And he walked back out to the beans.
I didn’t go home that night.
I couldn’t. I was too angry. I called work and told them I needed Friday off too. My boss sighed loud enough that I could hear it through the phone.
Then I did something I probably shouldn’t have done.
I walked next door.
It was about six in the evening. The sun was low and orange. Brent’s car was in the driveway. A black SUV, so clean it shone.
I walked up the long, perfect front walk, past the perfect lawn, and I rang the doorbell. It played a little song. Of course it did.
Brent opened the door. He was wearing a golf shirt and khakis. He was holding a glass of wine. He looked at me like he was trying to remember if he’d ordered something.
“Can I help you?”
