He simply got into his car and drove away.
I waited a moment before starting my engine and following him.
Marcus drove across town into a neighborhood we hadn’t visited in years.
As he turned down a quiet street, my stomach tightened.
I recognized the place immediately.
The chipped white fence.
The red mailbox leaning slightly to one side.
The small porch with seashell wind chimes.
Anne’s house.
Anne had once been Marcus’s closest friend.
Years ago, at our wedding reception, she had drunkenly confessed that she loved him. She even tried to kiss him outside the venue.
Marcus had promised it meant nothing.
He swore he would never see her again.
And I believed him.
Until now.
I watched from across the street as Marcus walked up the front steps and knocked on the door.
An older woman answered.
She smiled warmly and let him inside.
Something inside me snapped.
Before I could stop myself, I jumped out of my car, marched across the street, and rang the doorbell.
The older woman opened it again.
She looked at me with calm curiosity.
“Yes?” she asked gently.
My voice shook.
“My husband just walked into your house,” I said. “What is he doing here?”
The woman studied my face for a moment.
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