Page 10 of Until the Storm Breaks
“Harsh but probably accurate.”
“Definitely accurate.” He shifts his weight. “How’s the bar doing?”
The question surprises me. “Fine. Good, actually.”
“Mom was always so happy that you took it over. Said you understood what it meant to the town.”
“Someone had to. The offers she was getting from Seattle developers...” I trail off.
“Kombucha on tap?”
“I wish. Wellness smoothies and meditation hours.”
We’re both almost smiling now, which feels wrong and rightat the same time. Then Laila barks from my cabin, breaking the moment.
“I should get to work,” I move past him again and open the door to my cabin.
“Later,” he says, heading to his own door.
“Yeah, later.”
I grab Laila’s food bowl, fill it quickly, then head out, needing to get to work. Needing to get away from whatever this is.
The Black Lantern is already humming by the time I push through the back door, tying my apron as I walk. The evening rush started without me, and though Jayson can handle the small menu on his own, Lark looks overwhelmed working the bar. As I approach, she shoots me a look that sayswhere the hell have you been.
“Sorry,” I mouth, sliding behind the bar and immediately grabbing a ticket. Two IPAs and a whiskey neat. Easy.
A customer at the bar is staring at the wall of photos, pointing at Hank’s fight picture. “Is that Hank Midnight? My dad used to talk about his fights.”
“That’s him,” I confirm, pouring the IPAs. “His last professional fight.”
Lark glances over while grabbing bottles. “I’ve always wondered why it saysDomic Mihnevon the bottom of that one.”
“That was his real name,” I tell them both, the story automatic after years of telling it. “Born here, but his parents were Croatian. The promoters couldn’t pronounce it, kept butchering it at every fight. They dubbed him ‘Hank Midnight’ instead. Said it sounded more American, more marketable. He liked it so much he legallychanged it when he retired.”
The customer nods and heads back to his table with his drinks. Lark lingers for a second, still looking at the photo.
“Speaking of Calvin,” Lark says, turning to me with trouble in her eyes, “I heard he’s back in town. Which means you’re going to start obsessively reading The Book again.”
“Weweren’tspeaking of Calvin,” I say, focusing on the whiskey neat, “and I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“How many times have you read it now? Fifty? A hundred?” She grins despite the chaos around us. At twenty-five, Lark’s three years younger than me but sometimes feels older. “You always get weird after reading that book. Stare-into-the-distance weird. Very brooding. Very ‘I have a crush on my landlord’s son who doesn’t know I exist.’”
“Crush? What am I, in first grade?” I grab the next ticket. “And he knows I exist. I just told him off about his dog-parenting skills.”
Lark stops mid-pour, beer overflowing slightly. “Wait, you already talked to him? When did this happen?”
“Hard not to. He’s staying in the cabin next door.”
“Holy shit.” She abandons the beer entirely. “And you’re just now telling me this? What does he look like? Does he still have that whole tortured artist thing going? Cause it was honestly pretty hot. Did you tell him about your?—”
“No,” I cut her off, glancing around to make sure no one’s listening. “And I’m not going to. Can we please just work?”
“Fine. But we’re talking about this later.” She hip-checks me as she passes. “And by later, I mean in about ten minutes when I corner you in the walk-in.”
This is why Lark is my best friend. She doesn’t let me get away with anything.
I pull another ticket from the rail and set up a pair of pint glasses, the rhythm so familiar I could do it in my sleep. Here, surrounded by the familiar chaos of orders and conversation and the occasional broken glass, I can breathe.
