Some Conversations Didn't Need Exhibits
JULIETTE
At5:06A.M.,Istood barefoot in the kitchen of my Maris Key house, waiting for the espresso machine to finish making a sound entirely too aggressive for the hour.
The white oak floors held the night’s cool beneath my feet. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, the pool reflected a pale strip of morning sky, silver-blue and still. Palms edged the limestone patio, damp and unmoving in the Florida heat already gathering before sunrise.
My half-unpacked Tumi stood near the hallway. The laptop stayed closed on the quartz counter, dark screen catching the kitchen lights, while steam curled above my favoriteBOOK NERDmug beneath the espresso spout.
Everything was exactly where I had left it.
I was not.
I poured the espresso, added nothing, and took a sip before it had cooled enough to be pleasant. The bitter heat hit my tongue, sharp and civilized. Mara Khaya’s coffee had tasted darker, rougher, smoke at the back of the cup and dust on the rim. Mine tasted expensive, imported, and obedient.
Unsettling.
I set the mug down beside my phone.
Nick’s name wasn’t on the screen, and the empty space had the nerve to look smug.
Good.
Terrible.
I hadn't opened my laptop yet. Whatever Summer had done with the security proposal could wait until business hours, or at least until the sun demonstrated a stronger commitment to the day.
My thumb hovered above Nick’s contact profile.
I could have waited.
Survived South Africa just to be bullied by a phone screen.
I didn’t.
I pressed call.
The line rang once. Twice.
Pressure tightened beneath my ribs. Unhelpful.
Then the call connected, and his background noise hit first: a muted rush of voices, a radio burst cut short, the low vibration of a diesel engine against an open line. Mara Khaya, awake and moving without me.
“Juliette.”
Not hello. My name, low and rough with exhaustion worn down to the grain.
The kitchen went entirely too still around me.
“Checking whether you slept,” I said.
“No.”
“That wasn't an invitation to be proud of yourself.”
A breath moved through the line. Almost a laugh. Not quite. Nick Mercer rationed amusement like medical supplies after a flash flood.
“Are you home?” he asked.
