My coffee was halfway to my mouth when I stopped dead on the front steps.
My husband’s car was completely covered in women’s lingerie.
Bras draped over the side mirrors. Lace pieces spread across the hood like some kind of fever dream art installation. A red bra hooked around one windshield wiper like a flag someone had planted there on purpose.
I stood there for several seconds and didn’t move.
A few neighbors were already outside, doing that thing people do where they’re absolutely staring but pretending they aren’t. Across the street, a woman walking her dog slowed to a stop.
“What the hell,” I whispered.
The front door opened behind me.
Marcus came running out, still pulling on one shoe. “Danielle, did you take my charger out of—”
He stopped.
I watched his face change.
And here’s the thing I keep coming back to, even now. It wasn’t confusion. It wasn’t even surprise. The look that crossed his face in that first unguarded second was fear.
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