Keaton called at 6:43 p.m.
I ignored it.
He called again.
I ignored it.
On the third call, I answered.
“What?”
No greeting came back. Just his breathing, uneven and angry.
“What are you doing, Arden?”
“I am making dinner.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, Keaton. I do not.”
“Mom is losing her mind. Dad is pacing around the house. Lyric already told her friends she was going to a lake house this weekend, and now she looks stupid.”
Lyric was Keaton’s girlfriend. She had never liked me because I had once refused to lend them my car.
“That sounds inconvenient,” I said.
He laughed once, bitterly.
“You always do this.”
“Do
what?”
“Act like you are above everyone because you have some job and some house.”
I looked at the pot of pasta boiling on the stove.
“I have some job because I work. I have some house because I paid for it.”
