Page 48 of Until the Storm Breaks (The Midnight Men #1)

“Genetics didn’t sit with me while I learned to read. Genetics didn’t drive me to college visits or edit my terrible first stories.” The anger is building in me now. “That was Susan and Hank Midnight. My actual parents.”

“Of course,” Jolene says quickly, touching David’s arm in warning. “We’re not trying to diminish what they did. We just thought, now that they’re gone, maybe you’d want to know where you come from.”

“I know where I come from,” I say, gripping the edge of the table. “Dark River, Washington. The house on the bluff. Parents who wanted me.”

David’s jaw tightens, the expression so familiar it’s unsettling. Like looking in a mirror, or a warning. “We were eighteen. We couldn’t raise a baby. Giving you up was the hardest...”

“Stop!” My voice cuts through his rehearsed speech. “Just stop. What do you really want? Because this isn’t a Hallmark movie. You didn’t track me down after thirty-five years just to share medical history.”

They exchange glances. Jolene nods slightly, giving him permission for something.

“We’re in trouble,” David admits, the words coming out rushed now.

“Financial trouble. The house is in foreclosure. Medical bills. I thought maybe, since you’re successful now, you might help.

” He pauses, then adds quickly, “And I have a poetry collection that needs a blurb, maybe an introduction. Your name would open doors. We could split the profits.”

“There it is,” I say, my voice cold. “The real reason.”

“Calvin, please understand—” David starts.

“No, you understand,” I cut him off, standing. The booth shakes slightly. “You gave me away. That was your choice. You don’t get to cash in thirty-five years later because I made something of myself despite you.”

“We gave you to good people,” David says defensively.

“Yes, you did. The best people. People who actually raised me, who were there for every nightmare and every achievement. And now that they’re gone, you show up with your hand out?” I shake my head, disgust rising in my throat. “We’re done here.”

“Wait,” Jolene says quickly, pulling something from her purse. “Please. Just... in case you change your mind.” She holds out a small card. “Our numbers. Both of them.”

I stare at the card for a moment, her hand extended between us.

David watches with a desperate kind of hope that makes my stomach turn.

Against my better judgment, I take it, the cardstock feeling heavy in my fingers.

I look at it briefly—their names, two phone numbers, an email address—then shove it deep in my pocket like it might contaminate me if I hold it too long.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” I say.

“We understand,” Jolene says softly. “We’ll be here if you ever...”

But I’m walking away. Maren follows me out of the café. I’m already at her car, hands braced on the hood, trying to breathe through the rage. My knuckles are white from gripping the metal too hard.

“Calvin, I’m so sorry,” she says, reaching for me. “That was horrible. They had no right—”

“Your tattoo.” The words come out before I can stop them. My mind’s been circling it since this morning, and now with everything else crashing down, I can’t hold it in.

She freezes. “What?”

I turn to face her, studying her expression. “The tattoo on your ribs. My words.”

Her face goes pale.

“How long have you had it?”

“Seven years,” she says quietly.

“Seven years.” The math spins in my head. Before she knew me. Before Mom got sick. Before any of this. “You’ve had my words tattooed on your body for seven years. And you never told me. We’ve been together for weeks, we’ve slept together, and you never mentioned it.”

“I know how it looks—”

“Do you? Because from where I’m standing, it’s pretty fucked up, Maren.

You knew how I felt about the people who treat my writing like it’s something more than it is.

You knew about the conference groupies, the people who think they know me because they read my essays.

And this whole time you had my words literally etched on your skin. And you hid it.”

She takes a breath, steadying herself. I watch her gather her words, can see her trying to figure out how to explain this. “I was twenty-one and my parents had just died. Your book helped me through it. Yes, I got the tattoo. It meant something to me.”

“But why didn’t you tell me? When we started this, when things got serious, why didn’t you say something?”

“Because the longer I waited, the weirder it got,” she admits, meeting my eyes directly.

“The first time you tried to kiss me, I thought about telling you. That’s why I bolted.

But then I thought, what if he thinks I’m with him because of who he is as a writer?

What if he thinks I’ve been obsessed with him all this time?

And then days passed, and weeks, and it became this huge thing that I couldn’t figure out how to explain. ”

“So you just hid it instead. Made sure I never got a good look at it. Changed the subject when I asked about it.” The betrayal sits heavy in my chest, mixing with the anger from my birth parents until I can’t separate them. “You lied to me.”

“You’re right,” she says, her voice breaking slightly. “I lied by omission. I should have told you immediately. I fucked up.”

I can see her eyes welling, though she’s fighting it, blinking hard to keep the tears from falling. Her face has that careful blankness people get when they’re trying desperately not to fall apart.

Part of me wants to pull her close, but the betrayal is too fresh.

First my birth parents trying to use me, now finding out she’s been hiding this.

The conference only days away, where thousands of people will be showing up to take a piece of me home with them.

Everyone wanting something from Calvin Midnight the writer, not just Calvin the person.

“I need to think,” I say. “And the conference… I think I should go alone.”

“Are you ending this?” Her voice is quiet but steady, though I can see the effort it’s taking her to keep it that way.

“I… I don’t know,” I snap, sharper than I mean to. The words burn coming out. “I just need time to process all of this. My birth parents, your tattoo, everything. I’m too worked up right now to even know what’s real.”

She nods, wrapping her arms around herself. “I understand.” She takes a shaky breath. “I’ll drop you at the cabins so you can pack.”

“No, I’ll walk. It’s not that far. I’ll text you when I’m leaving for Seattle.”

She nods again, digging her keys out of her pocket. “Okay.”

I turn to walk away, but something bitter rises up in me. I stop, not turning back.

“You know what the fucked up part is?” My voice sounds hollow.

“I actually thought you were different. That this wasn’t some literary groupie thing.

But you’ve been carrying me around on your skin since before you knew me.

How is that different from the people at conferences who think they know me because they read my book? ”

“Calvin—”

But I’m already walking. Each step feels heavier than the last. Behind me, I can feel her watching, but I don’t look back. Can’t look back. Not yet.

I know even as the words leave my mouth that I’m being unfair. I know she’s not like them. But the anger and hurt need somewhere to go, and she’s the only target left.

The walk back to the cabins takes thirty minutes. The morning fog has burned off completely, leaving everything sharp and clear in a way that feels wrong for how confused I feel inside. I pass the harbor, the familiar streets, trying not to think about how many times I’ve made this walk with Maren.

By the time I reach the cabins, my shirt is damp with sweat and my mind is no clearer than when I started walking. The cabins look exactly the same as when we left this morning, but everything feels different now.

I go straight to my cabin. Inside, I pack mechanically. Clothes from the dresser. Laptop and charger. The conference materials I’ve been avoiding. My hands move on autopilot while my mind churns.

Seven years she’s had those words on her skin. When she was reading my book at twenty-one, grieving her parents, was she thinking about the person who wrote them? When I showed up here this summer, what went through her mind?

I zip the bag harder than necessary.

I throw my bags in the truck and sit there for a moment, engine off, staring at the empty space where her car usually parks.

Part of me wants to wait for her, to talk this through.

But I know I need distance to think clearly.

Everything’s too tangled right now with my birth parents’ manipulation, Maren’s secret, the conference looming, Mom being gone.

I start the engine and pull out. Seattle’s three hours away.

Three hours to get my head straight before walking into that conference.

The anger sits heavy in my chest—at my birth parents for their manipulation, at Maren for her deception.

Both of them seeing Calvin Midnight instead of just Calvin.

The conference will be more of the same, but at least there I expect it.