Page 24 of Until the Storm Breaks

She pauses for just a moment, like she’s going to say something else. But then Laila bounds out of the truck and makes a beeline for Maren, and she heads inside with her groceries. The moment passes, but I watch her go, wondering what she was going to say. Wondering what it would be like to help her carry those bags, to know what she buys, what she cooks, what her life looks like beyond the glimpses I catch through windows and walls.

I go back to hammering boards, but now I’m aware of her moving around in her cabin, putting groceries away, living her life parallel to mine but separate. Always separate.

For now, the work is enough. It has to be.

CHAPTER 7

MAREN

The dinner rush is just starting to pick up when Lark pushes through the back door of The Black Lantern. It’s barely six o’clock and I can already see the signs of a busy night. Nearly every table is filled and the local band is setting up in the corner for Saturday live music night.

Lark looks like she’s determined to prove she doesn’t need help, crutches catching on the doorframe, face set in grim determination, ankle wrapped in enough athletic tape to mummify a small cat.

“Before you say anything,” she announces, dropping her bag with a thud, “I’m fine.”

“You’re on crutches.”

“They’re preventative crutches.”

“That’s not a thing.” I abandon the garnish prep to get a better look at her.

“I had a tiny accident at Midnight Training.” She attempts a casual lean against the bar, nearly loses a crutch, recovers withthe kind of dignity that only comes from extensive practice at pretending everything’s fine. “Who knew?”

“Lark, you have to go home.” I steady her with one hand. “You can’t work like this.”

“I can hop! Watch.” She demonstrates, nearly taking out a bar stool. “See? Mobile.”

“That was terrifying.”

“Listen,” she says, “I couldn’t find anyone to cover tonight. The doctor said it wasn’t bad but that I needed to rest for a few days. Everyone’s either out of town or suddenly has plans.” She adjusts her grip on the crutches, wincing. “You’ll be completely alone out here. And there’s that bachelorette party. Anywhere from ten to fifteen girls. Plus it’s live music night.”

The concern in her voice makes me soften slightly. Lark’s worked enough Saturday nights with me to know how intense it gets. A bachelorette party on top of the usual Saturday crowd and the band? That’s a nightmare scenario for solo bartending. But looking at her and the way she’s favoring that ankle, there’s no way.

“I’ll manage,” I say, though I’m already mentally adjusting for working solo. “I always do.”

“Mare—”

“You can barely stand, let alone carry a tray through a packed bar. Someone bumps into you and you’ll end up in the ER.”

She knows I’m right, but I can see it killing her to admit it. “Fine. But if you need me?—”

“I’ll be fine. Go home, ice that ankle.”

She hobbles toward the door, pausing to call back, “Try not to burn the place down without me.”

Once she’s gone, I turn back to the bar. The dinner crowd’s in full swing, and the band’s nearly finished their sound check in the corner. I just need to stay ahead of the orders. Hopefully it’s a wine and beer kind of night, not a complicated cocktailnight where everyone wants something that takes five minutes to make.

Who am I kidding? It’s Saturday. Someone’s definitely going to order a Ramos Gin Fizz just to watch me suffer.

Three hours later, at nine o’clock sharp, I’m remembering why Saturday live music nights are both a blessing and a curse. The band—three guys from Port Angeles who call themselves “The Sound”—are actually decent, which means people are staying longer, drinking more. The threatened bachelorette party has materialized in full force: twelve women in matching shirts that say “Sarah’s Last Sail” with little nautical anchors. They’ve pushed three tables together near the stage and are working through our cocktail menu with determination.

“Can we get another round of those pink things?” one of them shouts over the music.

“The cosmopolitans?”

“No, the OTHER pink things!”

We have four drinks that could be classified as pink. I make an executive decision and start pouring rosé sangria when I look up and see Calvin Midnight walking through the door.