I handed my phone across the counter.
For the next several minutes, Emma confirmed her order number, wedding date, contact information, and what seemed like half her life story.
Finally, the baker apologized and released the cake.
I should have left.
Instead, I stood there staring at the note on her screen.
“Did the woman leave a number?”
The baker checked.
“Yes.”
She read it to me.
It wasn’t mine.
I wrote it down.
Then the baker hesitated.
“Actually, I think I’ve seen her before.”
My head came up.
“Here?”
“A few weeks ago. She came in with a man.”
“What did he look like?”
As she described him, something cold spread through my chest.
Gray at the temples. Tall. Navy jacket. Wedding ring. Small scar near his left eyebrow.
My husband.
David.
I drove home with Emma’s wedding cake secured in the back of my SUV, one thought circling in my head.
