Page 65 of Until the Storm Breaks

“And you don’t?” Adrian asks, though he already knows the answer.

“No. Nothing worth sharing.” I pull my arm back to reach for my beer, breaking Elena’s contact.

Elena considers my reply, stirring her martini thoughtfully. “The existing work still resonates. Though it would be wonderful if you could contextualize it somehow. Share how your relationship to those essays has evolved.” She leans closer, her knee pressing against mine. “I’d love to hear what you think about them now, with distance.”

That’s when Maren approaches our section of the bar.

“Adrian,” Maren says, her voice perfectly neutral. “Back again. Twice in one day. Must be a record.”

“Couldn’t stay away,” Adrian says with his usual smugness, gesturing grandly. “The Black Lantern has its charms. Maren, this is Elena Vale. She runs the Found Words Festival. Elena, Maren owns this place.”

“Nice to meet you,” Maren says. Her voice sounds more formal than I’ve ever heard it as she takes in Elena’s possessive positioning and my obvious attempts to lean away.

“Likewise,” Elena says, not moving away from me at all, if anything pressing closer as if sensing my resistance. “Adrian’s been telling me all about Dark River.”

“Are we just drinking tonight, or can I get you some food?” Maren asks, addressing the group but not quite looking at me. Her fingers tap against her order pad. “The salmon special is good. Kitchen closes in an hour.”

“Food sounds wonderful,” Elena says, her fingers still tracing patterns on my forearm. “Two plates of the salmon. I’m sure Calvin here is as hungry as I am.”

“Actually, make it three,” Adrian says.

I stay quiet, watching Maren write down the order. She’s being careful not to look at me directly.

“Before you go,” Adrian says, “did you reconsider the poetry reading? Next Thursday in Seattle?”

Maren glances at me briefly, and I try to communicatesomething—an apology, an explanation, that this isn’t what she thinks—with just my eyes. But she looks away too quickly. “I’m really not available Thursday night.”

“Your loss,” Adrian says with false sympathy. “Sarah Martinez really is brilliant. Next time I’m going to insist.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Maren says, already turning away, then heads back to the kitchen without another look at me.

“So,” Elena says once she’s gone, her attention back on me, “if you don’t have new work, we need to frame the existing work somehow. Give people a reason to hear it again.”

“You want me to make content about content,” I say.

“I want you to give the audience something meaningful,” Elena says, her hand sliding up to my bicep. “They’re investing their time and money to experience Calvin Midnight in person.”

“What if I don’t have anything meaningful to offer anymore?”

Adrian swirls his martini, watching us with obvious amusement. “Then youfakeit. One night of performing the grieving poet won’t kill you.”

Elena laughs, seemingly charmed by Adrian’s bluntness. “He’s not wrong. Sometimes we have to give people what they expect, even if we’ve moved past it ourselves.”

The bar continues filling with the Saturday crowd. I watch for Maren, but she’s clearly avoiding our section of the bar now. The salmon arrives via Lark, who sets it down without comment, though she gives me a look that clearly says “you’re an idiot.”

“This is excellent,” Elena says after her first bite. “Much better than I expected from such a small town.”

The conversation continues around me. Elena discussing logistics, Adrian making pointed comments about the literary scene. But I’m not really listening anymore. I’m thinking about this afternoon, about the kiss, about how Maren’s face changed when she saw Elena touching me.

“I need to go,” I say, standing abruptly enough that Elena has to grab the bar to steady herself.

“But we haven’t finished discussing the format,” she protests, reaching for my arm again. “Or the Q&A topics. There are things we should avoid?—”

“Email me. Whatever you decide is fine.” I pull out enough cash to cover everyone’s meal and drinks, leaving it on the bar.

“Calvin, don’t be ridiculous,” Adrian says, clearly enjoying this. “Sit down. Finish your salmon at least.”

But I’m already walking away, needing to get out before I make things worse.