Page 21 of Until the Storm Breaks (The Midnight Men #1)

“This place has real character,” he says, looking around at the worn wood paneling, the ship’s wheel on the wall that’s been there since the seventies, the photos of Dark River through the decades.

“None of that manufactured nostalgia you see in Seattle bars trying to look authentic. This is the real thing.”

I wonder if he realizes how condescending he sounds, talking about my bar like it’s some anthropological discovery.

“We try,” I say dryly.

“How long have you been running it?” he asks, missing my tone entirely.

“Seven years.” I express the orange peel over the drink, the oils misting the surface.

“You must have been quite young when you started. What, early twenties?”

“Twenty-one.” I slide the drink across to him, then move to ring up another customer at the register, grateful for the brief escape.

“That’s remarkable. Most people that age are still desperately trying to figure out what they want, drinking too much, making terrible decisions.

” He pauses, taking a sip and nodding approvingly.

“I spent a few summers in my early twenties convinced I needed to be Kerouac, complete with the unnecessary road trips and terrible poetry about gas stations.”

The self-deprecation catches me off guard. It’s the first time he’s sounded like an actual person instead of a walking MFA program.

“Sometimes you don’t get to figure it out,” I say, wiping down the bar next to him. “Life just happens and you deal with what’s in front of you.”

“Spoken like someone with a story.” He turns the glass in his hands, studying the amber liquid.

“I’d love to hear it sometime. Over dinner, perhaps?

There’s this excellent place in Seattle that sources everything locally.

You’d adore it. They do this thing with oysters that’s absolutely transcendent. ”

And just like that, pretentious Adrian is back. Because sure, let’s drive six hours round trip for oysters. The whiplash is almost impressive.

“I’ll add you to the waiting list,” I say, moving down to where Lark sits at the end of the bar, pretending I need to grab a bottle behind her.

“Is that the Adrian guy you mentioned?” she asks, leaning in. “The one renting the Peterson place?”

“That’s him.”

“He’s giving major villain energy,” Lark whispers with a grin. “Like if Draco Malfoy fucked a thesaurus.”

I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing as I return to Adrian, stopping to top off Eddie’s shot glass first.

“You know,” Adrian says, “every time I think I understand something about this place, I realize I’m still just a tourist.”

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 novels and comic 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.

“Connecticut has plenty of personality,” Adrian protests. “It’s just very... restrained personality.”

Despite myself, I laugh. He’s probably a narcissist, but occasionally genuinely funny, which is annoying.

“Wait, how did I even get started on this?” Adrian asks, looking confused, like he’s lost the thread of his own monologue.

“You were telling us about the cat sonnet,” Lark supplies helpfully. “Then somehow got sidetracked into dumping on New Hampshire.”

“Right, yes. The cat sonnet.” Adrian grins, back on track. “As I was saying, this student turns in a sonnet about her cat. Fourteen lines about Mr. Whiskers’ existential crisis.”

“What was the cat’s crisis?” I ask.

“Whether to knock the glass off the table or merely stare at it with disdain.” Adrian delivers this completely deadpan. “She’d written it in perfect iambic pentameter. ‘To push or not to push, that is the question.’”

“That’s actually hilarious,” Lark says. “Did you pass her?”

“How could I not?” Adrian spreads his hands in mock defeat. “It was the most honest poem submitted all semester. She perfectly captured both feline psychology and Shakespearean form. Do you know how hard it is to maintain iambic pentameter while discussing a cat’s internal debate about gravity?”

“Harder than writing about your ex-girlfriend in free verse?” I ask, wiping down the bar.

“Infinitely,” Adrian says without missing a beat. “Anyone can write bad free verse about heartbreak. Just throw in some rain metaphors and random line breaks. It takes real skill to make a cat’s internal monologue scan properly.”

The door opens and Calvin walks in, hair tousled from the wind. Of course he’s one of those people who looks better disheveled.

He’s smiling slightly when he sees me, but then Adrian calls out, “Calvin!” and just like that, the warmth drains from his face.

“Perfect timing,” Adrian continues, waving him over enthusiastically like they’re old friends instead of reluctant acquaintances. “We were just discussing the artistic merit of cat poetry versus human heartbreak. Cats win every time.”

“Sounds about right,” Calvin says, taking the stool next to Adrian with obvious reluctance. Then he turns to me. “Maren.”

Just my name, but the way he says it makes my heart flutter.

“What can I get you?” I ask, reaching for a glass, trying to keep my voice professionally neutral.

“Whatever IPA you have on tap.”

“The one that tastes like pine trees or the one that tastes like disappointment?” Lark calls out without looking up from her laptop.

“Pine trees,” Calvin says, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smile.

I pour his beer, trying not to notice how his eyes follow my every move. When I set the glass in front of him, we hold eye contact for a second too long. I look away first.

“So Calvin,” Adrian says, clearly enjoying himself. “Earlier Maren and I were having a fascinating debate about the literary value of romance novels and comic books versus real literature.”

“Debate?” I give him a skeptical look. “You dismissed entire genres you’ve never read. That’s not a debate, it’s just ignorance dressed up as opinion.”