Then another message arrived.
“You should actually thank me. Now you finally have a reason to replace it.”
I stared at my phone.
Sophie read the message over my shoulder.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Can I say a bad word?”
“No.”
“Can I think one?”
“Absolutely.”
That evening, I paid the repair bill myself.
Then I printed something.
Denise’s niece was graduating the following weekend.
I knew because Denise had displayed a graduation sign in her yard for nearly two weeks.
She was hosting the party.
Around forty guests.
Maybe more.
Three days before the celebration, there was a knock at my door.
Of course.
It was Denise.
“Hey, neighbor.”
I smiled.
“Hi.”
“I need to borrow a few things.”
Naturally.
“What?”
“The big cooler. Your slow cooker. And do you still have those two folding tables?”
“Yes.”
“Perfect.”
She actually started walking toward my garage as though the conversation had already ended.
“Wait.”
She stopped.
I went inside.
When I returned, I was holding a clipboard.
Her expression immediately changed.
“What’s that?”
“A lending agreement.”
She laughed.
I didn’t.
She looked at the page.
I had written down every item she wanted.
Large cooler — replacement value: $120.
Slow cooker — replacement value: $80.
Two folding tables — $75 each.
Below the list were three conditions.
Return everything by Sunday at 6 p.m.
Return everything clean and dry.
Return everything in the same condition.
Then came:
Refundable security deposit: $350.
And beneath that:
Outstanding KitchenAid repair bill: $347.
Denise stared at me.
“You cannot be serious.”
“I’m completely serious.”
“You expect me to hand you almost seven hundred dollars just to borrow a cooler and some tables?”
“No.”
I pointed at the paper.
“The $350 is refundable. The other $347 is what you already owe.”
“This is insane.”
“You made me realize I’ve been far too casual about lending my belongings.”
Her expression turned offended.
“I always return your things.”
“Eventually.”
“Nothing has ever happened before.”
“The mixer happened.”
“That mixer was ancient.”
“It worked when you borrowed it.”
She tossed the clipboard onto my porch table.
“This is unbelievably petty.”
“Then don’t borrow anything.”
“I’ve borrowed from you for years.”
“I know.”
“And suddenly you expect paperwork?”
“Yes.”
“Over one stupid mixer?”
I looked directly at her.
“It wasn’t stupid to me.”
For half a second, she fell silent.
Then she rolled her eyes.
“Fine. I’ll rent everything.”
“Okay.”
She marched back across the yard.
Sophie had listened from inside.
She opened the door.
“That was terrifying.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“Good terrifying?”
“Mostly.”
Friday passed.
Then Saturday morning arrived.
At 8:15, someone knocked.
Denise.
Her hair was only half curled.
One eye had makeup.
The other didn’t.
She looked as though she had been awake for hours.
“Do you still have the tables?”
“Yes.”
“And the cooler?”
“Yes.”
“The rental company messed everything up.”
I waited.
“They delivered four chairs and no tables.”
“That sounds inconvenient.”
She glared at me.
“Can I borrow yours?”
I went inside.
Then returned carrying the clipboard.
Her face dropped.
“You’re seriously still doing this?”
“Yes.”
“People will be here in two hours.”
“Then you should probably decide quickly.”
She looked at the agreement.
Then at me.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
At least I was honest.
She sighed.
“Fine.”
She reached for the pen.
“Deposit first.”
Her eyes widened.
“You’re joking.”
“No.”
Denise disappeared into her house.
Five minutes later, she returned with a checkbook.
“Who still writes checks?”
“You, apparently.”
She wrote a check for $697.
I looked at it.
“Just remember that $347 of this isn’t refundable.”
“I know.”
She said it through clenched teeth.
I almost wanted to frame the check.
Instead, I helped her carry the tables.
Because I wasn’t trying to ruin her niece’s graduation party.
That had never been the point.
She borrowed the cooler, slow cooker, two folding tables, and eventually asked for my outdoor drink dispenser too.
I added it to the agreement.
