Page 91 of Until the Storm Breaks

“Oh, thanks,” Lark says, waving him off, her cheeks pink.

I can’t resist. The wine and exhaustion have made me bold. “Well, she should have a good voice,” I say, my tone deliberately casual. “She wants to be a singer.”

“Maren!” Lark kicks me under the table, but she’s laughing. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t know this about you,” Calvin says, leaning forward with interest.

“It’s not a big deal,” Lark says quickly, spinning her wine glass on the table.

“Itisa big deal. She’s wonderful,” I insist, grinning at Lark’s glare. “I keep telling her she needs to make a real go of it. She’s an incredible writer too. Her songs are beautiful.”

“Wait, what?” Calvin’s eyebrows shoot up. “You write your own songs?”

“I dabble,” Lark says, shrinking back slightly.

“She doesnotdabble,” I correct cheerfully, then turn to Calvin with a mischievous grin. “She’s been writing sinceforever, but she got serious after the divorce six months ago. Now that she’s free from that asshole, the creativity just pours out of her.”

“Maren!” Lark protests, but she’s laughing. “Was that necessary?”

“Absolutely,” I say. “It’s part of your origin story. All that anger had to go somewhere. Better into songs than into keying his truck.”

“I would never,” Lark says primly, then grins. “His truck was too ugly to bother with anyway.”

“Anyway,” I say. “Her songs are incredible. I keep telling her she needs to do something with them. People would love her stuff.”

“It’s just me and my guitar in my apartment,” Lark says, fidgeting with her wine glass. “Nothing fancy.”

“Play him something,” I urge. “You’ve got recordings on your phone, right? Like that one you sent me last week about starting over?”

“That was for feedback only,” Lark says, but she’s already pulling out her phone.

“I’d love to hear it,” Calvin says warmly.

“It’s good practice,” I add. “Getting used to other people hearing your stuff before you perform.”

Lark rolls her eyes. “That’s not happening. No performing.”

“Just play the song,” I say, nudging her foot under the table.

Lark looks between us for a moment. “Fine. One song. But remember it’s just recorded on my phone in my living room. The quality isn’t great.”

“The quality is fine,” I assure her. “Your voice is what matters.”

She hits play, and her voice fills the empty bar. Even through the phone speaker, it’s beautiful. Raw and honest, with lyrics that make my chest heave. I watch Calvin’s face as he listens, and see his eyes widen.

“Lark, that’s incredible,” he says when it ends. “Your voice, the lyrics, everything. You have real talent.”

“Play another one,” I urge, refilling everyone’s wine glasses.

She does, and then another. With each song, Lark relaxes more, even starting to explain the stories behind them. Calvin asks questions about her writing process, her influences—which range from Joni Mitchell to Taylor Swift—and we all fall into an easy conversation about creativity and art. By the fourth song, Lark is laughing, telling us about the time she wrote an entire album worth of breakup songs in one weekend fueled by wine and spite.

“Okay, I need to head home,” Lark finally says, checking the time. “It’s after midnight and I’m exhausted.”

“Your songs are great,” Calvin tells her as she gathers her things. “You should really pursue this. You have something special.”

“Hey, you’re a real writer,” Lark says, pointing at him. “More than I am.”

“Nonsense,” Calvin says with a rueful smile. “I think you’re more of a writer than I am. Definitely more talented too, by far.”