7. Chapter 7
Harriet
The neon sign of Merle’s Diner buzzes in the night. Thirty minutes ago, I was sitting on a park bench telling a stranger I wanted a divorce. Now I’m about to tell Kwemby the same thing.
The diner windows stretch across the building, a long and narrow structure shaped like an old roadside trailer. Most of the blinds are open. Through the glass, a waitress wipes down the counter, and a handful of customers sit in the booths.
The door to the diner gives way with a firm push. A bell jingles overhead, the sound bright against the low murmur of conversation and the hiss of the grill.
I choose the first empty booth I find. It’s got a nice view of the kitchen and register. Not that I need to see such things, but being anxious, I want something to look at while I wait for my friend. The blue vinyl makes that crinkly noise as I slide in.
A waitress appears at the edge of the table wearing a gray-blue apron and with a pencil tucked behind her ear. She’s older than I expected, maybe sixty, with gray hair pulled back in a half-ponytail.
“Coffee?” she asks, already reaching for the pot on her tray.
I nod. “Please.”
She sets a thick white mug in front of me, pours the coffee with a steady hand. “Cream?”
“Yes, and there will be one more joining me,” I say.
She nods, sets the pot and cream down, and slips two menus onto the table beside my mug. I don’t tell her that her boss will be the one joining me, as I don’t want to seem like the “I know the owner” type of customer.
“I’ll give you a minute,” she says, already turning away.
I wrap both hands around the mug, feeling the heat seep into my palms. It’s then that the diner door swings open and Kwemby steps in.
He’s still in his work clothes, the same dark slacks and navy shirt he must have put on at dawn.
The fabric is unbuttoned at the throat and rolled tight to his elbows, exposing solid forearms. I find myself staring at the way the cotton strains across his shoulders when he spots me.
His face lights up, that same warm smile that’s been the same ever since I can remember.
Every time it’s like he’s happy to see me, but can’t quite believe I’m actually there.
He once told me he started rehabbing roadside diners because he wants to preserve them.
It goes back to a childhood road trip where his parents made a wrong turn and got lost. This was before the days of Google Maps and GPS.
What saved their trip was stumbling upon an old-fashioned diner.
They ate the best pie they’d ever had and chit-chatted with a friendly waitress who wrote directions down on a napkin.
Decades later, roadside diners are a dying business, but Kwemby is dedicated to finding and restoring them.
“Harriet,” he says, crossing to me. “You made it.”
I smile back as he slides into the booth across from me.
“Alright,” he says, his voice quiet. “Tell me everything.”
So I do. The words flow. I start at the beginning—the car ride, the water Buck handed me, waking up alone in the cold car three hours later.
Then I move on to the fish dinner I couldn’t eat, the mac and cheese I cooked and barely got to eat.
The moment I sat on Buck’s lap and was told I was too heavy.
The dishes in the kitchen while Buck and Gary smoked on the deck.
Kwemby doesn’t interrupt. He leans forward with his forearms on the table, his coffee untouched, his eyes fixed on my face.
He doesn’t nod or offer the usual sympathetic noises people give during a hard story.
He just listens in the same way he did twenty-five years ago before I said no to dating, and before I married Buck instead.
But when I mention overhearing Buck talk about slipping me a Xanax, a muscle jumps in Kwemby’s jaw.
“I called a divorce lawyer already,” I say when I’ve finished, my throat raw from talking.
“Good,” he says. One of his hands reaches across the table, not quite touching mine, but close enough that I could extend my fingers and graze his. “You deserve a hell of a lot better than that, Harriet. You always have.”
I need my friend. The one that’s always been there, respecting me and my wishes.
He doesn’t give more than I take, nor does he demand it.
I move my hand the few inches between us and go to place mine over the top of his.
He flips, palms up, and I follow. We aren’t interlocking fingers, but it feels just as intimate.
We are palm to palm, skin against skin. The heat is immediate.
Tingles shoot up my wrist, a welcome contrast to the coldness I’ve been carrying on this entire trip with Buck.
“That’s it?” I ask. “No ‘Are you sure?’ No ‘Maybe you should sleep on it’? No ‘Twenty-five years is a long time’?”
“I wouldn’t mean any of it, so why waste the breath?”
He picks up his coffee, takes a sip, makes a face. “God, that’s terrible. Connie!” he calls, raising a hand to catch the waitress’s attention. “Any chance we could get some of the good stuff back here?”
She appears at the edge of the table, coffee pot in hand. “Kwemby! Didn’t see you walk in. You want a stronger pot?”
“Please,” he says. “And two slices of cherry pie from this morning, if there are any left.”
She nods, already turning away. “Coming right up.”
The waitress returns with a fresh pot. This one is smaller than the first, with a handwritten label on the side. She pours two cups, the coffee darker and richer than what was in my first mug. The smell alone is enough to make my mouth water.
“Pie in a minute,” she says, setting the pot on the table between us. “Holler if you need anything else.”
“Thanks, Connie,” he says, already reaching for the cream. “You’re a lifesaver.”
She gives him a mock salute, then slips away to check on the couple in the corner.
“So,” Kwemby says, setting down his mug. “You called a lawyer. What’s next?”
The question is so straightforward that for a moment I can’t answer.
Not because I don’t know—the lawyer’s name and appointment time are in my phone—but because it’s the first time anyone has asked me what I want to do next.
Not what Buck would prefer, or what’s best for the twins, or what will keep the peace. Just what I, Harriet, want to happen.
“I have an appointment on Monday,” I say, finding my voice. “Ten o’clock. Ronetta Well at Well and Heart, on Maple Street back home. The receptionist asked if I was in a safe situation.”
“Are you?” Kwemby asks, his voice careful.
“Yes, I think.”
He nods, accepting my answer without pushing. “Where are you staying tonight? Not with Gary and Christine, I’m guessing.”
I shake my head. “I’ll book a hotel.”
“That’s good,” he says. “Even with the twins around, I don’t trust Buck.”
“Me neither, but I’ll be fine,” I say, the words automatically.
“I know,” he replies. “Doesn’t mean you should have to be.”
The waitress appears with two thick slices of cherry pie on small white plates. They look homemade. The top crust is a buttery gold, coated in a layer of coarse sugar crystals. Inside, the filling is glossy red, crowded with whole cherries.
I thank her, though I’m not sure she hears. She’s already moving to the counter to refill an older man’s coffee.
“These are amazing,” I say, taking a bite.
Kwemby nods, already halfway through his. “Connie’s recipe. She won’t give it to me, though. Says some secrets are worth keeping.”
We eat in comfortable silence as the diner begins to empty around us. Soon it’s just us and Connie, who’s wiping down the counter, giving us the privacy of pretended busyness. With the place less crowded, our knees brush under the table. Neither of us pulls away. It feels completely natural.
“What about the twins?” Kwemby asks when we’ve finished our pie. “Have you talked to them?”
I shake my head. “Not yet. They were still at the house when I left. Buck was...” I pause, searching for the right word. “Explaining. Making it sound like I was overreacting. Like it wasn’t a big deal.”
His jaw clenches. “It’s a big deal,” he says, his voice low. “Drugging your wife is a crime, Harriet. It’s not just disrespectful, it’s dangerous. What if you had never woken up in that car?”
The word lands inescapable between us, because it’s the truth. Who knows what would have happened, but either way, Buck was willing to take the risk.
“I know,” I say. “I’m starting to realize how many things I’ve been ignoring and the twins are, too.”
“I get it. It takes time to see what’s right in front of you after being in it for so long. Are you going to report him, though?” Kwemby asks, his gaze intensifying. “Are you going to press charges?”
I know he wants me to say yes, but doesn’t want to force me.
It’s my decision. I think of the paperwork, the police station, the look on Maren and Coris’s face if their father was in handcuffs.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “My lawyer asked the same thing. Right now, I just want to be free. I don’t know if I have the stomach for a criminal case, but the thought of him getting away with it makes my blood run cold. My first reaction was to get away.”
We talk for a few more minutes until I yawn, having had a long day.
He pats my arm. “It’s late. Want to meet here at the same time tomorrow? I’ll make sure the coffee’s better.”
I laugh. “You’re on,” I say, already reaching for my purse. “Thanks for the pie and listening to me complain for an hour.”
“You’re welcome. It’s really no trouble, not when it comes to you.”
The way he says you makes me want to snuggle up against him.
“Call me when you get to the hotel,” he says, his voice low. “So I know you made it. When you exit the parking lot, make a left. That’s where all the hotels are.”
I nod, already reaching for my keys. “I will.”
He steps back, giving me space to move past him. “Goodnight, Harriet.”
“Goodnight,” I reply, and then I’m pushing through the door, the bell jingling overhead, the night air sharp against my face. I walk to my car with quick steps, each one taking me further from the woman I was this morning.
I slide into the driver’s seat, and start the engine with a quick turn of the key. The headlights illuminate the empty parking lot. Sensing Kwemby’s attention on me from the large windows in the diner, I know he’s wanting to make sure I got to my car safely. He’s protective.
My phone sits in the cup holder, the strip of road where all the hotels are, already pulled up on the maps app.
Kwemby’s right, they’re all in one direction.
I think about leaving my things at Gary’s and purchasing new clothing and a new toothbrush at a gas station, but honestly, I don’t want to give Buck any reason to villainize me and keeping the car is a guaranteed way to ensure that.
I can already imagine how telling the judge I stole “his” car and abandoned him two hours from home will look.
No, I’ll just return the car, grab my suitcase, and then Uber to the hotel. Besides, I deserve my things. So rather than make a left, I make a right.