Page 52 of Until the Storm Breaks (The Midnight Men #1)

CALVIN

The Found Words Festival has turned me into a product.

My face stares back from every surface at the convention center.

Banners with moody black-and-white photos and pull quotes from reviews I barely remember.

“Midnight writes grief like a poet and thinks like a philosopher.” Badge lanyards with the festival logo and my name listed under “Featured Authors.” Tote bags with that fucking storm quote printed in elegant script.

“Calvin! Oh my god, Calvin Midnight!”

A woman rushes toward me, clutching my book like a life preserver. She’s maybe thirty, carefully styled hair, the kind of put-together look that suggests she dressed up for this conference.

“Your book is so beautifully written,” she says, eyes bright. “I found out about you through TikTok. There’s this whole community that shares quotes from your essays.” Her gaze flicks down, then back up, not quite subtle in her appreciation. “You’re even better looking in person.”

I shift uncomfortably. “Thanks. That’s... thanks.”

“This line especially.” She pulls out her phone, shows me a screenshot from an Instagram post. “Some storms are good enough to dance in. Even if they ruin everything in their path.” She looks at me expectantly. “It’s so romantic.”

Someone has it tattooed on her ribs, I think. Had it before she even knew me.

“Would you sign this? To Jessica. With two s’s.” She’s holding out the book, opened to that essay, leaning closer than necessary.

“Of course.” I take her pen, write something generic before her name. Best wishes or Happy reading. Something that maintains distance.

She touches my arm as she takes the book back, lets her hand linger. “Maybe we could get coffee? I’d love to hear more about your process.”

“I have another panel,” I say, stepping back. “But enjoy the conference.”

Her face falls slightly, but she recovers. “Of course, I’ll actually be at that one. But if you want to find me after, I’ll be around.”

She winks, walking away. I think about how Maren would have handled that.

Probably would have teased me about it later, called me “TikTok famous” until I laughed.

Instead I’m here alone, turning down coffee with strangers while the person I actually want to talk to is three hours away, thinking I chose this over her.

I check my phone. Twenty minutes until the next panel. I could skip it, claim illness, drive back to Dark River right now. Instead, I follow the stream of people heading toward Conference Room B, letting the crowd carry me forward.

The panel room is packed. I’m seated between two other authors I should probably recognize but don’t. The moderator, an eager PhD student with color-coded note cards, introduces us with the kind of reverence usually reserved for Nobel laureates.

“Calvin Midnight needs no introduction,” she says, which means she’s about to give me one anyway. “His essay collection has touched millions of readers...”

I zone out, looking at the audience. Front row center, there’s Jessica-with-two-s’s, notebook out, pen poised.

Behind her, rows of faces all waiting for wisdom I don’t possess.

Some are grieving, I can tell. You recognize it after a while, the particular way loss sits on someone’s shoulders.

And I feel for them, I really do. But I don’t know that I have anything to offer them.

What would Maren think of this? The thought comes unbidden.

She’d probably be at a different panel entirely right now, one about craft or publishing or some debut novelist she’d discovered.

She’d be collecting business cards, making friends with other aspiring writers, filling her tote bag with free books.

Later she’d tell me about some incredible session I missed while I was up here talking about grief for the hundredth time.

I wish she was here. Wish I’d swallowed my fear instead of pushing her away.

Wish we were figuring things out together instead of me sitting up here pretending I have answers.

She could be discovering new writers, getting inspired, feeling part of this world she wants to join.

Instead she’s in Dark River because I pushed her away.

“Calvin,” the moderator says, and I realize I’ve missed a question. “Could you talk about the role of time in grief narratives?”

“Time in grief isn’t linear,” I hear myself say, falling into the familiar rhythm.

“We think of healing as moving forward, but grief is more like...” I pause, and for a second I almost say something real.

“It’s like weather. Storms that come and go.

Some days you’re dancing in the rain, some days you’re just trying not to drown. ”

People nod. Someone writes it down. The moderator beams like I’ve just solved world peace.

“That’s beautiful,” she says. “This idea of dancing in storms. It’s become somewhat iconic from your work.”

Iconic. Like I’m a brand. Calvin Midnight?, grief guru for the modern age.

“It’s just a metaphor,” I say, sharper than intended. “Sometimes I think we hide behind pretty metaphors instead of dealing with the actual mess of loss.”

The moderator’s smile falters. The other panelists shift uncomfortably. But in the audience, I see a few people lean forward, like maybe they’ve been waiting for someone to say that.

“Could you elaborate?” the moderator asks carefully.

I should deflect. Give them what they came for. The beautiful words about resilience and meaning-making. Instead, I think about Maren, about the tattoo, about driving away from Dark River without her in the front seat of my truck.

“We write these essays, these books, making sense of grief like it’s a problem to be solved,” I say. “But real grief isn’t elegant. It’s not a metaphor. It’s waking up and forgetting they’re gone for just a second. It’s finding their coffee mug and not being able to throw it away. It’s...”

It’s me walking away from the one person who actually understands.

The moderator is looking at me expectantly.

The whole room is. I’ve stopped mid-sentence, lost in my own thoughts, and now hundreds of people are waiting for me to finish.

To give them something profound. To make this awkward pause mean something.

“It’s messy,” I finish lamely. “That’s all.”

The moderator quickly pivots to another panelist, and I spend the rest of the hour on autopilot.

Nod at the right moments. Make sounds of agreement.

Reference my book when prompted. But I’m not really here.

I’m in Dark River, in a small cabin, watching morning light reveal words on skin I didn’t know I’d written there.

The applause feels like assault. People want to talk, to get books signed, to tell me their stories of loss like I’m some kind of grief priest who can absolve them. I escape to the bathroom, lock myself in a stall, and just breathe.

My phone buzzes. A text from my agent.

Richard: Great panel! The Tweet about you saying grief isn’t elegant is already going viral. Profound stuff.

Profound. Everything’s profound when you package it right.

That evening, the rooftop afterparty is the kind of literary scene I’ve always dreaded. Fairy lights strung between potted plants. Sponsored cocktails with literary pun names. Writers and agents and editors all performing versions of themselves, networking disguised as conversation.

I find a corner by the railing, nurse a whiskey that tastes like disappointment. The city spreads out below, lights and lives I’m not living.

I’m considering my escape when I spot Elena Vale near the far corner of the rooftop, partially hidden by a large planter. Adrian Lowe has her cornered, standing too close, one hand on the wall beside her. Even from here, I can see her rigid posture, the forced smile.

Adrian’s voice carries, that pompous tone I remember from his visit to Dark River.

“...the Knopf connection alone could change everything for you,” he’s saying, swaying slightly. “One dinner. My hotel has an excellent bar.”

“I run this festival, Adrian,” Elena says, voice controlled but tight. “I don’t need your connections.”

“Everyone needs connections.” He leans closer, his free hand touching her arm. She pulls away but he’s got her backed against the railing. “Don’t be difficult. I’m offering you an opportunity here.”

I set down my whiskey and start walking over.

“I said no thank you,” Elena says, more insistently than before.

“Come on,” Adrian insists. “One drink. We can discuss your future.”

Heads are starting to turn. I’m halfway across the rooftop when Adrian grabs her wrist as she tries to leave. “You know you want to.”

“Let go of me,” she demands.

Elena suddenly stomps hard on Adrian’s foot with her heel. He yelps and loosens his grip just enough for her to wrench her wrist free and shove him back.

“I said no,” she says firmly.

Adrian stumbles but catches himself against the planter, his face darkening with anger. “You little—”

“That’s enough.” I say, positioning myself between them.

Adrian turns, still unsteady, and his face shifts to recognition. “Calvin Midnight.” His words are sloppy and he’s clearly had a few too many. “Well, well. Looks like we both made it from Dark River to the big city.”

“Walk away, Adrian.” My voice is calm but there’s steel underneath.

He laughs, that pompous sound I remember. “Heard you finally sealed the deal with that bartender. Maren, right? Took you long enough. She shut me down hard, but maybe now that you’re back in Seattle, I should take another run at her. Bet she’s lonely without you.”

I step closer. “Say her name again. See what happens.”

“In fact,” Adrian continues, raising his fists like he’s going to take a swing at me, “she’s probably ready for someone who can actually satisfy her. Maren probably needs a real—”

I hit him. One clean punch, all the boxing training drilled into me channeled into perfect form. Adrian goes down hard, sprawling across the deck. His eyes roll back for a second, then he’s blinking up at the fairy lights, dazed, blood trickling from his mouth.

I stand over him, flexing my hand. “You come near Maren, you come near Elena, you come near any woman who tells you no, and we’ll have a bigger problem than your jaw.”

The rooftop goes silent. Then erupts with chatter and exclamations.

“Holy shit,” someone says.

“Did you see that?”

“Is that Calvin Midnight?”

Phones are out everywhere. Adrian tries to sit up, can’t quite manage it, slumps back down. He’s conscious but scrambled, one hand touching his jaw like he’s not sure it’s still attached.

Elena turns to me, touches my arm briefly. “Thank you for the backup. Though I had him.”

“I know you did. Saw the heel stomp. Solid footwork.”

“Three older brothers,” she says simply.

The next hour is a blur of statements and damage control.

Security takes Adrian away and I give my version to both security and later to Seattle PD, who seem more interested in Adrian’s attempted assault than my response to it.

Elena backs up everything, as do three other witnesses who saw Adrian grab her then turn on me.

Back in my apartment, I run cold water over my hand in the kitchen sink. The knuckles are swelling, definitely purple by morning. The apartment feels even emptier after the chaos of the evening. I pour a drink with my good hand, and sit at my desk where blank pages wait.

My phone hasn’t stopped buzzing. The video’s everywhere now, multiple angles. “AUTHOR brAWL AT LITERARY FESTIVAL.” Me dropping Adrian with one punch, Elena standing over him, the crowd’s reaction. The comments are mostly supportive, calling Adrian a predator, praising the punch.

Tomorrow they’ll want me to read from my book.

The same essays that made my name, that people tattoo on their bodies and carry in their wallets.

But those words came from a different place.

Back when I thought grief was something you could master with the right metaphors, instead of something you learned to carry.

I unfold the paper ripped from my notebook and smooth out the creases. Add more lines while the adrenaline still sings:

The storm started the night you said you could love me

Yes. That’s the beginning. The night in the rain when everything shifted. My hand moves without thought now, the words pouring out like blood from a fresh wound.

I write and write, scratching out lines, adding new ones, circling back.

After an hour, I set down the pen, read it through. It’s not finished—needs work, needs time, needs her eyes on it to tell me if it’s honest or just another performance. But it’s real in a way nothing I’ve written in years has been.

My phone buzzes. Three texts from my publicist about the Adrian incident. Two from writers who were at the party, offering support or gossip or both. Nothing from the only person whose words would matter.

I gave a whole panel on literature after the storm. Tomorrow I’ll again stand in front of hundreds of people and pretend I know something about survival, about rebuilding, about finding meaning in the wreckage.

But tonight, alone in this sterile room with bruised knuckles and a half-finished poem, I finally understand what Maren knew all along: the storm doesn’t end. You just learn to live in the weather. And if you’re very lucky, you find someone willing to stand in the rain with you.

I fold the poem carefully, tuck it in my jacket pocket. The livestream countdown on my laptop shows eighteen hours until showtime. Eighteen hours to prepare to show them exactly who I am now. No more performing. Just truth.

I flex my bruised hand. It hurts, but in a good way. A reminder that some things are worth fighting for.