I nearly dialed 911 on the tattooed teenager holding a screaming baby inside an empty 1 AM laundromat. Then his bag tore open, and my stomach sank with utter shame.

there had once been ordinary things between them.

Cookies.

Jokes.

A baby name chosen in a hospital room.

A life that had cracked open but not disappeared completely.

“Do you want one?” Rachel asked him.

Jackson’s eyebrows lifted.

“A cookie?”

“Yes.”

He looked at me again.

I shrugged.

“She made them.”

“You bake now?” he asked Rachel.

“I learned.”

He took one from continue reading …