I slammed the brakes. The post flashed through my mind.
It's a coincidence. Has to be.
Ethel Pruitt was known for loving me like I was her whole world.
We'd dated for five years, been married for two. Seven years total, and she'd been nothing but devoted the entire time. Thoughtful in ways most people couldn't even imagine.
She knew I loved cars, so she'd bought me a Maybach for my birthday. She'd even purchased the parking spot right next to hers.
Worried I didn't have enough driving experience, she always pulled her car a little closer to her own side whenever she parked, just to give me an extra eight inches of room. Every single time. Without being asked.
A woman who thought about me that carefully, who put me first in every little detail of her life, there was no way she'd do something like that.
But the post wouldn't leave my head.
I sat there staring at Ethel's car for a long time. Then I made a decision.
I didn't call her to come move it.
Instead, I pulled into a temporary spot nearby, killed the engine, and got out. Then I walked home.
I wanted to see if there really was a cheating wife inside, waiting for the phone call that would signal her to come move the car.