Page 11 of The Last Road Trip

“See you then.”

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.”