I asked why he had never mentioned meeting her.
He insisted it wasn’t dinner.
I asked what it was.
“A meeting.”
“At 10:47 at night?”
“We finished late. That’s all.”
I looked back toward his car.
The red bra hanging from the windshield wiper.
A black one looped around the driver’s mirror.
At least a dozen other pieces scattered across the hood.
“Why would someone cover your car in lingerie because you hugged a coworker?”
“I don’t know.”
“That seems to be your favorite answer this morning.”
We went back inside.
And somehow, the silence in our house felt worse than the scene outside.
At least on the street, there had been neighbors and embarrassment and the pressure to act normal.
Inside, there was only us.
The kitchen tiles we had picked together.
The mortgage we complained about.
Eleven years of marriage I had trusted completely until fifteen minutes earlier.
“Give me your phone,” I said.
Marcus stared at me.
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
He answered instantly.
“Why?”
“Because this is ridiculous.”
“Someone covered your car in women’s underwear and sent me a video showing you meeting a woman you’ve never mentioned.”
“I explained who she is.”
“You gave me her first name after I asked you twice.”
Marcus shook his head.
“I’m not giving you my phone because some crazy person is trying to create problems between us.”
“Then unlock it yourself.”
“No.”
I picked up his phone from the counter.
For years, I had known his six-digit passcode.
I entered it.
Wrong.
I tried again.
Nothing.
I looked at him.
“When did you change your passcode?”
“A while ago.”
“Why?”
“Security.”
My phone vibrated again.
Another message from the unknown number.
