the soft clink of glasses being washed in the back.
“Why not? I like your reading voice,” she says softly. “And it’s finally quiet enough to actually hear you without shouting over the jukebox.”
