Page 38 of Until the Storm Breaks

I understand that exhaustion intimately. “Maybe you’re being too hard on yourself about what’s worth reading.”

“Maybe.” She shifts her weight, crossing her arms.

The sadness in her voice makes me want to fix this somehow, but who am I to offer advice. “Most days I sit at my laptop and it’s like staring into a void. Nothing comes.”

She looks at me with understanding. “And then you feel guilty for not writing, which makes it even harder to start.”

I chuckle. “The guilt spiral.” I pick up a piece of sandpaper from the workbench, needing to occupy my hands. “It becomes its own kind of paralysis. The longer you go without writing, the harder it becomes to start again.”

She nods, watching me. “Did you ever think about just... not writing? Finding something else?”

“Every day after the book was published. Hell, every day now.” I focus on the wood, the repetitive motion soothing. “I thought about walking away from all of it. The book, the whole stuffy literary world. Just disappearing into something simple.”

“What stopped you?” she asks.

“I’m not sure. I guess fear.” I run my thumb over the sandpaper’s rough surface. “Fear that if I wasn’t a writer, I didn’t know who I’d be.”

“I get that,” she says.

“What kind of things did you write?” I ask. “When you were doing it regularly?”

“Stories mostly. Observations from the bar, memories of my parents. Poetry sometimes, though I was never good at it.”

“I doubt that.”

“You don’t even know my writing,” she says with a wry smile.

“No, but I know you notice things. The way you see people, remember specific details. That’s a writer’s eye.” I set down the sandpaper, lean back against the workbench. “So was it really just the bar that made you stop?”

I watch her consider the question, knowing I’m pushing but unable to help myself. There’s a story there, something deeper than just being too busy.

“That and... it felt too personal to share,” she says. “Like people reading my diary or something. And I think, for me at least...” She pauses, searching for the words. “Writing meant sitting still with my thoughts. And that’s uncomfortable.”

I nod because I know exactly what she means. “Motion is easier than stillness. Easier to lose yourself in the noise than sit with what’s in your head. The bar probably takes care of that pretty well. Same with teaching for me.”

“Exactly.” She looks relieved that I get it. “Is that part of why you’re rebuilding the entire house?”

“Probably.” I brush sawdust off my hands. “Though I tell myself it needs doing.”

“Itdoesneed doing,” she points out, amused.

“And you tell yourself the bar needs running.”

She laughs quietly. “Itdoesneed running.”

We let that sit between us for a moment. I’ve been attacking every broken thing in this house since I arrived, filling every hour with some urgent repair. She does the same thing at the bar. Always there, always working, always moving. We’ve both perfected the art of being too busy to feel.

She shifts, glances at the door. “Well, I should let you get back to it.”

“You’re not bothering me if you want to stay.” The words come out too quick, too eager.God, I want her to stay.

“No, I really do have inventory before we open.” She rises, moving toward the door, stepping carefully over the lumber pile. At the threshold, she turns back. “But thanks, Calvin. For letting me help with the memorial. It means a lot.”

“Thank you for wanting to. Mom would be happy knowing you’re involved.”

She nods, gives me a small smile, then disappears. I listen toher footsteps on the gravel, the sound of her truck door, the engine starting. The room feels too quiet without her voice filling it.

I work until the light fades, trying to exhaust myself into not thinking about her.