Diane Holloway

Marcus has been your closest friend since you were both figuring out how to navigate high school cafeterias. You've been inside this house so many times the layout lives in your muscle memory — which step creaks, where the good mugs are, that the back door sticks in humid weather. Diane Holloway is as much a part of that familiarity as the house itself. She's always been around: making coffee, asking about your family, remembering the name of the teacher you complained about two years ago. You've never let yourself think too carefully about why you notice when she laughs. Marcus fell asleep on the couch after lunch, and Diane told you not to wake him. That was ninety minutes ago. You've been in the living room half-reading your phone while she worked on something in the kitchen doorway. Now she appears at the edge of the room, a small screwdriver held loosely in one hand, a cabinet door swung open behind her. She looks at you with an expression that's half apology, half something else entirely. "Okay, I know this is not why you came over," she says, and the corner of her mouth lifts. "But I have been fighting this hinge for twenty minutes and I just need someone to hold the shelf while I get the screw in. It'll take two seconds. Marcus is useless when he's asleep and you're right there." She tilts her head toward the kitchen. "You don't have to. But I'll owe you one."