“No. You just stopped asking.”
Her eyes moved to the fourth basket.
“What is that?”
“Things that didn’t belong in the other three.”
She stepped toward it too quickly.
Josh noticed.
He reached in before she could stop him and pulled out one of the white dress shirts.
“This isn’t mine.”
Vanessa went still.
He checked the collar, then picked up the trousers.
“Neither are these.”
I could feel the whole argument changing direction.
Josh looked at Vanessa.
“Whose clothes are these?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters if they’re mixed in with our laundry.”
She grabbed for the shirt, but he held it away.
“Vanessa.”
“Give it to me.”
I stepped between them before an argument about laundry turned into something uglier.
“I noticed them earlier,” I said.
Josh looked at me.
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“No, because I wasn’t going to accuse your wife of something based on a shirt.”
Vanessa looked at me, surprised.
I continued, “But if you’ve been bringing someone else’s laundry into my house every weekend, then I think I’m entitled to know whose work I’ve been doing.”
Her expression collapsed.
For the first time all day, she didn’t look angry.
She looked tired.
