Chapter 2

To put it bluntly, Steve was a bigot. Not always through words, though those slipped out often enough, but through the kind of quiet pride that flew flags most people had long stopped pretending were just about heritage.

And Pam, with her deep Mississippi roots and that warm, easy charm she was raised on, had absorbed more of it than I think she ever intended. Not by choice, but by proximity. By years of conditioning.

She wasn’t afraid of the man standing in front of us. That wasn’t it. She was afraid of what acknowledging him might mean, what Steve would have said had he caught her looking, what it might say about her loyalties, about the version of herself she had always been expected to maintain.

Even now, with Steve somewhere out of sight, lost in the golf simulator, his shadow lingered. She couldn’t just switch it off. The reflex was too ingrained. Years of subtle corrections, offhand comments, and sideways glances that told her when to look away had done their work. Her silence wasn’t discomfort with the man across from us. It was a fear of what it might mean if she wasn’t uncomfortable.

Steve was the reason this trip had taken so long. That was the truth, even if no one ever said it out loud. I had always been cordial with him, polite, pleasant enough on the surface, but I hated him. Not in a loud or dramatic way. Just in that deep, exhausted way you hate someone whose presence forces you to pretend.

Living in Florida while they stayed in Mississippi made it easier. The distance helped. It let Pam and me keep our friendship intact without having to test how far it could bend.

But the tension with Steve was always there. He knew my past, knew I had dated a Black man before settling down with Mike. And even though he never said a word about it, I could see it in his eyes every time we were in the same room.

There was a tightness in him, a quiet judgment that never left his face. It clung to every interaction, subtle but unmistakable. I didn’t need him to say it. I felt it. And as long as they remained married, he would be a part of my life whether I liked it or not.

Still, for some reason, I gave in. Maybe I was tired of avoiding it. Perhaps Mike was right, and it was indeed long overdue. So I agreed. One couple’s trip. One weekend. And now here we were, together at last. Steve might have been off somewhere else on the ship, but his presence still lingered like smoke you couldn’t quite clear from the room.

My words still hung between us. “He’s not here. You’re not in Mississippi anymore.” I hadn’t said them to provoke her. I said it because it was true. Because she needed to hear it. And because someone in her life had to give her permission to stop living under Steve’s invisible stranglehold.

Pam didn’t respond right away, but something shifted. A breath let out slower. Her grip on the empty cup loosened. And finally, after what felt like hours packed into seconds, she let herself look. Just one glance, behind the safety of her sunglasses, but it was enough. She gave in. Joined every other woman on that pool deck who had already stolen their moment of awe, their silent appreciation.

The three drinks in her system didn’t hurt. Liquid courage, soft and slow, loosening the reflexes Steve had trained into her. She wasn’t free of him, not entirely. But in that moment, she let herself feel something else. Curiosity. Rebellion.

“Impressive, huh?” I asked, watching the corner of her mouth twitch like she wanted to laugh, or gasp, or both.

As if on cue, the man finally lowered himself into the lounger, his movement fluid, almost lazy, like he didn’t feel the weight of a single stare. He stretched out, muscles rippling as his massive frame settled into the chair like it had been molded to fit him. The black spandex clung to every inch, still unforgiving, still bold, outlining every thick, heavy line without apology.

He laced both arms behind his head, biceps flaring, revealing smooth, hairless underarms, his body open and unguarded. Eyes closed, chest rising slow and steady, he looked completely unbothered. Comfortable. In control without effort.

Earbuds in, his phone resting beside him on the lounger, he lay there without a care, fully aware of the attention, and completely untouched by it.

The contents of his spandex left nothing to question. For Pam, it was more than just a visual. It was the living confirmation of a stereotype Steve had spent years programming her to forget. Not naïve, but truly oblivious in that deep, quiet way that comes from being raised, and later married to a man who made sure she never had to confront certain truths.

She had heard the comments—the jokes. The suggestions whispered between women or passed along with a glance and a smirk. The myth that Black men were built differently. More. But it had always been distant. Abstract. Something she was never expected to see for herself.