Horace Dickerson was complaining about my best friend again, shoving his phone at me with a look of disgust.
"Look at what Katherine Pruitt just posted. Tell me that's not dramatic."
I smiled helplessly and made a quiet note in my head.
That was the thirty-seventh time this month he'd brought up Katherine.
Five years, from dating to marriage, and Horace's contempt for her had never let up.
He called her fake, loud, always showing up to mooch a meal off us.
I'd always assumed he just couldn't stand her.
Until the day I came home early and saw him sitting beside her on the couch, the two of them laughing softly.
I stopped in the doorway.
I stood at the entry, waiting for him to do what he always did, to make a face and sneer at her.
Until Katherine noticed me and sprang away from him.
Horace's eyes followed her, full of tenderness.
Something in my head went blank.
The person he'd cursed for five years, he'd actually loved for five years.
The only one in the dark had been me.
……
A key clinked at the entry, and in the silent living room the sound carried sharp and clear.
Horace turned and saw me.
A flicker of panic crossed his face, gone almost at once, replaced by the same impatience I'd watched for five years.
He shifted to the side, deliberately putting distance between himself and Katherine.
"How do you walk without making a sound?"
Horace frowned, his tone carrying its usual complaint.
Then he turned and shot Katherine a glare.
"Still here? You really think this is your own place? You've sat on the couch till it's filthy."
Katherine's eyes went red in an instant, tears welling up.
She stood, fingers twisting nervously at the hem of her shirt.
"Luna Simmons, don't get the wrong idea. I was just in a bad mood today, I was passing by, so I came up to sit for a bit."
She backed away as she spoke, shoulders hunched.
If this had been before, I'd have reached out to stop her and turned to scold Horace for being rude.
But now, all I felt was sick.
I stood by the shoe cabinet, hadn't even changed into my slippers, and watched the two of them perform.
I didn't smooth things over the way I always had. I didn't reach for Katherine's hand.
The room went quiet.
Horace could tell something was off.
He stood up, crossed the few steps to me, and reached out to take my bag.
"What are you doing home so early today?"
His hand hadn't touched me yet when I stepped back half a pace, out of reach.
His hand stopped midair.
His brow furrowed deeper.
"What's gotten into you now? Bad day at work, so you come home and throw a face at me?"
He pointed at Katherine by the door and muttered, lowering his voice.
"I keep telling her to get lost. Every time she shows up, nothing good comes of it. Just looking at her is annoying."
I looked at him.
Looked at this man who had shared my bed for five years.
Right after we got married, Katherine liked to buy gaudy little trinkets.
Horace always threw those things into the storage room right in front of me.
He'd say, "What garbage taste. Hurts my eyes to look at it."
But just two minutes ago, with my own eyes, I'd watched him tuck the loose strands of hair off Katherine's cheek behind her ear.
So gentle. So slow.
"Get out."
I looked at him, my voice flat.
Horace froze.
"What?"
"I said, take your disgusting little act and get out of my house."
Katherine covered her mouth as the tears spilled over.
"Luna, don't be angry with Horace. It's all my fault, I won't ever come again……"
She turned, crying, yanked the door open, and ran out.
Horace took half a step after her.
Then forced himself to stop.
He turned back to me, the mask slipping now, and spoke through clenched-down anger.
