carried a floral overnight bag.
He looked terrified.
Not embarrassed.
Not guilty.
Terrified in the way I’d seen only once before, when my father collapsed at a barbecue.
The woman stopped and squeezed her eyes shut.
Adrian set down the bag.
“Breathe, Maren. Look at me.”
His voice was gentle.
Familiar.
Protective.
My body went cold.
He had told me he was flying to Denver.
Twenty minutes earlier, he had texted that he was boarding.
Yet there he was ten yards away, rubbing a pregnant woman’s back while she held
