Following the voices to the kitchen, I joined Harley, Priscilla, and Charlotte at the table. Charlotte started to cut me a piece of her sour cream coffee cake, but I held up my hand, declining her silent offer. She frowned.
"Harley was telling me how you saved his life." Charlotte studied me, a look of both tenderness and sadness in her expression.
I ran my hand through my hair. I'd never spoken to anyone about my time in prison. I wasn’t necessarily willing to now, but I also couldn't exactly throw Harley out. I owed him so much. He'd been there with me—he'd lived it. "More like he saved mine," I said.
"Naw, that's not the way I remember it," he said, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his bald head.
"I did one thing just by luck—you had my back for the next five years," I said, something catching in my throat. "If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have survived that place." And it was true. When we'd first arrived, I'd been in shock, numb with disbelief that I'd been sentenced to a five-year term after my lawyer had assured me I'd get community service at best, six months at worst. I'd been in the yard with Harley—who I didn't even know at the time—when something shiny had caught my eye. Instinctively, I'd pushed him away and it'd given him time to turn and disarm the man who otherwise would have gutted him with the makeshift knife. From that day forward, Harley—who had done several prison stints and understood how the system worked with inside connections—had protected me from any number of horrors I might have experienced had it not been for him.
"Well, you're family then," Charlotte said before she looked away, her eyes bright with what looked like unshed tears.
Harley nodded at Charlotte, giving her a warm smile before he looked back to me. "And now," he said, leaning forward, "to come here and find you married to Kira Dallaire. Life is full of surprises."
I made a small sound of agreement in my throat, deciding not to mention the circumstances of our marriage or the fact that it'd be over soon anyway.
Harley was eyeing me in that way of his. Harley might look big and mean, but he was about the best judge of people I'd ever known. He'd told me it was necessary growing up on the streets of San Francisco—it was either anticipate a person's next move, or become their victim. "Can I tell you a story about Kira?" he asked.
"Sure," I said warily.
Harley nodded. "About six years ago, I was in a real bad place." He paused, glancing at Priscilla who was looking at him sympathetically, and then took her hand in his. "I couldn't figure out how to get myself sober, had lost everything, alienated everyone who cared about me. I planned to end my life. Got a gun and everything. It was loaded, ready to go."
"Jesus, Harley," I muttered. "I didn't know."
He nodded. "It's difficult to admit how low I was, how little I valued my life back then. But it's the truth of my story. I went to the drop-in center for what I intended to be my last meal, and that's where I met Kira. She must have been just a teenager at the time."
A teenager. Teenagers weren't typically known for their selflessness. But Kira had been kind, even then . . .