Until the storm breaks, p.9
Until the Storm Breaks, page 9
“Great. Exactly what I was going for.”
“I mean it,” she says. “There was a line on your side of the bar.” She laughs wickedly.
“They were just being practical. I was closer to the vodka.”
“Right. The vodka.” There’s amusement in her voice. “Nothing to do with the whole brooding professor thing you have going on.”
“I don’t brood.”
“You were literally on your porch for an hour yesterday afternoon. Just sitting there. Staring at the water.”
My pulse kicks up, knowing she’s been aware of me the same way I’ve been aware of her. “I was thinking.”
“Brooding,” she counters.
“Contemplating.”
She shakes her head, sending water droplets flying. “Brooding with a thesaurus.”
I can’t help but laugh at that. “That’s actually the title of my future autobiography.” I catch her eye, hold it. “So, do you just keep an eye on me all the time?”
She opens her mouth, closes it. I can just make out a flush in her cheeks, and something about catching her flustered ruins me a little. “Don’t be ridiculous. We live practically on top of each other. I just... noticed when you came out. And then noticed you were still there when I was cleaning up later.”
“So you noticed me,” I say. “Twice.”
“You’re hard to miss. Very uh…tall.” She gestures up and down as if presenting me as Exhibit A in the case against normal proportions.
“Fair enough,” I concede.
She stops walking. “Wait. Did you just admit to brooding?”
“I admitted to nothing.”
“You absolutely did.” She gestures to the empty street, smiling. “The rain heard you.”
“The rain is a terrible witness. Very unreliable.”
She laughs, and I realize I’m memorizing her without permission, storing up these moments like I’m going to need them to survive when I’m back in Seattle and she’s just someone I see every few years when I come back to visit.
We walk in comfortable silence for a bit. The rain has lightened to a soft patter, more mist than drops now, and I can see our cabins up ahead, the porch lights glowing golden through the haze. My steps slow without conscious thought. I don’t want this to end. I want more of this easy back-and-forth, more of her laugh, her observations. I want to hear every thought she has about everything. The greed of it surprises me, this sudden fierce need to steal all her time, keep her out here in the rain talking until dawn.
We’ve reached the space between our cabin doors. The porch light casts everything in warm amber. She turns to face me, and we’re closer than I realized.
“Thanks,” she says. “For tonight.”
“You already thanked me.”
“Right.” She laughs, but it comes out breathy. “I do that. Over-thank people.”
She’s looking up at me, and I can’t read her expression. Grateful maybe? Or something else? The rain has made her skin glow in the porch light, and I have to force myself not to stare at the way her wet shirt clings to every curve.
“Well,” she says. “Goodnight then.”
But she doesn’t move toward her door. Just stands there, biting her bottom lip, looking at me like she’s waiting for something. Or maybe that’s just what I want to see.
I should say goodnight. Go inside. Not stand here imagining peeling those wet clothes off her. “Maren,” I hear myself say.
“Yeah?”
I don’t know what I was going to say. Her name just came out, pulled by something I can’t control around her. She tilts her head slightly, waiting, and a drop of rain slides down her throat. I track it without meaning to, and when I look back up, she’s watching me watch her.
Fuck it. I step closer. Close enough to feel the heat coming off her despite the rain. Close enough to see her chest rise with a sharp inhale. She doesn’t move back. The porch light catches the rain on her lips and all I can think about is how badly I want to taste her.
“Calvin...”
The space between us shrinks.
Then, without warning, she jerks back, almost tripping.
“Uh, goodnight,” she says, voice strangled, and disappears inside.
I stand there in the rain for another moment, body wound tight. What the hell just happened? Was I about to do something stupid, and she saved us both by leaving? Or did she want it too?
Inside my cabin, I strip off my wet clothes. Through the wall, the bathroom door clicks shut. The shower starts.
I freeze, one hand on my belt. She’s in there, naked, water running over her. My cock throbs painfully, already aching from outside.
I throw my wet clothes in the laundry hamper, trying not to think about what’s happening on the other side of that wall. The shower runs forever. Or maybe it just feels that way when every drop of water makes me picture her hands sliding over her skin.
When she finally finishes, I wait until her door closes before heading to the bathroom. The air is thick with steam and her scent—vanilla and something sweet that makes me want to follow her into her room and bury my face in her neck.
Cold shower. Ice cold. I stand under it with my palms flat against the tile, counting backwards from one hundred until I can think past the need coursing through me.
I can hear her through the wall. A soft thud like she’s thrown herself on her bed. Then silence.
I stare at the ceiling, still hard, still frustrated. That moment outside keeps playing on repeat: her moving into me, then pulling back. Through the wall, her bed creaks as she shifts. I wonder if she’s thinking about it too. Or if she’s already forgotten, moved on.
I adjust myself in my boxers, grimacing at how worked up I am over an almost-touch. This is ridiculous. I’m thirty-five, not seventeen. Tomorrow I need to focus on the house. All the practical shit that actually matters. Not obsessing over my neighbor.
But I can’t forget the way she said my name out there. Soft and breathless. I’m fucking desperate to hear her scream it. To find out what she tastes like, what makes her lose control, how many times I can make her come.
I’m aching for release. I grip myself, stroke once while imagining her mouth on my cock, then force myself to let go. I’m trying to be a gentleman here, or at least something resembling one. She pulled away. That means something.
So I lie there instead, uncomfortable and awake, trying not to think about what would have happened if she hadn’t stepped back. Trying not to imagine her mouth, her hands, the sounds she might make.
Fuck. This is going to be a long night.
CHAPTER 9
MAREN
I wake up at nine, my body pulsing and wet from a dream about Calvin.
For a second I just lie there, disoriented, still feeling phantom hands on my skin, his mouth on places he’s never actually touched. The dream was so vivid I can still feel the heat of him, still hear the way he said my name like a prayer.
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to push the images away. But they keep coming. Dream-Calvin looking up at me from between my legs, real-Calvin stepping closer to me last night, the intensity in his eyes when he looked at me.
God, what is wrong with me? I’m having pornographic dreams about my neighbor who I literally ran away from.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Multiple notifications. I already know who it is before I look, but I reach over anyway.
Lark. She’d started texting last night the second she heard Calvin Midnight was at the bar. Dark River’s gossip network works faster than the internet sometimes.
I scroll through the messages, smiling despite myself. She’s nothing if not persistent.
Lark (10:47 PM): WHAT DO YOU MEAN CALVIN IS BARTENDING
Lark (10:48 PM): THE ACTUAL CALVIN MIDNIGHT???
Lark (10:59 PM): Mare I swear to god if you don’t give me details
Lark (11:12 PM): Are you ignoring me because you’re busy with him???
Lark (12:22 AM): USE PROTECTION BUT ALSO TELL ME EVERYTHING
I’d finally replied while Calvin and I walked home just to stop her from blowing up my phone. Told her nothing was happening, that he’d just helped during the rush. When Calvin asked what she’d said, I’d fibbed and told him she was just passing along thanks for covering.
There are six new messages from this morning.
Lark (7:23 AM): So did you bang him or not
Lark (7:45 AM): I’m going to assume silence means yes
Lark (8:15 AM): There’s a TikTok about him that has 2 million views
Lark (8:16 AM): TWO MILLION
Lark (8:30 AM): BookTok is feral for this man
Lark (9:02 AM): ANSWER ME
I type back: Nothing happened. Almost kissed. Ugh I ran. Will explain when I see you.
Her response is immediate.
Lark: YOU RAN??? Oh honey.
I set the phone down before she can launch into a full interrogation via text. But the mention of TikTok makes me curious. Against my better judgment, I open Instagram and search his name.
There he is. @CalvinMidnight, blue check, 847K followers.
His most recent post is from a year ago. Just a blurry photo of coffee and a notebook, caption reading “Working.” It has 47,000 likes. The comments all asking when the next book is coming, if he’s writing again, when he’ll tour.
I scroll back further and find videos. There’s one from a literary festival two years ago. He’s on stage in a charcoal sweater, reading to a packed audience. The camera loves him. The way he pushes his hair back, how his hands move when he talks, the way he pauses to let words land.
The comments make my stomach turn:
“I’d let this man emotionally ruin me and thank him for it”
“Daddy Midnight could read the phone book and I’d cry”
“The way he says ‘love’ just got me pregnant”
“Why do I feel like he’s looking directly at ME through the screen”
I keep scrolling even though it’s torture, because apparently I’m now a masochist for Calvin Midnight content. More videos, more photos, more evidence of the Calvin Midnight phenomenon. Women crying at readings. Lines around the block for signings. That viral TikTok Lark mentioned has someone lip-syncing to audio of him reading, and the comments are even thirstier than Instagram.
I groan and toss my phone aside.
Laila jerks awake from where she was snoring on the floor, immediately. She scrambles over, tail wagging, and attempts to climb onto the bed to lick my face.
“Morning, girl.” I scratch behind her ears as she succeeds in getting her front paws up, tongue going for my chin. “What are we gonna do, huh? Susan’s son is making me crazy.”
She just pants happily, zero judgment about my terrible life choices.
I let her out, then pull on shorts and a light sweatshirt. The morning is overcast and cool. When Laila scratches to come back in, I feed her while she prances around my legs. She settles into eating, tail still wagging, and I sigh, looking at the doorway leading to the shared space.
I need coffee desperately, but coffee means the shared kitchen. The shared kitchen means potentially running into Calvin. After that moment last night, after we almost kissed, I’m not ready for that level of eye contact.
But the need for caffeine wins out. It always does.
I ease the door open and step into the shared space like I’m sneaking into somewhere I don’t belong. The kitchen is empty, the scent of coffee in the air. Susan’s pour-over setup sits clean and dry on the counter where Calvin must have used it earlier. My French press is right next to it, also clean.
I stop, staring at it. I definitely left it dirty in the sink yesterday, too tired to deal with it. He must have washed it for me early this morning.
I reach for the French press, running my fingers over the clean glass. Such a small thing, him washing my press. But somehow it feels intimate, this quiet caretaking we do without talking about it.
I pour a mug and add cream, then lean against the counter as last night floods back. Him stepping closer on the porch. The heat radiating off his body. The way I wanted so badly to rise up and meet his mouth. The way I jerked back instead like a coward.
I was so close until the tattoo flashed through my mind. The one on my ribs.
His words inked into my skin in tiny cursive when I was twenty-one. Six months after my parents died, when his essays felt like the only thing keeping me tethered to earth.
Some storms are good enough to dance in. Even if they ruin everything in their path.
How exactly would that conversation go? “Oh, I got this before your book was huge, so technically I’m not one of those groupies who...” No. There’s no version where he sees it and doesn’t think I’m just another obsessed fan. I’d die right there, naked, with his words on my skin like some claim I staked before I even knew him.
But even without the tattoo, I couldn’t do this. Not the way Calvin does things. I’ve heard enough from people who know him. His reputation preceded him even before he got famous and he doesn’t do relationships. Or at least never long enough to matter.
I could probably handle that with someone else. Just physical, no strings. But not with him. Not with Calvin.
Because I already have feelings. Real ones. The kind that make me listen for him through the wall. Imagine not just sex but waking up together every morning, not just for a weekend. Building something real instead of temporary. The kind of relationship he apparently doesn’t do.
The physical want is overwhelming. After that dream, after how he looked at me yesterday, my body is in a constant state of need. But if we kiss? Sleep together? I know exactly how this ends. He goes back to Seattle to his real life. I stay here, trying to pretend I’m not destroyed by my three days as Calvin Midnight’s Dark River fling.
I take my coffee and head back to my cabin to check on Laila. She’s still working on her breakfast, taking her sweet time with each piece of kibble like she’s savoring a five-course meal. For a golden retriever, she eats surprisingly slowly.
“Come on, girl. Want to sit on the porch?”
She looks up from her bowl, still chewing, then deliberately turns back to her food.
“Fine. Abandon me for breakfast.”
I push through the screen door, letting it shut behind me. The porch boards are cool under my bare feet as I settle into one of the chairs. The morning still has that early chill, but I can already tell it’s going to be a hot July day once the sun burns through. I’m taking a sip of coffee when I hear voices coming around from the main house.
The second I hear his voice, everything in me goes still. Like my body’s bracing for impact.
They round the corner and Calvin sees me on the porch. Surprise flashes across his face but clears just as fast, back to something neutral. I only now register his companion. A blonde man, perfectly styled, linen blazer over a white tee. Everything about him screams expensive education and daddy’s money.
Next to Calvin, he looks almost delicate. Though the blonde man isn’t short, Calvin towers over him, all dark hair and tanned skin from working outside, shoulders filling out his worn t-shirt. Calvin radiates the kind of intensity that makes everyone else fade into background noise, like gravity got rearranged around him. Not that it matters. I’m definitely not comparing them. Definitely not noticing how Calvin makes it hard to look at anyone else.
Calvin clears his throat as they approach. “Maren,” he says, gesturing to the blonde man. “This is Adrian Lowe. He teaches at UW.”
Adrian bounds up my porch steps without invitation. I stand to shake his hand, trying to be polite even though I’d rather go inside and pretend I never saw them.
“Adrian, this is Maren. She owns The Black Lantern.” Calvin glances at me almost apologetically, like he’s sorry for bringing this man to my doorstep.
“The local bar!” Adrian says like I’m a quaint roadside attraction. His eyes do a quick sweep of me, lingering just a second too long on my legs in yesterday’s shorts. “Good for you. That must be... quite the undertaking for someone so young.”
“I manage fine,” I say.
“I’m sure you do.” His smile is the kind that probably works on his female students, full of practiced charm and implied understanding. “There’s something to be said for the authentic American bar experience.”
I suppress an eye roll so hard it almost hurts. Calvin shifts at the bottom of the steps, and I can feel his irritation radiating like heat from pavement.
“Adrian is renting the Petersons’ place for the remainder of the summer,” Calvin says, his voice flat as week-old beer.
“Working on my fourth collection,” Adrian announces, rocking on his heels like he’s giving a lecture to an invisible audience. “Well, third and a half, really. This summer’s been about reconnecting with real America. Getting out of the academic bubble, you know? Sometimes you have to leave the ivory tower to find authentic voices.”
Real America. Like we’re some kind of field study. Like our lives are material for his next book of pretentious verse about the working class he’ll never actually belong to, judging by the Rolex on his wrist.
“That sounds... ambitious,” I say, taking a step back toward my door.
Adrian doesn’t take the hint, still standing on my porch like he belongs there. He leans against the railing, making himself comfortable.
“It’s necessary work,” Adrian continues, gesturing vaguely at the trees, my cabin, everything. “The untapped narratives of rural spaces. The poetry of everyday people living everyday lives. There’s such richness here.” He looks at me again, that measuring gaze. “I bet you have stories. Bar owners always do. The intersection of alcohol and honesty, it’s fascinating from a literary perspective.”
I glance at Calvin. He’s studying Adrian with an expression I can’t quite read, but his jaw is tight and his hands are shoved deep in his pockets like he’s restraining himself.
“I’ll be sure to tell my regulars they’re actually performance art,” I say, voice dripping with fake sweetness. “Eddie will be thrilled to know his Tuesday night rants about his ex-wife are actually poetry.”
