Chapter 9 Amara
Amara
The first sign that today is going to be a disaster is the way the palm trees are bending like they’re auditioning for a limbo contest.
The second sign is when Marisol looks at her phone and mutters something in rapid Bahamian Creole that I’m pretty sure translates to “we’re all going to die.”
Wonderful.
We’re at a community hall on the far side of Eleuthera, running a contract-review workshop for about fifteen locals who showed up despite the threatening sky.
Because apparently island residents have more commitment to understanding predatory land-lease clauses than they do to basic self-preservation.
I respect that.
Also I think we’re all idiots.
“We should wrap up early,” Marisol says, glancing out the window.
“Maybe it’s just a squall?” I ask hopefully. Because the Bahamas rarely get storms this time of year, right?
Marisol shakes her head urgently.
I’m wondering if I should continue explaining how escalation clauses work when the first fat raindrops hit the tin roof like gunshots.
Within thirty seconds it sounds like we’re inside a drum being played by a very enthusiastic percussionist.
Either that, or inside a machine gun.
“Okay!” I have to shout to be heard over the noise. “Let’s call it. Everyone get home safely!”
The locals file out quickly, most of them looking way less concerned than I feel. Probably because they’ve lived through actual hurricanes and know this is just a tropical tantrum.
Meanwhile I’m having flashbacks to that one time in law school when I got trapped in the library during a northeaster and had to sleep on a study table because the dorms lost power.
Fun times.
Corin’s already moving toward the door, following an older woman who’s struggling with an umbrella. I watch through the window as he helps her to her car, holding the umbrella over her head while getting completely soaked himself. The rain is coming down in sheets now.
When she’s safely inside, he doesn’t come back. Instead he moves to help the next person, a man with a cane. Thorne materializes from somewhere near the building’s side entrance, and takes an elderly couple’s bags while Corin steadies the man with the cane.
I should probably help, too. Except I’m stuck holding about seventeen legal pads and a box of workshop handouts.
By the time he helps the last straggler, a woman who apparently decided now was the perfect time to have an extended conversation about her grandson’s legal troubles, the parking area has transformed from “concerning” to “legitimate water hazard.” I watch her car create a wake as she drives away, like she’s piloting a boat instead of a sedan.
Geez.
That escalated quickly.
Corin appears at my elbow, and I do my absolute best not to notice that his sand-colored linen shirt is now plastered to his chest in ways that highlight his gorgeous pectorals. His dark hair is dripping, with water sliding down his temple, and he’s breathing slightly harder than normal.
I hate him a little bit for still managing to look like some kind of tropical romance novel hero even when he’s soaking wet.
Actually, scratch that.
Especially when he’s soaking wet.
Focus, Amara.
“Roads are already flooding!” he says over the loud pitter-patter of the rain. “Keon tried to move the SUV closer but can’t! We’re stuck here until it clears!”
I blink at him. “Define stuck!” I have to shout.
“Stuck as in stranded,” he answers. “Maybe overnight! Depending on drainage!”
Oh you have got to be kidding me.
Keon and Thorne stumble inside. Both of them are dripping wet.
“It’s a nightmare out there!” Thorne shouts over the rain.
Marisol appears with an armful of spare linens and cotton shirts that look like they’ve been donated over the years for exactly this kind of emergency. She hands a set to Corin along with a pair of worn sandals and a towel.
“You can change in there,” she says, pointing at a small office nearby.
Corin takes the clothes with a nod of thanks. He disappears into the office and closes the door behind him.
A minute later the door opens and he emerges in dry sand-colored linen pants and a loose white cotton shirt, barefoot in the sandals. His hair is still damp but he’s toweled it dry.
Still manages to look effortlessly put-together, despite used clothes that barely fit.
Thorne enters the office to change next.
Meanwhile two local volunteers who stayed to help pack up are getting cots set up in the main hall.
Marisol gestures toward the small office again. “Mr. Saelinger, you should take the office! It has a door, and the air mattress is relatively new! Well, new-ish! Only deflates a little!”
Corin glances at the office, then at me, then back at the office. I can practically see the calculation happening behind those dark eyes.
“The office is too small!” he says over the rain. “Barely fits one person! Ms. Khan and I will take the storage room! More space!”
Wait.
What?
Marisol looks confused. “You’re sure? The storage room has a futon but it’s not exactly luxurious!”
“We’ll manage!” he says, and I swear there’s the faintest hint of satisfaction in his voice. You know, the smug satisfaction of a man who just engineered exactly the outcome he wanted while making it look like a sacrifice?
I narrow my eyes at him.
He meets my gaze with perfect innocence.
Suspicious.
Highly suspicious.
Because he basically just declared that he and I would be spending time alone together in a room with one piece of furniture. Maybe even the night.
I could insist on taking the small office. Or one of the cots in the main hall.
Should, even.
But I say nothing.
Why?
I have no idea.
Actually, you know exactly why you’re not saying anything.
Marisol’s already moving on.
Corin picks up both our bags like the decision is settled.
Fine.
We’ll play it his way.
But I’m watching him.
The storage room is exactly as bad as I expected. Concrete floor. One small window. Shelves stacked with ancient workshop materials and what looks like a broken projector from 1987.
And the promised futon.
The single futon.
I stare at it like it’s a hostile witness I’m about to cross-examine.
Corin sets our bags down and notices my gaze. “I can sit on the floor.”
Well, at least it’s quieter in here than in the main hall. The rainfall is a lot more muffled, so that we can actually talk without shouting.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” The words come out sharper than I meant. “We’re both adults. We can sit on a futon without it being weird.”
Uh huh.
It will definitely be weird.
The power cuts out right then, plunging us into darkness except for the faint gray light coming through the window.
“Great,” I mutter, fumbling for my phone.
I manage to get my phone’s flashlight on, which helps approximately zero percent. The beam just makes the shadows more ominous.
Corin’s already digging through his bag, and a second later he produces an actual flashlight because of course he’s the kind of person who travels with emergency supplies.
“Always prepared?” I ask.
“Something like that.” He props the flashlight on one of the shelves so it illuminates the room with a dim, diffused glow.
“Thorne insisted I keep one in my bag after the last time we got caught in a blackout. Let’s just say, the power cuts out in the Bahamas a lot more than it does in New York City. ”
We sit on opposite ends of the futon, which immediately sags in the middle like it’s trying to roll us toward each other.
Lovely.
We now have both physics and furniture conspiring against my self-control.
I scoot back toward my end, pull my knees up, and wrap my arms around them.
“So,” I say, because silence feels more dangerous than talking. “On a scale of one to ten, how much do you think Marisol is regretting scheduling this workshop?”
“Eleven.” His voice is low and steady. “She already apologized twenty minutes ago for the ‘logistical oversight.’”
I huff out a laugh despite myself. “It’s not her fault the storm decided to show up early. Though I’m pretty sure my Manhattan clients are going to have feelings about me being unreachable.”
He shrugs. “You can’t control the weather.”
“Tell that to opposing counsel when I miss a filing deadline because I was trapped in a tropical storm.”
“Pretty sure force majeure covers this,” he says dryly.
I flash him a sweet smile. “Oh good. We can argue contract law while we wait out the apocalypse.”
Another silence. Longer this time. The muffled rain is relentless.
I should try to sleep. That’s the smart thing to do. Curl up on my end of the futon, close my eyes, and pretend this is just another mildly inconvenient professional situation.
Except my brain has other plans.
Because sitting here in this dim room with Corin, listening to the storm, I keep thinking about New Year’s Eve. About the way he looked at me on that beach. About the way he fucked me senseless. About the pen I’d left behind when I snuck out.
And about the fact he kept that pen.
I know because I saw it in his pocket last week when he was reaching for his phone.
What does that mean?
Stop analyzing it.
Not everything is a deposition.
Except with Corin, everything feels like evidence. Every gesture, every glance, every coffee he brings me without asking.
I’m building a case in my head and I don’t even know what verdict I’m trying to reach.
Maybe he just needed an extra pen.
After all, everyone can use an extra pen, right?
“Can I ask you something?” The words are out before I can stop them.
He shifts slightly. I can’t see his face clearly in the dim light. “Okay.”
Here goes nothing.
“Why didn’t you fight for us?” My voice comes out steadier than I expected. “Five years ago. When I walked away. You just... let me go.”
The silence that follows is so heavy I can feel it pressing against my shoulders.
Maybe I shouldn’t have asked. Maybe this is one of those questions that’s better left unexamined, buried under five years of distance.
But I’m tired of not knowing.
Finally he answers. “You didn’t have to leave.”