“It is acknowledgment.”
“I’ll take it.”
“And if you hurt her, I will remind you that I knew her first.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
Two nights later, I drove to Michelle’s house.
Rain had been falling since afternoon.
Her porch light glowed through the storm.
I stood under it for nearly a minute before knocking.
The door opened.
Michelle stared at me.
She wore black leggings and a gray sweater.
Her hair was loose.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then she whispered, “What are you doing here?”
“I came to talk.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“I know.”
She almost smiled.
“That seems to be our problem.”
“Can I come in?”
Michelle hesitated.
Then stepped aside.
The house smelled the same.
Vanilla.
Cedar.
Home.
That realization scared me.
She folded her arms.
“Your mother called.”
“I know.”
“She says she doesn’t hate me.”
“She doesn’t.”
“That was generous.”
