He found me in April.
Two months, three cities, and a private investigator later—though I suspected his mother had eventually given up the address, because Alex couldn't find his own socks without help, let alone a woman who didn't want to be found.
I was arranging peonies in the window of my flower shop when the bell above the door chimed. I looked up, and there he was.
He looked terrible.
Not in the way that made you worry—Alex Anderson could roll out of a dumpster and still look like the cover of GQ. But the edges were wrong. Dark circles. Weight loss that sharpened his jaw into something almost gaunt. He was wearing a t-shirt, which in three years of marriage I'd seen maybe twice.
"Hi," he said.
Hi. Like he'd just come home from the office. Like two months of silence was a long c
