Page 33 of Until the Storm Breaks (The Midnight Men #1)

MAREN

The walk-in cooler door closes behind me with a definitive click, sealing me into blessed cold and silence.

I lean against the metal shelving, letting the chill seep through my palms, trying to freeze out the image burned into my brain: Elena’s fingers on Calvin’s arm, her body angled toward his like she belonged there.

My breath comes out in visible puffs. The cooler hums its steady mechanical rhythm, drowning out the bar noises beyond the door. In here, surrounded by cases of Rainier stacked to the ceiling and buckets of pre-sliced limes for tomorrow’s rush, I can finally stop pretending everything’s fine.

Get it together, Maren. You kissed him once. That doesn’t make him yours.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket. I pull it out with cold fingers that are already going numb.

Calvin: I’m sorry for showing up. And for them. That wasn’t what it looked like. Elena means nothing. I kept trying to shift away from her.

I stare at the text for a moment. He’s explaining like he owes me something, when we haven’t even figured out what we are.

Me: You’re allowed to go to bars. You don’t owe me explanations.

His response comes immediately.

Calvin: I want to talk.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. I could say no. Could protect myself, keep the walls up, stay safe in my small life where nothing can hurt me because I never let anything matter that much.

Me: Ok. I don’t close tonight. Off at eleven.

Calvin: I’ll be up. I want to see you.

Maren: We can talk then.

I shove the phone back in my pocket and press my palms against my eyes.

The problem isn’t that I think he wanted Elena.

I could see how uncomfortable he was, how he kept trying to create distance.

The problem is what seeing them together stirred up in me.

This ugly certainty that someone like Elena is what he should want.

Someone polished and successful. Someone who runs literary festivals and wears dresses that cost more than I make in a week.

Someone who didn’t drop out of community college to pour drinks and worry about making rent.

The tears come hot and humiliating. I press harder against my eyes but they keep coming, all the fear and self-doubt I’ve been swallowing since this afternoon’s kiss. Since before that, really. Since the first time I read his essays and thought I understood something essential about grief.

But he did kiss me. Just hours ago, pressed me against the bar and kissed me like he’d been thinking about it for weeks. And I’d kissed him back with everything I had, all the want I’d been pretending wasn’t there.

The door swings open, letting in a blast of kitchen heat and the clatter of dishes.

“You hiding or actually looking for something?” Lark stands in the doorway, hands on her hips.

“Both,” I manage, wiping my face with my apron. The rough fabric scratches against my cheeks.

She steps inside, pulls the door shut with her foot, and slides down the wall to sit beside me on the cold floor. “Is this about Elena trying to climb Calvin like a tree?”

I laugh. It comes out watery and broken. “She looked like she belonged with him.”

“Did you not see the same thing I saw?” Lark says, bumping my shoulder gently. “Calvin kept trying to get away from her. He was practically falling off his barstool trying to create space. And the whole time, he kept looking for you.”

“She runs a literary festival, Lark. She’s successful, sophisticated. She belongs in his world.”

“Mare, Calvin couldn’t have been less interested if he tried,” Lark turns to face me better, her voice getting serious. “The man literally got up and walked out. Left cash on the bar and bolted. That’s not exactly subtle. Mare, what’s this really about?”

I pull my knees to my chest. “When I saw them together, all I could think was how much sense it made. Calvin and someone like that. Someone educated and successful. Someone who fits in his world.”

“Seriously?” Lark stares at me. “The man who runs to help whenever you need it? Who clearly couldn’t stand Elena and Adrian? Mare, he looks at you like you’ve hung the moon.”

“That might just be proximity and—”

“Stop.” Lark cuts me off. “You’re doing that thing where you convince yourself you’re not enough. That you need to be someone else to deserve good things.”

“I’m not—”

“You are. And I get it, because I did the same thing. You want to know what Brandon told me when I filed for divorce? He said I was too much. Too loud. Too ambitious. That my personality was exhausting.” She picks at her shirt hem.

“I spent two years trying to shrink myself to fit in his beige world. Stopped laughing so loud. Stopped wearing red lipstick. You know what I learned?”

She doesn’t wait for me to answer.

“It doesn’t make them love you more. It just makes you disappear. And Mare, Calvin doesn’t want Elena’s version of success. He wants you. The actual you, not some polished version you think you should be.”

I think about my hidden notebooks, my unfinished stories, all the pieces of myself I’ve tucked away. The tattoo I hide. The writing I don’t do. The dreams I don’t voice because who has time for dreams when there are people who need you.

“You’re right,” I say quietly. “I know you’re right. But what if tomorrow he realizes what he’s done? Kissing the local bartender in some grief-fueled moment?”

“Then he’s an idiot. But based on tonight? Based on how uncomfortable he looked with Elena touching him? Based on how he kept trying to catch your eye? I don’t think that’s what’s happening here.”

I manage a small smile, not entirely convinced but wanting to believe her.

She stands, offers me her hand. “Come on. We have a bar to run.”

I take her hand and let her pull me up.

Back in the kitchen heat, everything feels too bright. Jayson’s plating nachos, extra jalapenos on one half because he knows the Pattersons’ preferences. The dishwasher’s running full blast, steam rising. Through the service window, the bar is still packed with Friday night customers.

“You good?” Jayson asks as we pass.

“Getting there,” I say.

Behind the bar, I throw myself into work. Pour drinks, take orders, smile at regulars. Vodka tonic for Shirley celebrating her divorce. Whiskey neat for Tom mourning his. Two IPAs for the couple on their third date. The repetitive motions help quiet my racing thoughts.

My hands move on autopilot while my mind churns. I keep touching my ribs where Calvin’s words hide under cotton. The tattoo I got years ago, finding solace in a stranger’s understanding of death. Now that stranger has a face, hands that touched me like I was valuable.

The next two hours drag. Every drink I pour, I’m thinking about what I’ll say to him. How to explain that it’s not him I don’t trust but myself. The fear that sits heavy in my chest.

Around ten-thirty, the crowd starts thinning. Couples settle tabs and stumble into the night. Regulars nurse last drinks, not ready for empty houses. Adrian and Elena left long ago, which was a relief. One less thing to navigate while my brain spirals.

Finally, eleven arrives.

“You heading out?” Lark asks, appearing with a knowing look.

“Yeah, all finished.”

“Good luck with whatever you’re about to do. And Mare? Stop making yourself smaller.”

I grab my bag from the office, that cramped closet with delusions of grandeur. The mirror above the tiny sink in the bathroom shows what everyone’s been seeing. I look like someone on an edge, though I can’t tell if it’s a breakdown or a breakthrough.

Outside, the night hits chilly against my skin, rain coming down hard enough to plaster my hair to my forehead.

The path to the cabins is slick and shining, puddles pooling in the low spots I know by heart.

I hunch into the chill, shoulders tight, but my feet still carry me forward even as my brain screams to turn back.

But I keep walking. Because I’m tired of being the girl who chooses safety. Who pulls back just when things might get real.

Through the trees, I can see the lights from his cabin glowing warm against the darkness. He’s awake, waiting, just like he said he would be. The gravel crunches under my feet, announcing my approach to the night. Somewhere an owl calls through the rain.

I stop at the edge of the light spilling from his windows, rain running down my face. This isn’t just a conversation I’m walking toward. It’s the possibility of being known, really known, by someone who might actually stay. Or who might leave and take pieces of me with him.

Either way, I’m already too far gone to turn back now. And for once, I want something more than I want to be safe.