Page 49 of Until the Storm Breaks (The Midnight Men #1)

MAREN

After Calvin walks away from the café, I sit in my car for a long moment, gripping the steering wheel. Letting the tears fall. He asked for space. He needs to walk back and pack. I need to give him that.

Once I’ve finally stopped crying, I drive aimlessly through town, killing time.

Stop at the grocery store and wander the aisles without purpose.

Pick up bananas I won’t eat, bread I won’t finish.

Just going through the motions while my mind replays his face when he asked about the tattoo.

The betrayal in his eyes. The way he said he didn’t know if he was ending this.

Seven years I’ve had those words on my skin. Seven years of carrying them, and I hid it from him. Every day that passed made it harder to tell him. And now he thinks... what? That I’m some obsessed fan? That what we had wasn’t real?

My phone buzzes.

Calvin: Heading to Seattle now.

That’s it. The text he promised. Brief, informational, nothing more.

When I finally drive back to the cabins an hour later, his truck is gone. The empty space where it usually sits looks wrong. Inside his cabin, everything that matters is gone. Toothbrush, laptop, the book he’d been reading. He’d packed methodically, deliberately. Not frantically, but with purpose.

I sit on his bed, the sheets still rumpled from this morning. Just hours ago I woke up in his arms, feeling safe for the first time in years. Now I’m sitting in an empty cabin that smells faintly of his cologne, trying to understand how everything fell apart so fast.

At the bar that afternoon, I pour drinks on autopilot. Muscle memory takes over while my mind churns. Pull the tap, slide the glass, make change, smile. The motions I could do in my sleep.

I wasn’t supposed to be here. I should have been packing for Seattle today with Calvin, but instead I’m behind the bar after calling everyone this morning to tell them I’d be working after all.

They were confused since I’d made such a big deal about getting the days covered, but I just said plans changed.

Better to stay busy than sit in that empty cabin thinking about how quickly everything fell apart.

It’s that weird lull between the afternoon crowd and the dinner rush when only the dedicated drinkers and early birds show up.

Eleanor comes in, not her usual night. She typically avoids the noise and chaos, but here she is, romance novel tucked under her arm, white hair perfectly set despite the wind that’s been battering the harbor all day.

“Not your usual night,” I say, reaching for a wine glass.

“Couldn’t stand my own company anymore,” she says, leaning against the counter. “Plus Jason’s doing that halibut with the blackberry sauce. You know I can’t resist that.”

“You alright, dear?” Eleanor asks, setting her glass down. “You seem tired.”

She takes a sip, then studies me over the rim. Her eyes are sharp behind her reading glasses, the kind of sharp that comes from seventy years of watching people, of knowing when something’s off.

“I’m fine,” I lie.

She hums, clearly not buying it but too polite to push. “Well, make sure you’re taking care of yourself. You young people think you’re invincible. I’m always here if you need to talk, honey. I’ll be in my booth.” She pats my hand once before heading to her favorite corner spot.

The next hour drags. I serve drinks, wipe tables, pretend everything’s normal

An hour later, when Eleanor’s settled with her halibut and the bar’s picked up slightly, Lark corners me by the register. She’s been watching me all shift, I can feel it, and now with a break in customers she’s making her move. She leans against the bar, arms crossed.

“So you gonna try that vague excuse again about why you’re working when you said you’d be heading to Seattle, or are you gonna tell me what actually happened?”

I look around, making sure Eleanor’s absorbed in her book and Marcus is focused on his pool game with Tom. The bar’s just busy enough that our conversation gets lost in the general noise. “Calvin left.”

Lark blinks, processing this. “What do you mean left? Left to get groceries? Left to—”

“Left for Seattle. This morning. Alone.” The words come out flat, matter-of-fact, like if I say them without emotion they won’t hurt.

“His biological parents showed up at breakfast. Ambushed us at the café. Asked him for money. Calvin walked out, and when I got back to the cabins, he was gone. Packed up everything and drove back to Seattle.”

“Wait, back up. His biological parents?”

“Yeah. Just showed up.” I grab a pack of napkins and begin restocking them. “They’d been following his career, apparently. Waiting for the right moment to make contact.”

Lark’s quiet for a moment, processing. “After thirty-five years?”

“His dad looked just like Calvin, it was uncanny. Same jaw, same way of standing. And they asked for money,” I confirm, remembering the man’s entitled tone. “It was brutal. You should have seen Calvin’s expression when he realized who they were. Like someone had punched him.”

“No wonder he freaked out. That’s a lot.” She grabs a rag, starts wiping down the bar beside me. “But he just left? Without talking to you?”

“He found out about my tattoo,” I admit quietly. “He saw it this morning and then after the whole birth parent thing, he confronted me about it outside the café. Asked why I never told him.”

Lark winces. “Oh shit. Bad timing.”

“The worst. He thinks I lied to him. Which I did, by not telling him.” I focus on arranging bottles, needing something to do with my hands. “He said he needs time to think. To figure out if what we have is real.”

“What you have is real,” Lark says firmly. “Anyone who’s seen you two together knows that.”

“But he doesn’t know that. All he sees is his birth parents wanting to use him for money and me hiding that I have his words tattooed on my body. Everyone wanting something from Calvin Midnight the writer.”

“You don’t want anything from him except him.”

“I know that,” I say. “But after this morning, I’m not sure he does.”

The night continues like that. Pour drinks, dodge questions from regulars who heard something happened with Calvin at the café, pretend everything’s normal when it feels like my chest has been hollowed out.

My phone stays silent, though I keep checking it throughout my shift. Just nothing, which somehow feels worse than an actual confrontation would. At least if we were fighting, we’d be talking.

I pull up our text thread while in the storage room, staring at it. Morning coffee requests. Dinner plans. Late night thoughts. Inside jokes. Now we’re what? Ex-something? Almost-something? Nothing?

I type: I miss you. Delete it.

This is stupid. Just talk to me. Delete it.

I know you’re scared but so am I. Delete that too.

Finally, I settle on:

Me: Good luck at the conference. I hope it goes well. I mean that.

It shows as delivered. Then read, almost immediately. The typing indicator appears for a second, then vanishes. No response.

The silence tells me everything I need to know.

“What are you going to do?” Lark asks later as we’re closing up, chairs already on tables, floor mopped with that lemon cleaner that makes everything smell aggressively clean. “About the cabin, I mean. Since Calvin’s gone and the sale is happening.”

“I don’t know.” I’ve been avoiding thinking about it, but the deadline looms like a storm cloud. “Look for an apartment, I guess. Theo mentioned he has a studio available. He sent photos, it’s actually nice. Good light, decent kitchen.”

“That’s something at least.” She pauses in counting the till. “Though you could stay with me if it doesn’t work out. My couch is comfortable.”

“Thanks,” I say, touched by the offer. “I appreciate it.”

That night, after closing, I get home to find Laila waiting by the door, tail wagging like always. Theo had dropped her off earlier in the afternoon after Chloe’s preschool, and we’d managed a quick beach walk before my shift.

There’s still some sand scattered by the door where I hadn’t swept yet, evidence of Laila shaking herself off, delighted as always by the waves. She doesn’t know anything’s changed. Doesn’t know Calvin’s gone, that we’re losing the cabin, that everything’s falling apart. She’s just happy I’m home.

I let her out for her nighttime bathroom break, then collapse onto the bed with my laptop, Laila curled beside me, her warmth a small comfort. I think about texting Theo about the studio, but that would mean fully admitting to myself that Calvin isn’t coming back. That this is really over.

Instead, I end up on the Found Words Festival website. I click on his bio. The standard academic paragraph about his book, his teaching, his publications. “Currently working on his second book.”

He’s scheduled for two panels and a reading. I wish he could have stayed to talk about finding home instead of running from it. Wish we could have worked through this together instead of him needing to process alone.

Laila shifts, pressing her head into my lap, and I scratch behind her ears absently while scrolling through the conference schedule.

Three days of panels and readings. He’ll be in his element there, surrounded by other writers and academics.

Maybe that’s what he needs right now. Space to think without me there complicating everything.

I pull on the UW shirt he left behind, probably not on purpose, probably just forgotten in his rush to leave. The cotton is soft from years of washing, and it still smells like him. Cedar and coffee and that specific cologne that made me want to lean closer.

Laila sighs in her sleep, presses closer against my leg. I stroke her soft fur, finding comfort in her simple presence.

“Don’t worry, girl,” I whisper. “I’m not going anywhere. Not like him.”

She responds by licking my hand, tail thumping once against the bed. Like she knows, like she trusts, like she’s not worried at all. My phone stays silent. No texts, no calls. Just the sound of waves through the window and Laila’s steady breathing.

Tomorrow I’ll start looking for apartments. Tomorrow I’ll figure out how to move forward. But tonight, I just hold onto Laila and try not to think about how Calvin looked at me when he asked about the tattoo. Like I was a stranger. Like everything between us had been a lie.

Some storms you don’t survive. Some storms, you just endure.

And some storms, apparently, you run from at the first sign of lightning.