8. Chapter 8
Kwemby
The bell above the door is still settling into silence from when Harriet left. Connie works a slow circle on the counter with a cloth, the pie dome already wrapped in plastic, the coffee machine cycling through its last hiss of steam.
I slide out of the booth. My shirt pulls across my shoulders as I straighten, the fabric stiff from the long day.
I’m itching to relax, but I have other priorities.
As I walk to the door, I stare at the parking lot through the large glass walls.
Harriet is crossing it, her purse on her shoulder. She reaches the car and gets inside.
Perfect. While I wasn’t worried that she was going to get mugged or anything, I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I care greatly about her safety. Now all she has to do is turn left out of the parking lot to check into a hotel nearby.
Inside the car, she flips her headlights on.
Asphalt washed bright against the dark from the beams. She backs out of the space, the tires turning.
She pulls forward to the lot exit, stops, looks left, looks right.
It’s then that the pit of my stomach aches.
I’ve known Harriet for thirty years. I know when she’s thinking.
Turn left, Harriet. Book a hotel. Get some rest.
Unfortunately, she turns right.
I watch the car move onto the highway, accelerating into the dark, and I know exactly where she’s going. She’s going back to Gary’s. I don’t care what the reason is; I refuse to let her go alone. The muscle in my jaw tightens until I feel it in my back teeth.
For twenty-five years, I’ve held to one simple rule: her choices are hers.
My job is to be present when she reaches for me, never the other way around.
I maintained that quiet discipline the day I sat in a folding chair, watching her walk down the aisle toward another man.
I maintained it through every lunch we shared, sitting across from her while she talked about her girls, her home, and Buck’s rigid schedules.
I forced myself to care about her happiness without making it about my own desires, because keeping her in my life as a friend was what mattered most.
But now, fuck that rule.
The man I respected enough to keep my mouth shut for has been abusing her. I’m not even sure if Harriet fully understands that yet, but Buck has transitioned from emotional abuse to medical abuse.
For years, he has come home, sat in his chair, and demanded she bring him things, calling her a nosy journalist whenever she asked about his day.
He acted like this every single day that Harriet and I ate lunch together, exchanged texts, and met up.
All those years I kept my distance and stayed quiet, he was doing this.
So hell no, he doesn’t deserve to be anywhere near her.
I jog out the door of the diner and head straight to my car. Once inside, I turn the key. The engine starts.
The highway is nearly empty as I pull onto it.
I stay at the speed limit and keep my eyes forward.
Ahead, maybe a quarter mile, are two red points of light.
I hold my speed until the distance closes to a hundred yards, then I ease off until she’s a few car lengths ahead of me.
Her brake lights flicker once as the road curves, then settle back to a steady red glow.
I pray that I’m wrong. That Buck isn’t as much of a manipulative asshole as I believe he is, but given the circumstances, I’m terribly concerned that he is. Whether Harriet is ‘mine’ or not, I’d never put her in harm’s way.
I’m not sure what I’ll do when we get there. I don’t have a plan past this, past keeping her in sight on a dark highway at eleven at night while she drives back to the house of the man who drugged her.
I’ll figure out the rest when she parks. Maybe I’ll just watch from the road and then sneak away once she’s safely back inside her car.
For now, I drive.