Until the storm breaks, p.7
Until the Storm Breaks, page 7
“Mom was still alive!” Jack stands so fast his chair rocks back. I see his hands clench into fists, the same way they did when he was sixteen and about to punch someone.
“Barely,” Dominic shoots back, standing too, matching Jack’s energy. “She didn’t recognize us half the time. Thought I was Dad. Called Theo by your name.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to decide she was already gone,” I say, heat rising in my face. “You don’t get to make that call for all of us.”
“Someone had to make decisions,” Dominic’s voice rises, filling the small office. “While you were in Seattle playing professor and Jack was playing race car driver, we were here. Actually here. Watching her scream at three AM because she thought strangers broke in. Cleaning up when she forgot how bathrooms work. Holding her while she cried for people who’ve been dead for years. Where the hell were you two?”
The truth of it hits like a punch to the sternum, but it doesn’t make this right.
“You should have told us,” Jack says, quieter now. His jaw is working the way it does when he’s trying not to explode.
“Would it have changed anything?” Dominic asks. “Would you have come home? Helped? Or would you have just felt guilty from a distance?”
“That’s not—” I start.
“Are we really going to do this?” Theo cuts in, his voice tired. “Stand here and compete over who failed Mom more? Because nobody wins that contest.”
Through the office window, we can see members starting to arrive for early classes. Normal people with normal problems, not five brothers circling each other like fighters waiting for the bell.
“We need to finish this conversation,” Theo says, always the peacemaker even when there’s no peace to make. “But not here. Not now. Not like this.”
So we swallow our anger like medicine and go back to the photos, pretending to care about Jack’s kindergarten graduation while resentment sits between us, taking up all the oxygen in the room. The gym fills with its morning rhythm outside—weights clanking, someone’s playlist thumping bass through the walls, life continuing like our family isn’t imploding twenty feet away.
We’re looking at Jack’s high school graduation photos when we hear it. A crash from the weight section, metal hitting floor, followed by someone crying out. We all look up at once.
“Shit,” Dominic mutters, already moving, already in charge.
We follow him out onto the gym floor like we’re still kids following our big brother. People are gathering by the squat rack. It’s Lark, Maren’s friend, on the floor holding her ankle, face pale and tight with pain.
Dominic crouches beside her, already in problem-solving mode. “What happened? Can you move it?”
But Jack surprises me by kneeling too, moving with more care than I’ve seen from him in years.
“Don’t try to move it yet,” Jack says, settling onto one knee beside her. “Let me take a look first, okay?”
Lark narrows her eyes even through the pain. “Since when are you qualified for this? Aren’t you supposed to be in Europe doing whatever it is you do?”
Jack smiles, but it is a restrained thing, gentler than his usual cocky grin. “Since I started racing cars for a living. Trust me, I have had more injuries than I can count. May I?”
She studies him for a beat, then gives the smallest nod. He starts checking her ankle with hands, pressing carefully at the joint, testing range of motion without forcing anything. She hisses once and he murmurs, “Sorry, almost done,” in a voice I didn’t know he had.
“Looks like just a sprain,” Jack says finally, sitting back on his heels. “Pretty sure nothing’s broken, but you need X-rays to be certain. And ice. Lots of ice.”
“Gym insurance covers injuries,” Dominic says quickly. He is already standing and fishing his keys from his pocket. “I’ll take you to the clinic now.” That is Dominic in a crisis. Competent. Caring in his own gruff way. The guy who stayed, who built something, who takes care of people because that’s what he does.
“I’ll help her get out to the car,” Jack says, offering his arm. He shoots me a look.
“I’ll meet you outside,” I tell him.
Lark takes Jack’s arm without argument, leaning heavily against his shoulder as she pushes herself upright.
Dominic catches my eye over Lark’s head as they move toward the door. “We’re not done with this conversation.”
I nod. We never are.
The gym resumes its rhythm once they leave, though the tension still hangs in the air. Alex and Theo remain with me, the three of us caught in a silence that feels heavy.
“I should head out,” I say finally, more to break the silence than because I am eager to leave.
Theo shifts, glances at Alex, then back at me. “We should have told you, Calvin. Both of you. That’s on us.”
Alex nods slowly. “Dom isn’t wrong about what we’re facing, but leaving you in the dark wasn’t fair. You and Jack deserved better than that.”
“I get it,” I say, and I mostly mean it. “We all did what we thought was right. Just wish we’d figured out how to do it together.”
The drive home is quiet except for the radio. Morning sun burns through the fog, promising another perfect Pacific Northwest summer day. I think about Dominic’s exhaustion when he talked about Mom’s last months. About how we’re all stumbling through this without the person who kept us together.
When I pull up to the house, morning heat is already settling in. The cabins sit quiet to my left, Maren’s truck gone. She could be at the bar for inventory, or maybe grocery shopping, or anywhere really. I don’t know her schedule, her routines, the rhythm of her days. We live ten feet apart and I know almost nothing about how she spends her time when she’s not pouring drinks or taking care of Mom’s dog.
I grab my toolbox from the truck bed and head for the front porch to finish what I started yesterday. The boards near the door have been soft for years, and Mom used to worry about them constantly. Should have fixed them ages ago, but there’s a long list of things I should have done.
The morning air smells like overripe blackberries and salt from the Sound. I pry up the first rotten board, and it comes apart in pieces. Definitely overdue.
By mid-afternoon, I’ve replaced half the porch boards and I’m soaked in sweat. The sun beats down relentlessly, and I’m thinking about that photo of Mom and Maren when I hear a truck pull up. My pulse kicks up before I even turn around.
Maren’s back, parking in her usual spot. She gets out carrying grocery bags, hair coming loose from her ponytail, wearing cutoffs and a tank top that makes me forget what I was doing. She glances over at me on the porch, takes in the scattered boards and tools.
“Finally fixing those death traps?” she calls out.
“Someone should have years ago,” I call back.
She pauses for just a moment, like she’s going to say something else. But then Laila bounds out of the truck and makes a beeline for Maren, and she heads inside with her groceries. The moment passes, but I watch her go, wondering what she was going to say. Wondering what it would be like to help her carry those bags, to know what she buys, what she cooks, what her life looks like beyond the glimpses I catch through windows and walls.
I go back to hammering boards, but now I’m aware of her moving around in her cabin, putting groceries away, living her life parallel to mine but separate. Always separate.
For now, the work is enough. It has to be.
CHAPTER 7
MAREN
The dinner rush is just starting to pick up when Lark pushes through the back door of The Black Lantern. It’s barely six o’clock and I can already see the signs of a busy night. Nearly every table is filled and the local band is setting up in the corner for Saturday live music night.
Lark looks like she’s determined to prove she doesn’t need help, crutches catching on the doorframe, face set in grim determination, ankle wrapped in enough athletic tape to mummify a small cat.
“Before you say anything,” she announces, dropping her bag with a thud, “I’m fine.”
“You’re on crutches.”
“They’re preventative crutches.”
“That’s not a thing.” I abandon the garnish prep to get a better look at her.
“I had a tiny accident at Midnight Training.” She attempts a casual lean against the bar, nearly loses a crutch, recovers with the kind of dignity that only comes from extensive practice at pretending everything’s fine. “Who knew?”
“Lark, you have to go home.” I steady her with one hand. “You can’t work like this.”
“I can hop! Watch.” She demonstrates, nearly taking out a bar stool. “See? Mobile.”
“That was terrifying.”
“Listen,” she says, “I couldn’t find anyone to cover tonight. The doctor said it wasn’t bad but that I needed to rest for a few days. Everyone’s either out of town or suddenly has plans.” She adjusts her grip on the crutches, wincing. “You’ll be completely alone out here. And there’s that bachelorette party. Anywhere from ten to fifteen girls. Plus it’s live music night.”
The concern in her voice makes me soften slightly. Lark’s worked enough Saturday nights with me to know how intense it gets. A bachelorette party on top of the usual Saturday crowd and the band? That’s a nightmare scenario for solo bartending. But looking at her and the way she’s favoring that ankle, there’s no way.
“I’ll manage,” I say, though I’m already mentally adjusting for working solo. “I always do.”
“Mare—”
“You can barely stand, let alone carry a tray through a packed bar. Someone bumps into you and you’ll end up in the ER.”
She knows I’m right, but I can see it killing her to admit it. “Fine. But if you need me—”
“I’ll be fine. Go home, ice that ankle.”
She hobbles toward the door, pausing to call back, “Try not to burn the place down without me.”
Once she’s gone, I turn back to the bar. The dinner crowd’s in full swing, and the band’s nearly finished their sound check in the corner. I just need to stay ahead of the orders. Hopefully it’s a wine and beer kind of night, not a complicated cocktail night where everyone wants something that takes five minutes to make.
Who am I kidding? It’s Saturday. Someone’s definitely going to order a Ramos Gin Fizz just to watch me suffer.
Three hours later, at nine o’clock sharp, I’m remembering why Saturday live music nights are both a blessing and a curse. The band—three guys from Port Angeles who call themselves “The Sound”—are actually decent, which means people are staying longer, drinking more. The threatened bachelorette party has materialized in full force: twelve women in matching shirts that say “Sarah’s Last Sail” with little nautical anchors. They’ve pushed three tables together near the stage and are working through our cocktail menu with determination.
“Can we get another round of those pink things?” one of them shouts over the music.
“The cosmopolitans?”
“No, the OTHER pink things!”
We have four drinks that could be classified as pink. I make an executive decision and start pouring rosé sangria when I look up and see Calvin Midnight walking through the door.
He’d been working on the house each day since he got back, and I’d catch glimpses of him on my way to work. Now he’s showered and changed. Gone is the tool belt and sawdust, replaced by dark jeans and a black button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms, looking like a sexy professor from one of those dark academia TikToks Lark keeps sending me. His hair’s still damp enough to curl at the edges.
Of course he shows up looking put-together while I’m pretty sure my ponytail has migrated completely to the left, there’s definitely cranberry juice splattered on my shirt, and I can feel mascara smudging under my eyes from the sweat.
He navigates through the crowd, dodging dancers and drunk tourists and claims the last open barstool while I pass off the sangrias, then grab the muddler for two mojitos someone just ordered. The band launches into a cover of “Closing Time” at least two hours too early.
When I finally look up from muddling mint, Calvin’s watching me with something between concern and assessment, like he’s calculating exactly how underwater I am.
“You looking for food or just a drink?” I ask.
“Just here for a beer. I didn’t realize it was Saturday music night.” He watches me work, not pushing for service, just observing. “You’re bartending solo?”
“Lark’s out. Sprained her ankle at your brother’s gym this morning.”
“Oh right, I saw that happen.” He shifts to let someone else order, then leans back in. “Need a hand?”
The offer catches me mid-muddle. “What?”
“Help. You need help.”
“I’ve got it handled. Besides, you’re a literature professor, not a bartender.”
“Are you kidding?” He actually laughs. “I grew up working this bar. My mom had me washing glasses at twelve, pouring beers by fifteen—highly illegal, but hey, family business, right?”
“That was years ago.” But even as I argue, I can feel my resolve weakening.
“Like riding a bike.” He’s already moving toward the gap in the bar. “Plus, I spent three years in grad school. You think I didn’t work bars to pay rent?” He pauses, glancing over his shoulder. “Oh, and the bachelorette party just got reinforcements.”
I look over. Shit, he’s right. Five more women in matching shirts are pushing through the crowd, already chanting about shots.
“You’re about to get destroyed,” he says, not quite hiding his smirk.
He’s standing at the bar entrance now, clearly waiting for permission but knowing he’s already won. The bastard’s actually enjoying this.
“Fine,” I cave, defeated. “But if you—”
He’s already ducking under, washing his hands, grabbing an apron with the efficiency of someone who’s done this a thousand times. “Where do you need me?”
It turns out Calvin wasn’t lying about his bartending skills. Within minutes, we fall into a rhythm that feels practiced. When I’m shaking Cosmos, he’s already refilling my cranberry juice. When he’s building a complicated Old Fashioned, I slide him the orange peel without him asking. It’s seamless in a way that shouldn’t be possible with someone I’ve never worked with.
“Behind,” he murmurs, squeezing past as he reaches for the vodka.
“Reaching,” I warn, stretching past him for more lime juice.
We’re a dance neither of us rehearsed, and it works. The orders that were piling up start clearing. The crowd stops looking impatient. We’re actually keeping up.
“You’re the hot professor!” one of the bachelorettes squeals when she recognizes him. “Sarah’s obsessed with your writing!”
Sarah, wearing a crown that says “Bride to Bay” and a veil decorated with tiny ships, turns bright red. “I appreciate good writing!”
“She appreciates your author photo at 2 AM,” her friend cackles.
Calvin handles it gracefully, skillfully redirecting while building their drinks with professional focus. They eat it up, and soon half the bachelorette party is clustered at his end of the bar, which gives me breathing room to catch up on other orders.
“Smooth,” I tell him when we cross paths.
“I teach twenty-year-olds. Drunk bachelorettes are less scary.”
The rush keeps coming, but we handle it. He takes the complicated cocktail orders without blinking. I handle the high-volume stuff and the regulars who want their drinks just so.
The band announces their last set. I’m reaching for clean glasses when Calvin’s hand touches my back as he moves behind me, just guiding us past each other in the tight space, but my skin burns through my shirt where he touched.
I watch him at the other end of the bar pouring drinks, and my tired brain fixates on his hands. How does someone who boxes have such elegant hands? Long fingers moving with precision as he makes drinks. My mind unhelpfully supplies an image of what it might feel like to have those skilled fingers working between my legs with the same focused precision—
Jayson calls out an order, breaking the spell. I grab the ticket with shaking hands and steal one more glance at Calvin.
I’m completely screwed.
By midnight, the bar is empty. Jayson and the dishwasher left twenty minutes ago after finishing kitchen cleanup, and now it’s just us. I’m finishing the till count while Calvin mops, the last tasks before we can lock up.
“You didn’t have to stay this late,” I say, double-checking the twenties for the third time because my brain’s too fried to trust the first two counts.
“You needed help.” Simple as that. Like it’s obvious. Like anyone would stay until midnight mopping floors for someone they barely know.
The bar feels different with him here, like it remembers him from all those years ago. He moves through the space with surprising confidence for someone who hasn’t worked here in likely well over a decade.
“Mom drilled the routine into me,” he says, noticing my watching. “One summer she made me close by myself every night for a month until I could do it with my eyes closed.” He mops methodically, back to front just like Susan showed me. “Said a bar treated right would treat you right back.”
“She told me the same thing.” I finish the count, rubber-band the bills, tuck the cash into the deposit bag. “The first few months I owned this place, she came in every night to make sure I wasn’t drowning. Stayed until close, helped me figure out ordering, scheduling, how to handle the regulars. I think I took her up on her help almost every time.”
“Sounds like her.”
We fall into easy silence, just the sound of the mop sliding across wood and me organizing receipts. What catches me off guard is how naturally we work together after that rocky first meeting when he arrived. When he was all sharp edges and barely contained grief, snapping at me before his truck door was even closed. And I was defensive and territorial, throwing his absence in his face within minutes. Now we move around each other like dancers who’ve learned each other’s rhythms. It’s unsettling, this ease between us. Makes me wonder what else I’ve misjudged about him.
