10. Chapter 10
Harriet
Iwake to sunlight cutting through a thin gap in the curtains, a warm line across the white duvet. Kwemby is already awake, propped on one elbow beside me, watching me affectionately.
“Good morning,” I say, my voice rough with sleep.
He smiles. “Good morning.”
“I hope last night wasn’t weird, with me sleeping here.” He gestures at the bed we both occupy.
“Of course not, you are a perfect gentleman. I’m more worried about my hunger. I’m starving. Do you think the vending machines have muffins?”
“If you could have anything right now, that’s what you’d want?”
“Hm. I think I’d rather have an almond croissant and scrambled eggs, but I also don’t want to spend fifty bucks on breakfast.”
Kwemby reaches for the phone on the nightstand and dials room service. “Two coffees, please. One almond croissant. A fruit plate. Scrambled eggs. Orange juice. Room 312.”
He hangs up. “Twenty minutes,” he says, telling me how long it’ll be.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I softly say. “I would have been happy with even a Pop-Tart.”
He chuckles. “And risk a sugar crash? No way. It’s the first day of complete freedom. You deserve your first meal to be more ceremonious.”
Huh. I hadn’t thought about it that way, but he’s right.
I nod, suddenly aware that my hair is a mess, my face bare of the lipstick and mascara I’ve worn every day since my twenties.
Looking at Kwemby, I don’t feel the instinctual urge to rush to the bathroom mirror to study the fine, permanent brackets around my mouth or hide the soft exhaustion beneath my eyes.
Fifty years of living are written plainly on my skin, and for the first time, I don’t care. This is me.
“We should talk about last night,” I say.
He turns his upper body toward me, his expression softening. “Not unless you want to. We’ve got time. If you just want to lie here, we can do that too.”
“No,” I say, taking a slow, steadying breath.
“If I don’t say it now, it’ll just fester.
Last night when Buck grabbed my arm in the driveway, my chest went completely cold.
There are no lingering feelings left, Kwemby.
No sadness about the end of it. I only have a profound sense of disgust that I let it go on for so long. ”
Kwemby’s gaze is heavy, but he stays still and lets me speak.
“Last night you were there,” I continue. “Stepping out of the dark, I keep thinking about what would have happened if you hadn’t followed me.”
“You don’t have to thank me for that,” he says. “I’m just sorry I hadn’t intervened much sooner. I had no idea Buck was controlling. If I had seen the signs, I could have urged you to get help, for both you and the girls.”
“I never would have guessed it would come to this, either. I’d put up so much and ignored every red flag. After so long, it all blurs together. But what I am grateful for is you. You’ve never given up on me and when I truly needed you, you came.”
“Always,” he says.
A quiet, comfortable silence settles over us, the space between us neither too close nor too far. A knock at the door breaks the moment. Kwemby slips out of bed in one smooth motion.
I pull the duvet up to my chin, watching as he opens the door with a careful check through the peephole first. A young man in a hotel uniform wheels in a tray covered with a white cloth, setting it in the middle of the room. Kwemby hands him a few bills and thanks him with a nod. The door closes.
“Smells delicious,” Kwemby says, wheeling the tray to my side of the bed.
“Oh, my gosh! We get to eat breakfast in bed without worrying about cleaning the mess after.”
Feeling ravenous, I sit up, letting the duvet pool around my waist, and reach for the coffee he’s already pouring. It’s perfectly strong with enough cream to take the edge off. I take a long sip, feeling the warmth spread through my chest.
Kwemby sets the tray across the bed between us, lifting the covers to reveal the food beneath.
The almond croissant sits on a small white plate, golden and flaky, powdered sugar dusting its surface.
That’s what I go for first. I break off a piece of the croissant with my fingers, the pastry flaking onto the white duvet.
He wraps both hands around his coffee mug, watching me with careful attention as I take my first bite.
“Good?” he asks.
I nod, already reaching for another piece.
“So,” Kwemby says, setting down his empty juice glass. “What do you want to do today?”
Oh, wow. That’s a good question. Sure, there are a lot of things I need to do, like moving out of my marriage home.
Luckily, I have plenty in my savings that I can either rent or use as a mortgage down payment.
Thank goodness Buck and I signed a prenup.
Over the course of twenty-five years, I was thrifty enough to squirrel away money regularly.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”
“Then let me show you something,” he says, reaching for his phone on the nightstand. “If you’re up for it.”
“I am.”
We decide to get dressed. I have my luggage from my failed weekend, and he has a spare change of clothes he brought in from his car last night.
The sound of Kwemby’s zipper sends a sudden heat prickling the skin beneath my ears.
I lock my eyes on the floor to avoid peeking at him.
When the fabric of his navy shirt rustles inches from my shoulder, I break my avoidance trance, pull my own shirt off, and quickly change into a fresh one.
Kwemby takes us to the pier. The planks creak underneath us as the waves lap beneath our feet. We walk side by side, close enough that our arms brush occasionally.
A bait shop sits near the end, its hand-painted sign swinging gently in the breeze. “MERLE’S FISH SHOPPE,” it reads in faded blue letters.
“Oh, hey,” I say. “Is this the same Merle from your diner?”
“Yeah, that’s the old owner’s last name. This is where he’d catch his fresh fish. Now he focuses solely on the market.”
Speaking of, the open-air market has already drawn a crowd. Vendors call out prices in voices raised to carry over the wind, their hands moving in quick motions as they weigh and wrap and hand over purchases. The smell is an overwhelming salt and diesel.
We walk slowly, Kwemby’s hand occasionally brushing the small of my back when the crowd thickens.
Then he gestures at the long rows of open-air stalls lining the wooden planks.
“What do you want to do first?” he asks, gesturing toward the rows of stalls.
“We can grab a bag of warm roasted almonds at the counter, or check out the bakery tents. The local art setups are just over there, mostly lighthouse photos and beach paintings, and the craft section is right past the street performer.”
I follow the line of his finger past a man playing guitar. My eyes settle on a cluster of white pop-up tents where strings of colored beads and polished gemstones catch the morning light. “The handmade crafts,” I say.
We navigate through the crowd to the artisan tables. We pass a display of framed beach photography before reaching a long table covered in black velvet. Shallow wooden trays hold rows of loose glass beads, smooth shards of sea glass, and river stones painted with intricate golden spirals.
In the center of the display, a metal stand holds a handful of unique pendants.
I lean closer, my focus locking onto a small, rough tube of gray-green glass suspended from a simple leather cord.
Unlike the tumbled sea glass beside it, this piece’s surface is coarse.
I realize it was shaped by lightning. I’d heard of such things, but never seen one in person before.
“You like that one?” Kwemby asks, stepping up beside me.
I lift the leather cord, letting the heavy, rough cylinder of fulgurite settle against my palm. “Yes, I really do.”
Kwemby pulls out his wallet before I can reach for my purse, handing a few bills to the woman behind the table. He waits until she hands over the receipt, then turns back to me. “Need help putting it on?”
After he takes the necklace, I hold up my hair. His fingers brush the nape of my neck as he ties it. The cool, gritty weight of the lightning-struck glass feels cold against my chest.
We continue down the pier, leaving the stalls behind as the planks give way to a handful of short steps that lead to water.
The waves are steady and I can’t help myself.
Soon I’m down the steps and at the edge of where sand meets ocean.
On impulse, I slip off my right shoe and dip my toes into the water.
I wiggle my toes, feeling the current push against them.
When I glance at Kwemby, I see him watching me with complete attention. The softness in his gaze is something I’m not used to. What he says next makes my stomach flip.
“I don’t know if this is appropriate to say, but I’ve had feelings for you for a long time.”
For years, I felt guilty whenever I let myself wonder how my life would look if I hadn’t turned him down, only because I was afraid to ruin our friendship.
But on this wet sand, anchored by the clear reality that I married the wrong man, I no longer feel a single shred of remorse for wanting my friend instead.
Words aren’t enough, so I answer by leaning forward, closing the small space between us. His lips are soft against mine. The kiss is unhurried. His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair.
When we pull apart, we’re both grinning.
Kwemby keeps his hands resting against my waist, his thumbs brushing the damp fabric of my blouse while the wind moves between us. Another low wave surges over my bare right foot, shifting the wet sand beneath my heel and drawing a quiet splash against the bottom step.
“We should get back,” he says, though he makes no move to step away. “Your appointment’s in the morning.”
Groaning, I say, “You’re right, and I still have to rent a car or purchase one, since Buck has ours.” He can keep it.
“If you want, we can stay at the hotel for another night, then I’ll drive you in the morning.”
“Yes, please.”
I reach for my shoe while Kwemby puts his hand back on my waist to steady me. Once I’m ready to go, we turn back and head straight to the parking lot. This time, our bodies don’t just brush together as we walk, because now we’re holding hands.
When he pulls into the parking lot of the hotel, he doesn’t switch off the engine right away. He sits with his hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead through the windshield at the blank brick facade.
“I can grab a separate room,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “If you need alone time to prepare for tomorrow.”
“No. Stay,” I say.
Tension between his brows dissolves, smoothing out his forehead.
We don’t talk in the elevator or down the hall, but the air between us thickens. By the time he slides the plastic keycard into the lock of room 312, my heart is thumping against my ribs so hard it aches.