I stopped and replied: ["Stunning is a good word, but it’s used in the wrong place."]
Ryan answered instantly: ["? What’s going on? That bastard Frederick pulling his tricks again?"]
"Yeah." I didn’t reply further and shoved the phone back into my bag.
Ahead, the intersection light was red.
The taillights formed a river of light, so bright it hurt my eyes.
I remembered seven years ago, at a similar intersection.
Back then, Frederick rode a secondhand electric scooter, and I clung tightly to his waist.
It was windy, and he shouted, "Lydia, I’ll make sure you ride in a car without wind from now on!"
Now, he’s done it.
But the passenger isn’t me anymore.
I got home at nine.
The moment I opened the door, a strange perfume hit me.
My gray linen slippers were gone.
In their place, a pair of pink slippers with fluffy rabbit ears—clearly too small—sat in the middle, as an intruder asserting dominance.
I stared at them for a few seconds, then nausea washed over me.
The living room light glowed warm and yellow.
Frederick sat on the leather sofa, holding a woman who was sobbing in his arms.
Emily Jordan.
She wore a large white shirt—one of Frederick’s.