Chapter 11: The Porch Swing Confession
The screen door clattered shut behind them, and suddenly the house felt smaller. The walls pressed in. The air thickened with the scent of him—cologne and sweat and something underneath that she'd forgotten, something that was just Kash.
Golden was still dancing in the living room, spinning in circles with her arms outstretched, singing a song about butterflies and rain. She stopped when she saw them, her face splitting into a grin.
Mama! The man came back!
Amber crouched down. Her knees popped. She was getting old. Thirty and already falling apart.
He did, she said. And he's gonna stay for a little while. Is that okay?
Golden looked at Kash. Studied him with the kind of scrutiny only a three-year-old could muster—no filter, no politeness, just pure assessment.
Do you like pancakes? she asked.
Kash laughed. The sound was rusty, like a door that hadn't been opened in years.
I love pancakes, he said.
Golden nodded solemnly. Okay. You can stay.
She turned back to her dancing, apparently satisfied. Amber stood up, her heart doing something complicated in her chest.
Kids, she said. They're brutal.
Kash was watching Golden spin, his eyes wet again. He wiped them with the back of his hand, quick and embarrassed.
She's perfect, he said.
Amber didn't answer. She couldn't. Because yeah, Golden was perfect, and yeah, Kash was here, and yeah, everything was different now. But different didn't mean fixed. Different didn't mean forgiven.
Different just meant different.
---
The sun sank lower. Golden's energy finally cratered, and Amber carried her to bed—the pale yellow room with the white bed and the wooden fish mobile spinning slow above it. Golden was asleep before her head hit the pillow.
Amber stood in the doorway for a minute. Just watching her breathe. Just reminding herself that this was real. That the house was real. That the man on the porch was real.
She found Kash on the swing.
The chains creaked as she sat down beside him. The wood was cool through her jeans. The marsh glowed silver under the rising moon, mist curling off the water like the breath of something ancient.
For a long time, neither of them spoke.
Fireflies blinked in the darkness, tiny sparks drifting over the reeds. Somewhere out there, a fish jumped. The cicadas kept their steady rhythm, indifferent to the two people sitting on the porch, trying to figure out how to be in the same room again.
Kash reached for her hand.
She didn't pull away.
I used to park outside your place, he said.
His voice was quiet. Almost drowned out by the frogs.
Amber turned to look at him. What?
In Atlanta. After you moved. I used to drive up from Charlotte and park down the street. Just... watch.
Her throat tightened. Watch what?
The nursery light. You had that little lamp with the giraffes. I could see it from the street.
Amber remembered the lamp. She'd bought it at a consignment shop, hagged over the price for twenty minutes. It had been Golden's first lamp. The one that stayed on all night, every night, casting soft shadows on the walls.
You were there? she asked.
All the time. Every few weeks. I'd sit in my car and watch that light go dark and then I'd drive back home.
Kash's grip tightened on her hand.
I bought her gifts, he said. Every birthday. Every Christmas. I got her a stuffed elephant when she turned one. A little gold bracelet when she turned two. A book about butterflies when she turned three.
Amber's eyes burned. Where are they?
In a storage unit in Charlotte. I couldn't bring myself to throw them away.
She pulled her hand back. Pressed it to her mouth.
You memorized her laugh, she said. Not a question.
I heard it once. You were at the park on Peachtree. She was on the swings and she laughed and I just... I stopped breathing. I stood there behind a tree like a fucking creep and I listened to my daughter laugh and I couldn't do anything. Couldn't say anything. Couldn't be anything.
His voice cracked.
I'm sorry, Ambs. I'm so sorry.
Amber's tears spilled over. She didn't wipe them away.
I took the test in the bathroom at work, she said. Locked the door. Sat on the toilet and stared at that little stick for three minutes.
Kash didn't move. Didn't breathe.
I was so scared, she continued. So scared, because I knew what it meant. I knew you were already in too deep. I knew having a baby would either save you or destroy you. And I didn't know which one it would be.
What did you do? he asked.
I called my mama. She told me to pray. So I prayed.
Did it help?
No. But I kept the baby.
She wiped her face with her sleeve.
I had a baby shower. Jayla planned it. Pink balloons. Cupcakes shaped like booties. I registered for onesies and diapers and a crib that took me six hours to assemble because I refused to ask anyone for help.
Kash's hand found hers again. She let him.
I picked the name, she said. Before she was born. Before I even knew if she was a girl.
Golden.
Kash's breath caught.
Because of you, Amber said. Because you always called me your gold. Because I wanted her to carry that. I wanted her to know she came from something that mattered.
Kash made a sound. Something between a gasp and a sob.
He slid off the swing.
His knees hit the porch floor with a thud. And then he was pressing his face into her lap, his shoulders shaking, his hands clutching the fabric of her jeans like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
Amber let him cry. She ran her fingers through his short hair—locs gone, now just close-cropped waves—and felt the heat of his tears soak through the denim.
He cried like a man who'd been holding his breath for three years. Like a man who'd been drowning and finally, finally broke the surface.
She didn't tell him it was okay. Because it wasn't. She didn't tell him she forgave him. Because she didn't know if she did.
She just held him.
And when his sobs quieted, when his breathing slowed, he lifted his head. His face was wrecked. Eyes red. Nose running. Cheeks slick.
He looked at her like she was the sun.
My gold, he whispered.
And Amber leaned down.
She kissed him.
Soft at first. Tentative. A question. His lips were salty with tears, warm, familiar in a way that made her chest ache. He kissed her back like he was afraid she'd disappear. Like she was a dream he'd been having for three years and he was terrified of waking up.
Then something shifted.
The softness burned away. The hunger took over.
Amber grabbed the back of his neck. Pulled him up. Pulled him close. Their mouths crashed together, teeth clicking, tongues sliding, breath mingling. It was messy. Desperate. Ugly in the way that real want was ugly.
Kash groaned against her mouth. His hands found her hips. His fingers dug into the soft flesh there, and she gasped, and he swallowed the sound like he was starving for it.
I missed you, he said. Against her lips. Against her jaw.
She didn't say it back. She couldn't. Words were furniture, heavy and useless. She needed something else. She needed him.
Amber stood up. The swing rocked behind her. She grabbed Kash's hand and led him inside. Through the living room. Past Golden's room, where the nightlight glowed soft and yellow through the cracked door.
They didn't make it to the bedroom.
Kash stopped her in the hallway. Pressed her against the wall. His mouth found her neck—hot, wet, ravenous. He bit down on that spot behind her ear, the one he'd discovered twelve years ago, and Amber's knees buckled.
Fuck, she breathed.
You like that, he murmured. Not a question.
She did. She always had.
His hands slid under her shirt. Found her breasts. Cupped them, squeezed them, his thumbs dragging over her nipples through the thin cotton of her bra. She arched into him, her head falling back against the wall, a moan escaping her lips before she could stop it.
Shh, he whispered. Golden.
I know, she gasped. I know.
He pulled her shirt over her head. Tossed it somewhere in the dark. His mouth found her collarbone, her shoulder, the swell of her breasts above the lace. He kissed every inch of skin he could reach, and Amber felt herself coming apart, piece by piece.
Bedroom, she managed. Now.
They stumbled down the hallway. Through the door. Onto the bed that smelled like lavender and memory.
Kash lowered her onto the mattress. Stood over her, breathing hard. The moonlight through the window painted him in silver and shadow.
You're so beautiful, he said. You've always been so beautiful.
Amber reached for him. Pulled him down. Their bodies crashed together, skin against skin, heat against heat. He was still fully dressed, and she was down to her bra and jeans, and she wanted him naked, wanted nothing between them, wanted to feel every inch of him against every inch of her.
She fumbled with his belt. He helped her, shoving his jeans down his hips, kicking them off. His shirt came next. And then he was bare above her, all caramel skin and hard muscle and the tattoo she'd never seen before—a small gold crown on his left pectoral.
What's that? she asked.
You, he said. You were always my queen.
She pulled him down. Kissed him hard.
She unclasped her bra. Shimmyed out of her jeans. And then they were both naked, pressed together, and Kash was kissing a trail down her stomach, lower and lower, until his mouth found the heat between her legs.
Amber's back arched off the bed.
Oh God—
He licked her slow. Deliberate. His tongue tracing circles around her clit, his fingers sliding inside her, curling in that way he knew—that way that made her see stars.
You taste like honey, he murmured against her. Always did.
Shut up, she gasped. And keep going.
He laughed. The vibration sent a shudder through her whole body.
He worked her with his tongue and his fingers until she was shaking, until she was gripping the sheets, until she was right there, right on the edge—
And then he stopped.
Amber groaned. What the fuck—
Patience, he said. I want to feel you come around my cock.
He crawled up her body. Positioned himself between her legs. And then he was pushing inside her, slow and deep, and Amber forgot how to breathe.
Fuck, she whispered.
Yeah, he breathed. Fuck.
He moved. Slow at first. Aching. Each thrust was a question, a prayer, a confession. Amber wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him deeper, and he groaned, and she moaned, and the bed creaked beneath them.
I thought about you every night, he said. His voice was ragged. Every fucking night. I thought about your hands. Your mouth. The way you say my name when you're about to come.
Amber's nails dug into his back. The acrylics left marks. She didn't care.
I thought about you too, she admitted. Even when I hated you. Even when I wanted you dead.
Kash's rhythm faltered. His eyes found hers. Even then?
Even then.
He kissed her. Hard. Desperate. His hips picked up speed, slamming into her, and Amber met him thrust for thrust, her body remembering what her mind had tried to forget.
The headboard hit the wall. The window rattled. The whole house seemed to shake.
She could feel it building—that pressure, that heat, that terrible, wonderful tightening in her core.
Kash, she gasped. I'm gonna—
Wait for me, he said. Together.
He thrust harder. Deeper. His thumb found her clit and pressed, and Amber's vision went white.
She came with a cry, her body clenching around him. Kash followed a heartbeat later, burying his face in her neck, groaning her name—my gold, my gold, my gold—as he emptied himself inside her.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
He was still inside her. Still pressed against her. Still holding her like she might vanish if he let go.
Amber's breath was ragged. Her heart was pounding. Her whole body was trembling.
Get off me, she said. I can't breathe.
Kash rolled onto his side. Pulled her with him. Wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair.
I love you, he whispered.
Amber closed her eyes.
She didn't say it back.
But she didn't pull away either.
And for now—just for now—that was enough.
The house settled into silence after they finished, the kind of silence that felt heavier than sound. Amber lay on her back, staring at the ceiling fan as it turned lazy circles above the bed. Kash's arm was draped across her stomach, his breathing slow and even against her shoulder.
She could feel the sticky aftermath between her thighs, cooling in the night air that drifted through the open window. Her body was sore in ways it hadn't been in years. The good kind of sore. The kind that reminded her she was alive.
But her mind wouldn't stop.
Golden's nursery lamp. The storage unit in Charlotte. The way he'd said my gold like it was the only prayer he knew.
Amber turned her head. Looked at him.
He was asleep. His face was relaxed in a way she'd never seen—no tension in his jaw, no furrow between his brows. He looked younger. Softer. Like the man she'd met twelve years ago, before the money and the violence and the weight of an empire.
She should sleep. She was exhausted. But her brain kept spinning, pulling up memories she'd buried, dragging them into the light.
The baby shower. The pink balloons. Jayla's face when Amber had told her Kash wasn't coming.
She'd lied that day. Told everyone he was out of town on business. Told everyone he'd be there for the birth. He wasn't. He was in a warehouse in Fayetteville, watching a man bleed out over a gambling debt.
That was the night she'd stopped pretending.
Amber slid out of bed. Her feet hit the cold hardwood, and she padded to the window. The marsh stretched out beneath the moon, silver and still. A heron stood in the shallows, motionless, waiting.
She heard the sheets rustle behind her.
You okay?
Kash's voice was thick with sleep. She didn't turn around.
Couldn't sleep, she said.
He was quiet for a moment. Then the mattress creaked. His footsteps crossed the room. His hands landed on her shoulders—warm, hesitant, like he wasn't sure he was allowed to touch her.
You're thinking about leaving, he said.
Amber closed her eyes.
I'm thinking about everything.
That's not an answer.
She turned. Faced him. In the moonlight, his eyes looked almost gray.
I don't know how to do this, she said. I don't know how to be here with you and pretend the last three years didn't happen.
I'm not asking you to pretend.
Then what are you asking?
Kash's hands dropped to his sides. He looked at her like she was a puzzle he'd been trying to solve for years.
I'm asking for a chance, he said. That's all. Just a chance.
Amber laughed. It came out bitter.
A chance. You had twelve years of chances, Kash. Twelve years. And every time, you chose the life.
I know.
You chose it over me. Over us. Over her.
I know.
So why should this time be different?
Kash didn't answer right away. He walked to the window. Stood beside her, close but not touching, and stared out at the water.
Because I'm not the same man, he said finally.
Amber snorted.
Everyone says that.
I know. But I mean it.
Prove it.
Kash turned. His face was open in a way she'd never seen—no mask, no armor, no carefully constructed lies.
Ask me anything, he said. Anything at all. And I'll tell you the truth.
---
She asked about the storage unit first.
It was in a facility off I-85, climate-controlled, paid up for five years in advance. He'd packed it himself—boxes of clothes, old photographs, the gifts he'd bought for Golden but never delivered.
I went there sometimes, he said. When I couldn't sleep. I'd sit in that little room and open the boxes and just... remember.
Remember what?
What it felt like to be loved by you.
Amber's throat tightened. She asked about the nights he'd spent watching her house. The ones he'd already confessed to, but she wanted more. Wanted details. Wanted to understand.
I kept a notebook, he said.
A notebook?
In my car. I wrote down things. What you wore. What time the light went off. Whether you looked happy.
Did I?
Sometimes. Sometimes you looked tired.
I was tired.
I know.
She asked about the funeral. The fake casket. The priest who owed him a favor.
His name is Father Miguel, he said. He runs a mission in Charleston. I saved his brother from a deal that went bad. He owed me. I called it in.
What did you tell him?
The truth. That I needed to disappear. That I needed the world to think I was dead so my family could live.
And he agreed?
He said God would forgive me. I told him I didn't need God's forgiveness. I needed yours.
Amber looked away. Her eyes were burning again. She was tired of crying.
She asked about the money. The cash in the safe. The thumb drive she'd found but hadn't touched.
Offshore accounts, he said. Clean. Can't be traced. There's enough there to take care of you and Golden for the rest of your lives.
And the thumb drive?
Evidence. Against everyone who ever worked with me. Cops, lawyers, other dealers. If anything ever happens to me, you take that drive to the FBI. They'll protect you.
Amber's blood went cold.
What do you mean, if anything happens to you?
Kash didn't answer. He looked out the window. The heron was gone.
Kash.
I'm out, he said. But out doesn't mean safe. There are people who want what I have. People who think I owe them.
Do you?
No. But they don't care about the truth.
Amber stepped closer. Grabbed his arm. Forced him to look at her.
Are we in danger?
Kash hesitated. That hesitation told her everything.
Not right now, he said. Not tonight. But eventually... yeah. Maybe.
Amber let go. Stepped back.
I knew it, she said. I fucking knew it. You can't just walk away. You can't just show up here and play house and pretend everything's fine.
I'm not pretending.
You're lying to yourself.
I'm protecting you.
You're putting us in danger.
Kash's jaw tightened. I would never—
You already did. The second you came back. The second you stepped foot in this house.
Her voice was rising. She didn't care.
You think you're a ghost? You think you're dead? Fine. Stay dead. Stay the fuck away from us.
Amber—
No. You don't get to do this. You don't get to fuck me and hold me and tell me you love me and then drop this shit on me.
I'm not dropping anything. I'm being honest.
Honest? You've been here for twelve hours and you're already telling me we might die.
I'm telling you the truth. You asked for it.
I didn't ask for this.
Silence.
The house creaked. Somewhere down the hall, Golden stirred in her sleep. Amber's heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her teeth.
Kash reached for her.
She flinched.
He stopped. His hand hung in the air between them, frozen.
You're right, he said quietly.
Amber blinked. What?
You're right. I shouldn't have come here. I should have stayed gone.
Then why did you?
Because I'm selfish. Because I couldn't stay away. Because I've spent three years imagining what it would be like to see you again, and I couldn't wait another day.
Amber wrapped her arms around herself. The night air was cold now. Or maybe it was just her.
You need to leave, she said.
Kash nodded. Didn't argue. Didn't beg. Just turned and walked to the bedroom door.
He stopped in the hallway.
The money's yours either way, he said. The house. The accounts. All of it. Even if you never want to see me again.
Amber didn't answer.
Go, she said.
He went.