She groaned.
But she signed.
The party happened.
Music.
Balloons.
Cars everywhere.
I stayed out of it.
At 4:20 p.m. on Sunday, Denise knocked.
The tables were folded.
The cooler had been washed and dried.
The slow cooker was spotless.
The drink dispenser looked cleaner than when I lent it.
I inspected everything.
Denise stood with her arms crossed.
“Satisfied?”
“Very.”
I went inside and returned with her deposit check.
She looked at it.
Then frowned.
“Where’s the rest?”
“What rest?”
“The mixer money.”
“That isn’t a deposit.”
“You’re actually keeping it?”
“No.”
I smiled.
“The repair shop is.”
Her expression did something complicated.
Anger.
Embarrassment.
Maybe a little respect.
She put the check in her pocket.
“You know, this whole thing is ridiculous.”
“Maybe.”
“I really thought your mixer broke because it was old.”
“That isn’t actually the part that bothered me most.”
She frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“You thought it broke because it was old.”
“Yes.”
“And you still left it dirty on my porch.”
Denise looked away. For once, she had nothing.
“If you’d knocked on my door and said, ‘I’m sorry, it stopped working, I don’t know what happened,’ we’d be having a very different conversation.”
She stared at the grass.
“I had people over.”
“I know.”
“I was stressed.”
