My family moved once and then again.
By high school, Leo had become a story I told only when someone asked about the scar on my knee from the bicycle crash he had caused.
By college, he had become a memory.
At 25, I worked in a bakery called Honey & Grain.
I decorated wedding cakes, argued with delivery drivers, and went home every evening smelling like butter and sugar.
One rainy afternoon, a man walked in five minutes before closing.
He was tall, soaked through, and staring at me as if he had just found something he had been searching for all his life.
He had deep green eyes.
A lopsided smile.
And the blonde curls I loved playing with.
My heart stopped when I recognized him.
“Monica,” he said.
I gripped the counter.
“Leo?”
His smile trembled.
“I told you I’d find you.”
I ran around the counter and threw my arms around him.
He held me so tightly that I could feel his heart pounding against mine.
I cried into his coat.
He cried too.
At least, I thought he did.
