For the past five days, the bulldog’s been too attached to Alex’s leg to greet anyone. The sinking feeling has already settled in my stomach by the time I walk the seven steps to the kitchen, to find a still-warm casserole sitting on the stove. I know before I reach my room that Alex is gone, leaving nothing but a note in her curvy handwriting: Jesse, I’ve gone home. I need some time and space to think. —A. “Fuck!” I throw my keys at the wall. This morning, when I kissed her goodbye before leaving for work, I saw the fear in her eyes. I should have expected this. “It’s probably for the best, man.” Boone leans against my door-frame. Normally we drive in together, but I left in my own car this morning, not waiting for him. I haven’t said two words to the guy, still too pissed. “The hell it is,” I mutter, scooping up my keys and heading for the door. My thumb sits on the buzzer for a good twenty seconds before the gate crawls open.
