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.”
I catch Calvin’s mouth twitch at my comment, just the slightest upturn at the corner before he catches himself, and Ihate how much satisfaction that tiny smile gives me. Like I’ve won just by amusing him for half a second.
Adrian laughs, loud and sharp. “Touché.” He seems delighted that I can volley with him, like I’m a clever pet who’s learned a trick. “Though I’m just saying there’s material everywhere if you know how to look. The stories that emerge from places like this, the raw humanity of it all.” He glances at Calvin. “You know what I mean, don’t you, Cal? You wrote your best work from lived experience.”
