CHAPTER 8
CALVIN
The rain is mild as we’re locking up The Black Lantern. Just a whisper at first, mist that drifts through the darkness. By the time Maren’s checked the door twice and pocketed her keys, it’s falling steady and soft, the kind of warm Pacific Northwest summer rain that doesn’t announce itself, just settles in like it’s always been there.
We walk slowly despite the rain, neither of us in a hurry. The gravel road crunches under our feet, and I can hear the distant sound of waves from the Sound. I glance over at her, and God, she’s something else. All night I watched her work. The way she laughs with her whole body. That effortless wit, the way she can turn any moment into something brighter. She made me laugh more tonight than I have in years. I’ve been fighting this pull all week, but now in the dark with the rain falling around us, my defenses are shot.
“That was actually fun,” I say, surprising myself with the admission. “I forgot how much I liked bartending. The rhythm of it.”
“You were good. Really good.” She glances at me sideways. “The bachelorettes were ready to eat you alive but you handled them perfectly.”
“Years of practice deflecting undergraduate crushes.”
“Don’t forget Betty and her friends. Pretty sure you have a new fan club among the over-sixty crowd.” She nudges me with her elbow, and the casual touch sends heat through my wet shirt. “I think you had a real shot with her. She was ready to take you home.”
I groan, rubbing my face. “She asked if I was single three times.”
“Only three? She’s losing her touch.”
“Well, thank you for not throwing me to them. And for letting me help tonight.”
“I should be thankingyou,” she says.
“No, I needed that.” I look up at the rain, let it hit my face. “Hard to obsess about the estate and the roof repairs and everything with Mom when you’re trying to remember how to make a Bee’s Knees.”
“I get that.” Her words come out soft, almost lost in the rain. “Sometimes the bar’s the only place where my brain shuts up.”
I give her a half-smile, understanding exactly what she means. “Yeah. Exactly that. The blessed silence of being too busy to think.”
I flex my fingers, feeling the stiffness setting in from squeezing bottles and shaking tins. “Though my hands are going to remember this tomorrow. I forgot how physical bartending is. It’s different from typing all day.”
“Wait until you feel it in your back. And your feet. God, your feet tomorrow are going to hate you.”
“Already starting to.” But I’m smiling as I say it. “Worth it though.”
“I’m just impressed you remembered where things are kept.”
“Mom was particular about her storage system and yours is pretty damn similar.”
“I guess she trained us both well.” She pushes wet hair out of her face. “Though I noticed you suddenly forgot where you’re staying in town when Betty asked.”
“Strategic amnesia. Luckily I think she was too drunk to notice.”
She laughs, bright and genuine in the rain. That sound makes me want to be cleverer than I am, funnier, whatever it takes to hear it again.
We walk without talking for a bit, but it’s not awkward. The silence almost feels like it’s its own form of conversation. The path from town to the cabins is familiar even in the dark, lined with Douglas firs that turn the rain into a gentle percussion.
Maren hums a melody under her breath, so quiet I almost miss it. The melody tugs at my memory but I can’t place it, and I don’t ask. There’s a niceness about not knowing, about just listening to the sound of her voice mixing with the rain. She stops humming, clearing her throat softly—that little sound she makes when she’s thinking—and I file it away with all the other small things I’ve noticed about her.
“I saw you reading the other night,” she says. “Through the window. Your light was on until at least midnight.”
“You werewatchingme?” I ask, amused. Maybe a little pleased by the idea of her noticing me too.
“Your light was on when I got home. Hard to miss.” She glances at me sideways, and even in the dark I can see her smile. “You had this look on your face. Like whatever you were reading was saving your life or ruining it.”
“Maybe both.” I shrug. “Poetry. Not for work, just for me.”
“Who?” She seems genuinely interested.
