CHAPTER 26
CALVIN
The Seattle apartment greets me with its familiar sterility when I finally unlock the door after nine PM. I’d driven straight through after leaving Dark River this morning, stopped only once for gas, and spent the entire afternoon and evening walking the city in the rain, putting off coming back here. But eventually the rain got heavier and the coffee shops closed and I ran out of reasons to stay away.
The windows frame the city lights blurred by rain. Everything here is exactly as I left it. First editions lined up by height on the built-in shelves. The minimalist furniture that a designer assured me would “speak to my aesthetic” sits there, saying nothing. A bar cart stocked with whiskey I bought to impress people I no longer invite over. Zero clutter, zero warmth, zero evidence that anyone actually lives here.
Nothing like the cabins. Nothing like Maren’s mismatched mugs and the way she left books face-down on every surface, spines cracking, making the librarian in me cringe and laugh at the same time. Here, my twenty identical shirts hang preciselyone inch apart. There, her clothes were thrown over chairs, mixed with mine on the floor, evidence of life actually being lived.
I set my bags down by the door, and the sound echoes in the emptiness.
I pour myself a whiskey and sit at my desk, the one that cost hundreds of dollars and with a chair that has perfect lumbar support and makes me feel like I’m writing important things even when I’m just grading freshman essays about whyThe Great Gatsbyis still relevant.
I open my laptop, staring at a blank page. I’m supposed to be preparing for the panels about finding meaning in loss. The irony sits heavy in my chest. I’m supposed to talk about weathering grief while actively running from the best thing that’s happened to me in years.
The document cursor blinks at me. I type:Thank you for having me.
Brilliant. Profound. Sure to change lives.
Twenty minutes pass. Thirty. Nothing else comes. The blank page mocks me, and all I can think about is how Maren would tease me about my writer’s block. “Just write something terrible,” she’d say, stealing my coffee. “You can’t edit a blank page.” But she’s not here to steal my coffee or make me laugh or pull me away from the desk when I’m taking myself too seriously.
Seven years she’s had my words on her skin. Seven years. The image stays with me: that delicate script on her ribs, words I wrote turned into something permanent on her body. All those times she must have turned away, adjusted positions, made sure I never got a clear look. The deliberate deception of it burns.
The thing is, I believe her explanation. Twenty-one and grieving, finding comfort in my words. That tracks. Being scared to tell me once we got involved. I get it. Butunderstanding why she lied doesn’t erase the fact that she did. For weeks. Every single day, choosing to hide it.
My birth parents I can dismiss easily. Strangers wanting money. But Maren? That’s more complicated. She’s the woman I fell for, who happens to have been carrying my words on her body since before we met. The two things can be true at once. The question is whether I can get past the deception.
I pull up my laptop. Multiple browser tabs sit open. The faculty portal with its endless administrative emails. Messages from my department chair about next semester that I haven’t answered in weeks. And there, in a separate window, the sabbatical request I’ve been drafting.
Dear Dr. Harrison, I am writing to request a sabbatical. Due to personal circumstances requiring my attention...
Personal circumstances. Is that what Maren is? A personal circumstance?
I finish typing it properly this time. Print it. Fold it. Slide it into a university envelope. Maybe I’ll submit it tomorrow. Maybe I won’t. But having it ready feels like a step toward something, even if I don’t know what.
I wake before dawn, same as always. But here there’s no reason for it. No sunroom to work on, no coffee to make for two, no Laila demanding breakfast. Just me in this sterile box, trying to remember why I thought this was where I belonged.
The morning brings Seattle’s eternal drizzle. I make coffee with the expensive machine that requires a manual to operate, nothing like the simple pour-over rhythm Maren and I had developed.
By midmorning, I give up on trying to write and head out into the city. I end up at Elliott Bay Book Company, drawn by muscle memory and masochism. The new releases tablefeatures authors I’ve never heard of, bright covers promising fresh voices and diverse perspectives. Writers who have something current to say, something that matters now.
Through the stacks, I drift to the “Local Authors” display. There, tucked in the bottom corner like an afterthought, sits one face-out copy of my collection. Someone’s stuck a “Staff Pick” sticker on it with a handwritten note:Beautiful meditation on loss. Made me cry on the bus. - Brad
Brad, whoever you are, I’m sorry.
I can’t stand being in here anymore, surrounded by all these words, all these stories that actually got finished. I push through the doors back into the drizzle.
The rain follows me to Volunteer Park. A couple shares a bench despite the weather, leaning into each other like the world outside their bubble doesn’t exist. The casual intimacy of it makes me look away.
My phone buzzes. Theo.
Theo:How’s Seattle?
I stare at it for a full minute before responding.
Calvin:Fine. Working on conference stuff.
Theo:You okay? You left pretty suddenly.
