Page 99 of Until the Storm Breaks
Seven years I’ve had those words on my skin. Seven years of carrying them, and I hid it from him. Every day that passed made it harder to tell him. And now he thinks... what? That I’m some obsessed fan? That what we had wasn’t real?
My phone buzzes.
Calvin:Heading to Seattle now.
That’s it. The text he promised. Brief, informational, nothing more.
When I finally drive back to the cabins an hour later, his truck is gone. The empty space where it usually sits looks wrong. Inside his cabin, everything that matters is gone. Toothbrush, laptop, the book he’d been reading. He’d packed methodically, deliberately. Not frantically, but with purpose.
I sit on his bed, the sheets still rumpled from this morning. Just hours ago I woke up in his arms, feeling safe for the first time in years. Now I’m sitting in an empty cabin that smells faintly of his cologne, trying to understand how everything fell apart so fast.
At the bar that afternoon, I pour drinks on autopilot. Muscle memory takes over while my mind churns. Pull the tap, slide the glass, make change, smile. The motions I could do in my sleep.
I wasn’t supposed to be here. I should have been packing for Seattle today with Calvin, but instead I’m behind the bar after calling everyone this morning to tell them I’d be working after all. They were confused since I’d made such a big deal about getting the days covered, but I just said plans changed. Better to stay busy than sit in that empty cabin thinking about how quickly everything fell apart.
It’s that weird lull between the afternoon crowd and the dinner rush when only the dedicated drinkers and early birds show up. Eleanor comes in, not her usual night. She typically avoids the noise and chaos, but here she is, romance novel tucked under her arm, white hair perfectly set despite the wind that’s been battering the harbor all day.
“Not your usual night,” I say, reaching for a wine glass.
“Couldn’t stand my own company anymore,” she says, leaning against the counter. “Plus Jason’s doing that halibut with the blackberry sauce. You know I can’t resist that.”
“You alright, dear?” Eleanor asks, setting her glass down. “You seem tired.”
She takes a sip, then studies me over the rim. Her eyes are sharp behind her reading glasses, the kind of sharp that comes from seventy years of watching people, of knowing when something’s off.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
She hums, clearly not buying it but too polite to push. “Well, make sure you’re taking care of yourself. You young people think you’re invincible. I’m always here if you need to talk, honey. I’ll be in my booth.” She pats my hand once before heading to her favorite corner spot.
The next hour drags. I serve drinks, wipe tables, pretend everything’s normal
An hour later, when Eleanor’s settled with her halibut and the bar’s picked up slightly, Lark corners me by the register. She’s been watching me all shift, I can feel it, and now with a break in customers she’s making her move. She leans against the bar, arms crossed.
“So you gonna try that vague excuse again about why you’re working when you said you’d be heading to Seattle, or are you gonna tell me what actually happened?”
I look around, making sure Eleanor’s absorbed in her book and Marcus is focused on his pool game with Tom. The bar’s just busy enough that our conversation gets lost in the general noise. “Calvin left.”
Lark blinks, processing this. “What do you mean left? Left to get groceries? Left to?—”
“Left for Seattle. This morning. Alone.” The words come out flat, matter-of-fact, like if I say them without emotion they won’t hurt. “His biological parents showed up at breakfast. Ambushed us at the café. Asked him for money. Calvin walked out, and when I got back to the cabins, he was gone. Packed up everything and drove back to Seattle.”
“Wait, back up. His biological parents?”
“Yeah. Just showed up.” I grab a pack of napkins and begin restocking them. “They’d been following his career, apparently. Waiting for the right moment to make contact.”
Lark’s quiet for a moment, processing. “After thirty-five years?”
“His dad looked just like Calvin, it was uncanny. Same jaw, same way of standing. And they asked for money,” I confirm, remembering the man’s entitled tone. “It was brutal. You should have seen Calvin’s expression when he realized who they were. Like someone had punched him.”
“No wonder he freaked out. That’s a lot.” She grabs a rag, starts wiping down the bar beside me. “But he just left? Without talking to you?”
“He found out about my tattoo,” I admit quietly. “He saw it this morning and then after the whole birth parent thing, he confronted me about it outside the café. Asked why I never told him.”
Lark winces. “Oh shit. Bad timing.”
“The worst. He thinks I lied to him. Which I did, by not telling him.” I focus on arranging bottles, needing something to do with my hands. “He said he needs time to think. To figure out if what we have is real.”
“What you haveisreal,” Lark says firmly. “Anyone who’s seen you two together knows that.”
