I knew he’d go from that to what was standing in front of the tortilla lady at Chipotle wearing his leather Chaos jacket.

Tall. His dark hair silvered, too long and unkempt. Shoulders broad. Jaw squared. I could see even in profile the skin of his face was no longer smooth but craggy in a way that every line told a story that you knew was interesting. Strong nose. High cheekbones. Whiskers (also silvered) that said he hadn’t shaved in days, or perhaps weeks.

Beautiful.

So beautiful.

And he once was mine.

Then I’d let him go.

No, I’d pushed him away.

I turned and moved swiftly back through the line, not making a sound, not saying a word.

I didn’t want him to hear me.

Out, I needed out.

I got out. Practically ran to my car. Got in and slammed the door.

I sat there, hands hovering over the steering wheel, shaking.

Takin’ the girls up there.

I’ll have ’em at school on Monday.

He had kids.

Plural.

Girls.

That made me happy. Ecstatic. Beside myself with glee.

I signed the papers. Sent ’em.

What did that mean?

So I’ll come get ’em… I’ll sort a place soon’s I can.

Come and get them?

He didn’t have them.

Signed the papers.

Oh God, he was getting a divorce.

No. Maybe he’d just gotten one.

I’ll come and get ’em…

He was a father.

But was he free?

I shook out my hands, taking a deep breath.

It didn’t matter. It wasn’t my business. Logan Judd was no longer my business. He’d stopped being my business twenty years ago. My choice. I’d let him go.

And clearly it didn’t happen, where I’d thought he was heading, where I’d thought his Club was heading. What I’d expected would happen hadn’t.

He was in line at Chipotle, not incarcerated.

He had that scratchy voice, so obviously he hadn’t quit smoking when he should have (or not at all). But he seemed strong, tall, fit.

I didn’t see him top to toe from all sides, but what I saw was what I’d hoped.

I’d hoped he’d find his way to happiness.

He’d said his order was to go.

Oh God, I needed to get out of there. It wouldn’t do for me to escape him inside only to have him see me outside in my car, freaked out so bad I was shaking.

I pushed the button to start my car, carefully looked in all mirrors and checked my blind spots, reversed out, and headed home.

I had no food at home but a bin of wilting baby spinach and some shredded carrots.

This was because I thought grocery shopping was akin to torture. I did it only when absolutely necessary, which was infrequently considering the number of options available for food that did not require a stocked pantry.

Conversely, I loved to cook.

I just didn’t do it frequently because I hated to shop for food.