“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 atthe 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 theoffer. “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.
