My family hadn't approved. They thought his background was too ordinary. So he threw himself into work, grinding through overtime for three years until he'd saved enough for a down payment on a house.
Everyone said Clay Dickerson was the kind of good man you'd be lucky to find once in a lifetime.
I believed him.
Late October.
It was raining. He came to pick me up from work.
The car was parked outside my office building. He sat in the driver's seat, scrolling through his phone, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
I opened the passenger door. He killed the screen instantly.
Too fast. Deliberately so.
"What were you looking at?"
"Nothing. Just watching some videos." He slid the phone into the cupholder and started the engine. "What do you feel like eating tonight?"
As I buckled my seatbelt, I caught the screen lighting up again out of the corner of my eye. A social media notification. But the car was already pulling away, and I couldn't make it out.