Medora
I wanted nothing more than to sprint after Clyde the moment I saw him. He looked different—clean-shaven, well-groomed, his hair trimmed an inch shorter. But the sharp clench of his jaw when our eyes met told me everything: he was still mad at me.
I froze, rooted in place, fingers tightening around my suitcase until my knuckles turned white. I watched him wheel away, his shoulders tense, radiating restrained anger. The buzzing of my phone snapped me out of my daze. Yellow was here to pick me up.
Clearing my throat, I answered the call. “Yellow?”
“I can’t find—oh! There you are!” she said, waving as she walked toward me.
I sighed in relief, lowering my phone—only for my eyes to catch the baby stroller she was pushing.
“Oh my God, is that Aidan?” I gasped, rushing toward them. “H
