Page 16 of The Last Road Trip

“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.”