Jerome and I come back a few hours later after an afternoon of light chat. We kept it easy, neither of us wanting to address the elephant between us. Instead, we talk mostly about horses. When we enter the house we’re too busy laughing, the dregs of our milkshakes still in our hands, to notice Kent standing in the hallway staring at us.
Jerome notices first, stopping in his tracks and clearing his throat, the smile dropping from his face. Kent says nothing, just slowly puts his hands in his pockets and shifts his weight to his back foot, giving us both a long stare.
Something about it – I don’t know what, maybe the arrogance in his stance, or the way that he stopped us both in our tracks just by standing there – makes me roll my eyes. Despite everything – all of the trauma of the aft
