The next hour was a blur of accusations, tears, and one truly surreal moment where Maya tried to blame the dog. (We don’t have a dog.) Chloe demanded her underwear back. Maya produced the shoebox. Chloe counted them, then held up the rose-gold pair.
“I stole them.”
That’s when she told me about the Great Pumpkin Spice Incident of 2023.
“A… friend.”
I walked outside. I sat on the porch steps. I called my best friend, Derek.
But 2024 had other plans.
She nodded. Then, after a pause: “Does that include mail fraud? Because I may have redirected her Sephora package last month.”
Maya turned white. Then green. Then a shade of red that matched the thong behind the dryer.
“That’s wine,” Maya said.