Page 51 of Until the Storm Breaks (The Midnight Men #1)

MAREN

I fold another t-shirt and place it in my duffel bag. The morning light streams through my cabin windows, another day starting whether I’m ready for it or not.

Calvin’s coffee mug sits on the drying rack in the shared bathroom where I left it after washing it.

The blue one with the chip on the handle that he always reached for first. I pick it up, run my thumb over the familiar flaw one more time, considering whether to pack it.

Just this one small piece of him to carry with me.

But no. I put it back exactly where it belongs. Some things aren’t meant to be carried forward, and I’m trying to learn the difference between holding on and being held back.

I didn’t cry this morning, which feels like progress of a sort.

Yesterday, I sobbed into Laila’s fur until she whined and tried to lick the salt from my face, clearly distressed by my distress.

The day before that, I broke down in the walk-in cooler at work, letting the cold shock my system back to functional while Lark covered for me out front.

But today there’s just this strange, hollow calm that might be acceptance.

Or exhaustion. Sometimes they feel the same.

The truth is, I’m not leaving Calvin. He already left.

I’m just leaving the version of myself who’s been waiting by the door, hoping he’ll come back and choose me.

Choose us. Choose the life we were building before he saw my tattoo and decided I was just another person who wanted something from him.

First his biological parents show up asking for money, then he finds out I have his words on my skin.

No wonder he ran. Everyone wants a piece of Calvin Midnight.

My bed feels too big even though it’s just a double, probably because I got used to sharing his larger one, tangled together like we couldn’t bear even sleep to separate us.

Now I sleep diagonal across my own mattress, trying to take up more space, trying to remember how to exist as a singular person instead of half of something that’s no longer whole.

Laila walks over from where she’s been watching me pack, rests her muzzle on my knee. She’s been my shadow since Calvin left, like she knows I need the company. Or maybe she’s grieving too. Dogs understand loss better than most humans.

“We’re okay,” I tell her, scratching behind her ears. “We were okay before him. We’ll be okay after.”

The words sound convincing. Almost.

Harbor & Ash bustles with the lunch crowd when I push through the door.

I left my duffel bag in the car, not wanting to drag it through the restaurant, but Theo knows I’m coming by for the keys today.

The smell of garlic and fresh bread wraps around me, and for a moment I just stand there, breathing it in.

This place has become another home to me, after the bar and the cabin I’m in the process of leaving.

Chloe spots me first from her booth by the window, where she’s practicing writing orders on a little notepad decorated with unicorn stickers. “Maren!” She waves so enthusiastically she nearly knocks over her chocolate milk. “Daddy said you’re moving to the apartment today!”

“That’s right, sweet pea,” I say, sliding into the booth across from her and giving her a quick hug. “Well, starting to. I’ve got boxes to move still, but I’m picking up the keys today.”

She studies me with those too-perceptive eyes kids have before the world teaches them to be polite about other people’s pain. “Are you sad?”

“A little,” I admit, smoothing her hair back. “But you know what helps? Seeing my favorite girl.”

Her face lights up. “I’m your favorite?”

“Absolutely. Who else would take my order with such style?” I tap her notepad. “Speaking of which...”

“Oh!” She grabs her pencil, suddenly all business. “When I’m sad, Daddy makes mac and cheese. It helps. I’ll take your order!”

I pretend to study the menu she’s drawn, mostly squiggles with the occasional recognizable word scattered between elaborate doodles of what might be pasta or possibly snakes. “Hmm. This all looks amazing. I’ll have the mac and cheese, please. And a Coke.”

She writes carefully, tongue poking out in concentration. “Good choice! That’s my favorite too!” She leans in conspiratorially. “I’ll tell Daddy to give you extra cheese.”

“You’re the best,” I tell her, and she beams like I’ve given her the greatest compliment in the world.

Theo emerges from the kitchen, his light brown hair messy from the lunch rush, that particular exhaustion that comes from running a restaurant with a six-year-old underfoot. His face softens when he sees me.

“Hey,” he says gently. “You doing okay? I know this is a big day.”

“I’m managing,” I say, attempting a smile. “One step at a time, right?”

“That’s all anyone can do.” He pulls out the keys from his pocket, sets them on the table. “You get started packing?”

“Some clothes in the car, but I’ve got boxes of books and kitchen stuff still at the cabin. Figure I’ll move things over gradually this week.”

“Smart. No need to rush it. The apartment’s ready whenever you are. Cleaned it yesterday, fixed that window that was sticking. It’s not much, radiator still clanks like it’s possessed and the neighbor practices violin at weird hours. But it’s warm and dry and walking distance to everything.”

“Sounds perfect,” I say, and maybe it’s not entirely a lie.

Perfect is relative now. Perfect used to be Sunday mornings arguing about coffee ratios while Calvin insisted his way was scientifically superior.

Perfect was his hand on my lower back at his mother’s memorial, claiming me in front of everyone who mattered.

Perfect was the weight of him above me, whispering my name like a prayer or a promise or both.

But perfect left for Seattle without asking if I wanted to come, so now I’m recalibrating my definition of the word.

“Oh wait,” Theo says, holding up a finger. “Before you go, let me grab something.” He disappears into the kitchen briefly and returns with two large bags. “Moving gift. I made extra this morning, figured you’d be too busy unpacking to cook.”

“Theo, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he insists, setting the bags on the table. “Can’t have you living on takeout your first week.”

Chloe peers into the bags. “Daddy, did you put mac and cheese in there? She specifically ordered it.”

“Of course I did, bug. Two containers.” He looks back at me. “There’s lasagna, fresh bread, that arugula salad you like. Should last you a few days at least.”

“This is too much,” I protest, but he’s already pushing the bags toward me.

“It’s not. Moving is exhausting, and you need to eat.” His voice is kind but firm, the same tone he uses with Chloe when she needs taking care of but won’t admit it.

“The bar’s better with you in it,” Theo says as he walks me to the door while Chloe runs ahead to hold it open. “So’s this town.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I promise.

“Good. Chloe would’ve staged a protest. She’s been learning about civil disobedience in kindergarten.”

Before I leave, I crouch down to Chloe’s level. “Thanks for taking such good care of me today. Best service I’ve ever had.”

She throws her arms around my neck. “You can come eat mac and cheese whenever you’re sad,” she whispers.

I’m still smiling as I walk to my car, and it’s a small thing, that smile, but it feels like progress.

Like maybe I can do this, start over in a new space that doesn’t have Calvin’s ghost in every corner.

It’s not running away if you’re moving toward something, even if you’re not quite sure what that something is yet.

The Black Lantern is my church, my therapy, my constant. The familiar rhythm of setup soothes something raw in my chest. Chairs down, tables wiped, glasses polished until they shine. Everything in its place except me. I don’t know where I fit anymore.

I check wine levels, update the special board, restock garnish trays, my hands moving on autopilot while my mind drifts to Calvin.

Urgent kisses against the door. Poems whispered in the dark.

The way he looked at me that last morning, like he wanted to stay but didn’t know how. The way he left anyway.

The afternoon shift starts slow with the usual regulars trickling in.

Eddie’s the third person today to ask where Calvin’s been, says he hasn’t seen him around lately.

I manage something vague about him being busy with work, unable to say the truth: that he’s gone, that he left for Seattle two days ago, that whatever we had is over.

A couple other locals make similar comments throughout the shift, and each time I deflect, change the subject, pour another drink.

Everything aggressively, painfully normal while I pretend my chest doesn’t feel hollow.

I keep checking my phone even though I know there won’t be anything new.

When Lark arrives at five, she takes one look at me and pulls me into the back office. “How’s the new place?” she asks gently.

“It’s fine. Still have boxes to unpack from yesterday’s rushed move. Theo had texted about the studio being ready, and I couldn’t spend another night in that cabin waiting for someone who wasn’t coming back. So I packed what I could fit in my car, and Laila and I slept there last night.”

“And Calvin?”

“He’s still in Seattle for his conference. No word back yet” I try to keep my voice neutral but know I’m failing. “He’s giving talks about finding meaning in loss, weathering storms. All the things he writes about so beautifully.”

She waits, knowing there’s more.

“I should have told him about the tattoo immediately,” I say, the admission painful but necessary.

“I know that. I was scared and I kept putting it off and that was wrong. But when everything happened with his birth parents, when he found out, I thought we could talk through it. Work through it together. Instead he just... left.”

She squeezes my shoulder but doesn’t offer empty reassurances.

“I can’t keep hoping he’ll reach out,” I tell her. “I’ve spent ten years taking care of this town, this bar, everyone else. For once, I’m going to take care of myself.”

She hugs me fierce and quick. “Good. It’s about time.”

By closing, my body aches but my mind feels clearer. The drive back to the studio is short but feels significant. Not walking to the cabins anymore. Not Calvin’s neighbor. Just me in my own space.

The studio already has my things scattered around from yesterday’s move, boxes stacked against one wall, Laila’s bed by the window where she likes to watch the street.

I sit on the floor with my back against the wall, Laila’s head heavy in my lap, and let myself feel the weight of this change.

My phone buzzes with Theo checking that I’m settling in okay, and after responding, I find myself scrolling to Calvin’s name in my contacts.

I could text him. Tell him I’ve moved out of the cabins.

Tell him I love him but I’m done waiting.

Instead, I delete the entire conversation thread.

Every flirty exchange, every late-night confession, every promise that turned out to be temporary.

It doesn’t change anything, but it feels like choice.

Like agency. Like the first step toward whoever I’m going to be after this.

Laila sighs in her sleep, and I close my eyes and make myself a promise: No more waiting.

No more shrinking. No more loving people who can only love me back in theory.

Tomorrow I’ll continue unpacking, make this empty space more like home.

Tonight, I just breathe until it stops feeling like drowning and starts feeling like swimming toward something better.

Even if I can’t see the shore yet.