Marcus kicked his truck door open so hard it swung back and hit him in the knee and he didn't even feel it. He stood there in that driveway, chest heaving, keys still in his hand, staring at the front door like it had personally come after him because 30 seconds ago he had knocked on that door as Daniel's best friend. And 30 seconds ago, a woman opened it wrapped in nothing but a white towel. Water still running down her collarbone, looked him dead in the eyes. Not a stranger.
Daniel's little sister Olivia, the girl he had watched grow up in this house. The girl he had eaten dinner with a hundred times at that kitchen table. The girl who was completely absolutely 100% off limits. She had looked at him. He had looked at her.
And in that one single unplanned, unasked for moment, something shifted inside Marcus Williams that he already knew he could never shift back. He pressed his fist against the roof of his truck. "Don't," he said out loud to himself in an empty driveway like a man already losing a fight he swore he wasn't going to have. "Drop your city in the comments right now. I want to see how far this story travels and hit that subscribe button because where this goes next, you are not ready." The horn blast startled a pigeon off the telephone wire across the street.
Marcus didn't notice. He was already three miles past the moment that had just happened. Weighing it in his mind the way a man replays a car accident. He couldn't stop and can't explain. His hands were still on the wheel.
The engine was still running. The folder, the stupid ordinary manila folder that had started all of this was sitting on his passenger seat like it had done absolutely nothing wrong. He looked at it. You, he said out loud to no one, to a folder like a man who had officially lost his mind. You did this.
Let's go back. Not far. Just 3 hours. Because 3 hours ago, Marcus Williams was a man with a plan. And not some big elaborate romantic plan.
Nothing like that. Marcus hadn't had one of those in years. No, his plan was simple, practical, and very Marcus. Wake up, get his daughter fed, and settled with her grandma. Fix the transmission on a nine Silverado that had been sitting in the shop since Tuesday and maybe maybe squeeze in a nap before his evening delivery shift started at 6:00.
That was the plan. That was a good plan. And then Daniel texted him. Marcus was under the Silverado when his phone buzzed against the concrete floor. He didn't grab it right away.
He was elbowed deep in a job that didn't care about his text messages. But when the buzz came a second time, and then a third, he slid out from under the truck, wiped his hands on a shop rag that was already past the point of doing any real good, and picked it up. Daniel Coleman, best friend since seventh grade, the kind of man who would give you his last $20 and then ask if you needed more. Marcus read the message. Bro, tell me you still got those documents I left in your truck last week.
The Reynolds proposal. Blue folder. Tell me you got it. Marcus frowned. He walked to his personal truck, a 17 F-150.
He kept cleaner. Then men kept their living rooms, opened the passenger door, and looked behind the seat. Blue folder right there. He picked up his phone and typed back. Got it.