Page 29 of Until the Storm Breaks

She steps closer. Close enough that I can feel her warmth despite the rain. “It helped me.”

“When I read it,” she continues, her voice low, “I was looking for someone else who knew what it felt like. To wake up and remake the world every morning because the people who helped build it are gone.”

I stay quiet, not wanting to interrupt. I want whatever she’s willing to share, want to know all her broken pieces.

“The grief essay,” she says, and I can tell she’s choosing her words carefully. “You wrote ‘Some storms pass. Others take up residence in your chest and call it shelter.’ I used to think that meant I was doomed to carry this forever, like a permanent houseguest.”

She pauses, and I wait, rain running down both our faces.

“But I realized,” she continues, “it’s not about storms taking shelter in you. The storm becomes part of your weather system. This is just the climate you live in now, not something foreign that lives in you. And some days it rains, some days it doesn’t, but you learn to work with it. You even find the sun sometimes. You plant things that grow in this weather.”

She reframes my metaphor into something livable instead of something to endure. I haven’t been able to see it that way, too stuck in my own interpretation, but she cuts through the bullshit I’ve been drowning in.

“Yeah,” I say quietly, my voice thick. “That’s exactly it. That’s what I meant, I just... couldn’t see it.”

She shrugs, but she’s smiling slightly. “Just how I read it. Maybe I got it wrong.”

“No. You got it right. More right than I did.”

God, I want to hear what she thinks about everything. Want to see the world through her eyes.

I find myself stepping closer without meaning to, drawn like gravity, then catch myself and stop. The space between us feels charged and dangerous, like touching her might rewrite everything I thought I knew about myself.

We walk in silence for a moment, the rain softening to a drizzle around us. I’m still processing what she said, how she took my darkest thoughts and found light in them.

“Why did you help tonight?” she asks suddenly, breaking the quiet. “At the bar. We’re not exactly... friends.”

The question catches me off guard. “You needed help.”

“That’s not really an answer.” She kicks a small rock, sends it skittering into a puddle. “You could have just ordered your beer and left. Watched me drown in cosmopolitan orders.”

“Maybe I have a weakness for lost causes.”

“My bar is not a lost cause.” Her voice rises in mock indignation, hand pressed dramatically to her chest.

“I meant the cosmopolitans,” I say. “Overrated drink. All that cranberry juice.”

“You take that back.” She nudges me with her elbow. “Cosmos are iconic.”

“Only because ofSex and the City, not because they deserve to be.”

“Big Carrie Bradshaw fan, are you?” She’s grinning now, and I want to keep her smiling forever.

“Iam, actually. Binged the whole show twice in college. The writing’s genuinely sharp, especially Miranda’s storylines. ThenI tried my first cosmopolitan thinking I’d been wrong about them too.”

She stops walking to stare at me. “You’re serious. Calvin Midnight watchesSex and the City.”

“Dead serious. Even wrote a paper on it for a screenwriting class.” I glance over at her, grinning at her expression. “Still hate cosmopolitans though.”

She shakes her head, laughing. “You’re full of surprises.” Then she grows serious again. “Really though. Why did you help at the bar?”

I consider how to answer. “My mother would have haunted me if I’d left you to handle that alone. She had very strong opinions about helping neighbors.”

“I can handle a busy night,” she says. “I’ve done it before.”

“Oh, I had no doubt that you could handle it. But I couldn’t just sit there watching you get slammed.” I pause, remembering our first meeting when I got back into town. “I know I was a dick when I arrived, but I’m not actually heartless enough to drink beer while you’re drowning in cocktail orders.”

“Ah. Ghost prevention and chivalry. Very practical.”