“So thanks for that ruined night, I guess.”
For a moment, I genuinely couldn’t respond.
She had borrowed my mixer.
Broken it.
Returned it filthy.
Left it outside.
And somehow she was annoyed with me.
“Denise, it worked perfectly when you took it.”
“It’s from the eighties.”
“Thirty-six years old.”
“Exactly.”
She smiled as though I had proven her argument.
“It was going to die eventually.”
“Did you overload it?”
“No.”
“Did you keep running it after it started struggling?”
Her expression shifted.
Barely.
But I saw it.
“I was trying to finish.”
“So yes.”
“It means I didn’t expect your antique appliance to fall apart in the middle of making a cake.”
That was when I understood.
She wasn’t embarrassed.
She wasn’t guilty.
She didn’t think she owed me anything.
Because in Denise’s mind, once she borrowed something, whatever happened to it simply became bad luck for the person who owned it.
I went home.
Sophie was waiting at the kitchen table.
“What did she say?”
“She thinks I should buy a new one.”
Sophie frowned.
“But she broke yours.”
“Yes.”
“So she’s buying it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
