I knew because there had been a sign in Denise’s yard for two weeks.
She was hosting the party.
Forty people.
Maybe more.
Three days before it, she knocked.
Of course she did.
“Hey, neighbor.”
I smiled.
“Hi.”
“I need to borrow a few things.”
Naturally.
“What things?”
“The big cooler. Your slow cooker. And do you still have those two folding tables?”
“Yes.”
“Perfect.”
She started turning toward my garage like the conversation was finished.
“Hang on.”
She stopped.
I went inside and came back with a clipboard.
Her expression changed.
“What is that?”
“A lending agreement.”
She laughed.
I didn’t.
She looked down at the page.
I’d listed everything she’d asked for.
“Large cooler — replacement value: $120.”
“Slow cooker — replacement value: $80.”
“Two folding tables — $75 each.”
Underneath were three conditions.
“Return by Sunday at 6 p.m.”
“Clean and dry.”
“Returned in the same condition.”
Then, “Refundable security deposit: $350.”
And below that, “Outstanding balance: KitchenAid mixer repair — $347.”
Denise stared at me.
“You cannot be serious.”
“Completely.”
“You want me to give you $700 to borrow a cooler and some tables?”
“No.”
I pointed.
“$350 is refundable. $347 is what you already owe me.”
“This is insane.”
“You taught me I was being too casual about lending things.”
She looked offended.
“I always bring your stuff back.”
I almost laughed.
“Eventually.”
“Nothing has ever happened.”
“The mixer happened.”
“That thing was ancient.”
“It worked before 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 I need to sign paperwork?”
“Yes.”
“Because of one stupid mixer?”
I looked at her.
“It wasn’t stupid to me.”
She went quiet for half a second.
Then rolled her eyes.
“I’ll rent what I need.”
“Okay.”
She marched back across the lawn.
Sophie had been listening from inside.
She opened the door.
“That was terrifying.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“Good terrifying?”
“Mostly.”
Friday came.
Then Saturday morning.
At 8:15 a.m., someone knocked.
It was Denise.
Her hair was half curled, one eye had makeup, and the other didn’t, and she looked like she’d been awake for hours.
“Do you still have the tables?”
“Yes.”
“And the cooler?”
“Yes.”
“The rental company messed up.”
I waited.
“They brought four chairs and no tables.”
“That seems inconvenient.”
She glared at me.
“Can I borrow yours?”
I went inside.
Came back with the clipboard.
Her face fell.
“You’re still doing this?”
“Yes.”
“People are arriving 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.”
Then she reached for the pen.
“Deposit first.”
She stared at me.
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
Denise disappeared into her house.
Five minutes later, she came back with her checkbook.
“Who even writes checks anymore?”
“You, apparently.”
She wrote one for $697.
I looked at it.
“Three hundred and forty-seven of this isn’t refundable.”
“I know.”
That came through clenched teeth.
I almost framed the check.
Instead, I helped her carry the tables.
Because I wasn’t trying to ruin her party.
That wasn’t the point.
She borrowed the cooler, slow cooker, and two tables.
Then, after hesitating, asked for my outdoor drink dispenser too.
I added it to the sheet.
She groaned.
But she signed.
The party happened.
Music.
Balloons.
Cars everywhere.
I stayed out of it.
At 4:20 p.m. on Sunday, Denise knocked.
The tables were folded.
The cooler had been washed and dried.
The slow cooker was spotless.
The drink dispenser looked cleaner than when I lent it.
I inspected everything.
Denise stood with her arms crossed.
“Satisfied?”
“Very.”
I went inside and returned with her deposit check.
She looked at it.
Then frowned.
“Where’s the rest?”
“What rest?”
“The mixer money.”
“That isn’t a deposit.”
“You’re actually keeping it?”
“No.”
