The night he said it, I was on the kitchen floor of our small Seattle apartment, halfway under the sink with a wrench in my hand, jeans stained, hair tied back.
The door slammed. Frames rattled.
When I slid out, Derek stood there with his arms crossed, like he was about to deliver bad news.
“We need to talk about Saturday,” he said.
Our housewarming. Thirty guests. Music, food—our first real party together.
“What about it?” I asked.
He straightened, like he’d practiced this.
“I invited someone. She matters to me. I need you to stay calm and mature about it. If you can’t… we’ll have a problem.”
“Who?”
“Nicole.”
His ex.
