Page 17 of The Last Road Trip

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.