Page 23 of Until the Storm Breaks
So we swallow our anger like medicine and go back to the photos, pretending to care about Jack’s kindergarten graduation while resentment sits between us, taking up all the oxygen in the room. The gym fills with its morning rhythm outside—weights clanking, someone’s playlist thumping bass through the walls, life continuing like our family isn’t imploding twenty feet away.
We’re looking at Jack’s high school graduation photos when we hear it. A crash from the weight section, metal hitting floor, followed by someone crying out. We all look up at once.
“Shit,” Dominic mutters, already moving, already in charge.
We follow him out onto the gym floor like we’re still kids following our big brother. People are gathering by the squat rack. It’s Lark, Maren’s friend, on the floor holding her ankle, face pale and tight with pain.
Dominic crouches beside her, already in problem-solving mode. “What happened? Can you move it?”
But Jack surprises me by kneeling too, moving with more care than I’ve seen from him in years.
“Don’t try to move it yet,” Jack says, settling onto one knee beside her. “Let me take a look first, okay?”
Lark narrows her eyes even through the pain. “Since when are you qualified for this? Aren’t you supposed to be in Europe doing whatever it is you do?”
Jack smiles, but it is a restrained thing, gentler than his usual cocky grin. “Since I started racing cars for a living. Trust me, I have had more injuries than I can count. May I?”
She studies him for a beat, then gives the smallest nod. He starts checking her ankle with hands, pressing carefully at the joint, testing range of motion without forcing anything. She hisses once and he murmurs, “Sorry, almost done,” in a voice I didn’t know he had.
“Looks like just a sprain,” Jack says finally, sitting back on his heels. “Pretty sure nothing’s broken, but you need X-rays to be certain. And ice. Lots of ice.”
“Gym insurance covers injuries,” Dominic says quickly. He is already standing and fishing his keys from his pocket. “I’ll take you to the clinic now.” That is Dominic in a crisis. Competent. Caring in his own gruff way. The guy who stayed, who built something, who takes care of people because that’s what he does.
“I’ll help her get out to the car,” Jack says, offering his arm. He shoots me a look.
“I’ll meet you outside,” I tell him.
Lark takes Jack’s arm without argument, leaning heavily against his shoulder as she pushes herself upright.
Dominic catches my eye over Lark’s head as they move toward the door. “We’re not done with this conversation.”
I nod. We never are.
The gym resumes its rhythm once they leave, though the tension still hangs in the air. Alex and Theo remain with me, the three of us caught in a silence that feels heavy.
“I should head out,” I say finally, more to break the silence than because I am eager to leave.
Theo shifts, glances at Alex, then back at me. “We should have told you, Calvin. Both of you. That’s on us.”
Alex nods slowly. “Dom isn’t wrong about what we’re facing, but leaving you in the dark wasn’t fair. You and Jack deserved better than that.”
“I get it,” I say, and I mostly mean it. “We all did what we thought was right. Just wish we’d figured out how to do it together.”
The drive home is quiet except for the radio. Morning sun burns through the fog, promising another perfect Pacific Northwest summer day. I think about Dominic’s exhaustion when he talked about Mom’s last months. About how we’re all stumbling through this without the person who kept us together.
When I pull up to the house, morning heat is already settling in. The cabins sit quiet to my left, Maren’s truck gone. She could be at the bar for inventory, or maybe grocery shopping, or anywhere really. I don’t know her schedule, her routines, the rhythm of her days. We live ten feet apart and I know almost nothing about how she spends her time when she’s not pouring drinks or taking care of Mom’s dog.
I grab my toolbox from the truck bed and head for the front porch to finish what I started yesterday. The boards near the door have been soft for years, and Mom used to worry aboutthem constantly. Should have fixed them ages ago, but there’s a long list of things I should have done.
The morning air smells like overripe blackberries and salt from the Sound. I pry up the first rotten board, and it comes apart in pieces. Definitely overdue.
By mid-afternoon, I’ve replaced half the porch boards and I’m soaked in sweat. The sun beats down relentlessly, and I’m thinking about that photo of Mom and Maren when I hear a truck pull up. My pulse kicks up before I even turn around.
Maren’s back, parking in her usual spot. She gets out carrying grocery bags, hair coming loose from her ponytail, wearing cutoffs and a tank top that makes me forget what I was doing. She glances over at me on the porch, takes in the scattered boards and tools.
“Finally fixing those death traps?” she calls out.
“Someone should have years ago,” I call back.
