Page 32 of Until the Storm Breaks (The Midnight Men #1)

CALVIN

The Black Lantern pulls at me like gravity.

It’s been five hours since I kissed Maren. Seven hours since we agreed to talk later. Seven hours of replaying not just the kiss but that small smile when she admitted she wasn’t sorry either. The promise in “later” keeps echoing in my head.

I shouldn’t go to the bar. She’s working, and we’re supposed to talk after her shift.

But I can’t stay in that cabin another minute, can’t keep pacing the same floor, can’t stop replaying this afternoon.

The walk to the bar feels necessary, like movement might quiet my mind.

I tell myself I’m just going for a beer, that I won’t even talk to her if she’s busy.

I’m lying to myself, but at least I’m aware of it.

The evening is cooling as I walk, that particular Pacific Northwest late summer shift where the heat breaks around seven and the air suddenly remembers the ocean.

Part of me wants to have updates about the house situation, something concrete to offer Maren beyond just showing up.

But what would I say? That Dominic is planning to demolish everything?

That I confronted him and got nowhere? That I’m trying to figure out how to stop it but have no actual power?

None of that helps her. It just adds to the weight she’s already carrying.

The crowd is building when I walk in, the after-work rush filling the room with familiar noise. I take a seat at the far end of the bar, away from the main traffic but with a clear view of the room. And the door to the back office. And the kitchen pass. Basically anywhere Maren might appear from.

Lark spots me immediately and saunters over. Her grin is absolutely wicked. “Well, well, well. Look who’s here.”

“Just here for a beer, Lark,” I say, fighting a smile of my own.

“Uh-huh.” She grins wider. “Maren’s in the back. But I’m sure she’ll be out soon.” The way she says it, drawing out the word ‘soon,’ suggests she knows exactly what happened and is enjoying every second of this.

“Mmm,” I say noncommittally, settling in more comfortably on the stool.

“One beer for the man who’s definitely not waiting for anyone in particular.” She’s already reaching for a glass, clearly enjoying herself.

I can’t help but laugh at that. “You’re subtle, Lark.”

“Subtlety’s overrated.” She sets the pint in front of me with a wink. “Besides, you’re not exactly hiding it well.”

She heads back to her other customers, still grinning. I take a long swallow of the Rainier. It goes down crisp and cold, just bitter enough to steady me, just familiar enough to remind me I’ve sat at this bar more nights than I can count.

I’m contemplating ordering food just to have an excuse to stay longer when Adrian walks in, a familiar-looking woman trailing behind him. Of course he’s back. Because this day needed another complication. The universe clearly has a sense of humor, and it’s aimed directly at me.

Adrian spots me and his face lights up. He’s like a shark sensing blood in the water, and I’m apparently bleeding.

“Calvin,” he calls out, steering the woman toward me. “Twice in one day. Small town living, right?”

“Adrian.” I keep my voice neutral, though seeing him here again, in Maren’s bar, after everything that happened this afternoon, feels like deliberate provocation. Or maybe I’m just looking for reasons to dislike him more than I already do.

“This is Elena Vale,” he says, gesturing to the woman beside him with unnecessary flourish. “She’s directing the literary festival this year. She’s passing through town and we’ve decided to get dinner. Elena, this is Calvin Midnight, our reluctant literary star.”

Elena extends her hand, and when I shake it, she holds on a moment longer than necessary, her thumb brushing my palm in a way that might be accidental but definitely isn’t.

“Calvin. Finally we meet in person. We corresponded months ago about your panel, though I think you’ve been primarily working with James, my programming coordinator, on the details. ”

“Right, James,” I say, remembering the emails asking about new work, whether I had anything forthcoming they could promote alongside the panel. The answer was always no, dressed up in various polite deflections. “He was very interested in whether I had a new book coming.”

“He’s paid to be optimistic,” she says with a laugh that sounds rehearsed. “But even your existing work is enough of a draw. Adrian was kind enough to show me around when I mentioned I was passing through from Seattle. I had no idea you lived here until he mentioned it. What a delightful surprise.”

She claims the barstool next to me while Adrian remains standing, leaning against the bar with the kind of casual possession that irritates me. Like he belongs here. Like this is his territory.

“What can I get you?” Lark appears, professional smile in place despite the way her eyes narrow slightly at Adrian.

“Two martinis,” Adrian says. “Dry, with olives.”

Lark nods and starts making the drinks without comment, though I notice she’s a bit heavier-handed with the vermouth than strictly necessary.

“So,” Elena says after taking a sip of her martini, settling into the kind of conversational rhythm that suggests we’re going to be here a while whether I want to be or not.

“The panel. We need to discuss the presentation format. I know James has been corresponding with you about the basics, but I wanted to talk through the creative vision personally.”

“Creative vision,” I repeat, taking another pull of my beer. The phrase feels pretentious, like we’re discussing art installation instead of me standing in front of strangers reading essays about death.

“The conference board is extremely excited about your participation at the festival,” she continues.”When we announced you as our closing night speaker, we sold out in three hours. Three hours, Calvin. For a literary conference. That’s unprecedented.”

Adrian laughs, still leaning against the bar. “You should have seen the comments on the announcement post. Half of them were about the actual work, the other half were extremely thirsty. Someone wrote an entire paragraph about your forearms.”

“There was that Instagram account,” Elena adds, and there’s something almost gleeful in her voice, like she’s sharing gossip at a high school reunion. “What was it called? The one that posted photos from your readings?”

“Professor Sad Boy,” Adrian supplies immediately, like he’s been waiting for the opportunity.

“Twenty thousand followers at its peak. They did these photo sets from your readings with quotes overlaid. Very moody. Very aesthetic. The comments section was basically a support group for people who wanted you to ruin their lives.”

This is exactly why I stopped doing readings.

Not because I didn’t appreciate the readers or the response, but because it became something else entirely.

What started as sharing work that might help people feel less alone turned into some kind of grief-themed performance art where I was as much the product as the essays themselves.

People weren’t coming to hear the work anymore; they were coming to watch me, to project whatever they needed onto the guy in the black t-shirt talking about dead parents.

“That’s not why I wrote those essays,” I say, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice but probably failing.

“Of course not,” Elena says in that soothing tone people use when they’re trying to manage you. “But you have to admit, the cultural impact was significant. You changed how people write about grief. Made it... sexier, for lack of a better word.”

“Grief isn’t sexy,” I say, setting down my beer harder than necessary.

“It’s ugly and boring and repetitive. It’s the same thoughts cycling over and over.

The same regrets. The same questions you’ll never get answers to.

The fact that people found it entertaining says more about them than about the work. ”

Adrian signals Lark for another round, though his first martini is only half gone. “You can’t blame people for responding to the work,” he says. “You put it out there for public consumption. The audience reaction is part of the equation.”

“Maybe. But I didn’t expect to become some kind of influencer with fan accounts dedicated to analyzing my body language.” I take another drink, longer this time.

Elena laughs, soft and knowing, her shoulder brushing mine. “But that’s how the literary world works now. It’s not enough to just publish work. You need to be a presence. People want to connect with the author, not just the text.”

“Then they don’t actually want literature,” I say, turning my glass in slow circles on the bar. “They want parasocial relationships with better vocabulary.”

“That’s clever,” Adrian says, and he actually sounds genuine for once, leaning forward with interest. “You should say that during the panel. People love self-aware commentary on the industry.”

The fact that he immediately turns my criticism into potential content proves my point, but I don’t bother saying so.

That’s when I see movement from the corner of my eye.

Maren emerges from the back with her clipboard and stops when she sees us.

Me at the bar, Elena pressed against my side with her hand on my arm, Adrian hovering behind us.

Shock flashes across her face before she cools her expression into professional neutrality.

She moves behind the bar but keeps her distance, focusing on tasks that don’t require coming near our section.

This looks bad. This looks like I ran straight from kissing her to sitting with another woman.

“Five years ago, you had people crying at your readings,” Elena says, her voice dropping as if sharing a secret. “I was at the Seattle event at Elliott Bay. The essay about your father’s funeral, the shoes he never wore? The entire room was transfixed.”

I remember that night. The way my voice caught on certain words, not from practiced emotion but from genuine inability to control it. The line of people afterwards, each wanting to share their own losses, treating me like I had answers instead of just more questions.

“Those readings feel like another lifetime,” I say.

“But you’re doing this one,” Elena points out, her fingers light on my wrist. “So some part of you must miss it.”

“When I agreed to the conference months ago, things were different,” I say, trying to shift away without being obvious. “I thought I’d have new work by now.”

“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 communicate something—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 you fake it. 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.