Page 42 of Until the Storm Breaks

The honesty surprises me. Maybe it’s the drink loosening him up, or maybe there’s actually a real person under all that performance.

He takes another sip. “Everything I write sounds forced. Like I’m trying to make this place fit into something it’s not. The voice of the rural American experience continues to elude my grasp.”

I blink at him.

He grimaces. “God, that sounded pretentious even to me.”

“A little bit, yeah.”

He laughs, and I suspect it’s the first genuine laugh he’s made all night. “My therapist says I use intellectualism as armor. Like I’m hiding behind dissertations and theoretical frameworks so no one can see the actual person.”

“Sounds like something out of a David Foster Wallace essay,” I say, laughing. “But your therapist sounds smart.”

“She’s expensive enough to be.” He studies me over his glass. “Wallace, huh? That’s some heavy reading for a bartender.”

“Bartenders read too,” I say, in the same tone I use for customers who snap their fingers at me.

“That isn’t what I meant.” He leans forward slightly. “I’m just impressed. Most people are reading, I don’t know, romance novels or comic books.”

“Hey, I read romance novelsandcomic books too,” I say defensively. The romance novel part is true. Eleanor’s got me half-addicted. But I’ve never read a comic book in my life. Still, his dismissive tone makes me want to defend them. “Romance novels are about women’s agency, about consent and communication, about people learning to be vulnerable. The only difference is they promise their readers hope at the end instead of despair. And also,” I continue, gaining momentum with my newly invented comic-book-reading persona. “Comics do incredible things with visual storytelling. They are often telling complex stories about real issues.”

He blinks, looking genuinely chastened. “I didn’t mean?—”

“Sure you did.” I’m fully committed to this defense now. “Some of us like our literature with happy endings and people who can fly. Just because something’s popular doesn’t mean it lacks value. And sometimes, after a twelve-hour shift or a hard week, people need escape more than they need another meditation on suffering.”

He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. Point taken. I’m a literary snob and romance novels are valid. Comics too.” He takes a sip of his drink, grinning. “You’re kind of terrifying when you’re defending popular fiction, you know that?”

“Someone has to,” I say firmly, crossing my arms.

“Clearly.” He leans back, studying me with renewed interest. “So, defender of all literature, do you write too? Or just read everything?”

Great. I just love shooting myself in the foot. First the David Foster Wallace reference, now I’m giving passionate literary criticism. Might as well hang a sign that says ‘failed writer’ over my head.

“Used to,” I say shortly.

“But not anymore?”

“Not really. Life happens,” I say, my standard deflection.

“‘Life happens.’” He repeats, swirling the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. “Like you had no choice in any of it.”

“Sometimes you don’t get choices,” I say sharply.

“Everyone gets choices.” His voice is certain. “They’re just not always good ones.”

I want to argue, but before I can respond, a group of fishermen come in, loud and thirsty after a day on the water.

“Be right back,” I say, moving to serve them, grateful for the interruption but unsettled by his words. They echo in my head as I pull beers and make small talk about the day’s catch.Everyone gets choices.Asshole. Some choices feel like drowning either way.

An hour later, Adrian’s still here, on his second Old Fashioned. He’s been holding court about his upcoming poetry collection, a workshop he’s teaching at Yale next spring, and some literary conference in New Hampshire where he was the keynote speaker.

“The thing about New Hampshire,” Adrian says, swirling his drink, “is that they’re trying desperately to matter.”

“What’s wrong with New Hampshire?” I ask, refilling a regular’s beer.

“Nothing, if you like your states without personality,” Adrian replies.

“Says the man from Connecticut,” Lark calls from her stool.