A young woman leaned heavily against Adrian.
She looked around twenty-five, with dark hair stuck to her forehead and one hand supporting an enormous pregnant belly.
Adrian had an arm around her waist.
His other hand 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 his sleeve.
I don’t remember deciding to approach.
I only remember hearing my shoes against the polished floor.
“Adrian?”
He turned.
