11. Jules
CHAPTER 11
Jules
We need to talk.
How can four little words flip everything upside down? Brian Bishop emailing me is bad. Really, really bad.
Those words shouldn’t have this much power, but they do. Because Brian isn’t just anyone. He’s the guy who ripped through my life like a hurricane, leaving my world in shambles.
Brian was the rebel—the one who thrived on breaking rules. And the only person who could keep up with him? My sister, Angi. The two of them lived on the edge where the sky was the limit and there was no room for anyone else.
It’s wild when you think about it. Angi and I are only eleven months apart. Close enough to share the same grade, but polar opposites in every way.
Where I’d pause, she’d plunge headfirst. I was cautious; she was reckless. I’d map out every detail, and she’d blow through life like a storm.
Slow to trust, always overthinking—you might as well carve that on my gravestone. Angi? Living, breathing chaos, pulling everyone into her vortex and leaving you scrambling just to keep up.
And then Brian came along, and suddenly, I was the awkward third wheel, watching from the sidelines as she spun out of control while he chased her like wildfire.
Seeing his name pop up after ten years sends a sticky cocktail of anxiety and anticipation through my veins. It’s like my body can’t decide whether to panic or get excited, and honestly, that terrifies me most of all.
How close was my article to the Adonis I remember? I’d kill to find out he’s gone bald and flabby, maybe with a side of halitosis and a hairy back. The universe finally serving up the ass-kicking he so richly deserves.
But what if he’s still...him? All lean muscle, sun-kissed skin, and those ridiculous dimples that could disarm you with a single smile?
And then there are those eyes. Bishop Blue, as everyone used to call them. Deep, oceanic blue that could look right through you, stripping away all your defenses until you’re left feeling exposed, vulnerable.
God, I hope he’s changed. But what if he hasn’t?
What if he’s still the same guy who could tear my world apart with just a look? Would he still call me that stupid pet name?
The thought sends a wave of anxiety crashing over me, which I try to control with a few slow, meditative breaths. My fingers drum impatiently on the desk, but it’s no use.
Finally, I’ve had enough. “I’m going home,” I mutter to no one in particular, because, fuck it. I grab my laptop and purse, and without another word, I’m out the door .
By early afternoon, I’m sprawled on the couch, wrapped in sweats and leggings, my butt perfectly molded into the well-worn groove that practically has my name on it.
Right now, it’s just me and my two favorite men—Ben and Jerry. They’re busy seducing me with thick Caramel Sutra while I scroll through Netflix, hunting for the perfect distraction.
Then my phone pings with a text. I glance down.
TatorTot
9-1-1 already.
I roll my eyes, but a smile tugs at my lips. I type back quickly.
Me
You really need to reserve 9-1-1 for no-kidding emergencies.
What is it now, drama queen?
Her response is almost instant.
TatorTot
More like runway queen, and this IS an emergency.
I’m pretty sure my BFF has taken every inch of the lumpy couch hostage and hogged the two most important men in my life.
My phone rings, and it’s a FaceTime from Taylor. I answer, narrowing my eyes. “Is there a nanny cam installed that I don’t know about? ”
“Hey,” she says, her voice softer than usual, with the glow of twinkling city lights behind her. “I heard about the article.”
My pulse spikes. “From where? Milan? Ibiza? How on earth did you hear about it?”
“Paris, actually. And word travels fast when you’re the full-time manager of every last one of @SydneySun’s social media accounts.” A tender smile tugs at her lips. “Want to talk about it?”
Do I? Not really.
But will Taylor let it go when she can clearly see me in my finest frump gear, spooning ice cream like it’s the only thing holding me together? Not a chance. I scoop another spoonful into my mouth and shrug.
“You never did tell me what happened with Brian ‘The Total Bastard’ Bishop.”
I laugh, feeling the tightness in my chest ease just a bit. I keep forgetting Taylor was gone most of senior year, jet-setting off to start her modeling career. “Fine,” I say, letting out a sigh. “But no judgment.”
She nods, leaning closer to the screen, fully invested now. “May Ben and Jerry oversee our sacred no-judgment zone.”
“Remember that scholarship from Ma Mabel’s Wicked Good Sweets?”
Taylor’s brow furrows as she thinks. “I remember they were offering something ridiculous, like work there every weekend for a month for a chance to win five grand.”
I point my spoon at her, smirking. “Try every weekend for the entire school year. And I was desperate. So yeah, I was there, in a giant lollipop outfit.”
“What?” Taylor’s eyes go wide before she bursts out laughing. “You? A giant lollipop mascot? What flavor?”
“Peach.”
Taylor’s laughter bubbles over, and I can’t help but join in. The absurdity of it all—me, dressed as a peach lollipop, waving at cars like my life depended on it—somehow feels lighter now that I’m sharing it with her.
“Please tell me there are pictures,” she begs.
Pictures . My laughter fades to a frown. But I try to make light of it. “I burned every last photo.”
“I bet your mom has some,” she muses absently before asking, “And what exactly was your job?”
“The hell if I know. Drum up business. Show up and look ridiculous. And everything was going fine until”—I let out a long breath—“Brian showed up.”
Taylor blinks, confused. “You dated him?”
“No! Me, he ignored,” I say, the frustration still bubbling up even after all these years. “But Angi? Wherever Hurricane Angi went, he would follow. Chased her down until they were practically attached at the hip. Meanwhile, he made it his mission to remind me just how ridiculous I looked. He and his friends would hang out at the ice cream shop across the street, watching me like I was some kind of freak sideshow.”
“Classic jerk move,” Taylor mutters.
“It gets so much worse.” I take a deep breath, bracing myself to spill the rest. “Every Saturday, I’d rush to the candy shop, change in the back, and slip into that damn lollipop costume. Those things were like portable saunas, and that winter? It was unseasonably warm. I was roasting alive in that suit, so I kept it simple—tank top and shorts. But somehow, someone managed to snap a photo of me mid-change.”
Taylor’s face falls, concern flooding her eyes. “Naked?”
“Not technically. But it might as well have been,” I say, the memory tightening my chest. “The way the picture was taken, exposing my back. My hair was in pigtails, I was glancing over one shoulder, and with the angle and everything...I looked naked. The next day, that picture was plastered all over social media like I’d hired a publicist. And Monday morning, when I went to my locker, hundreds of peach lollipops spilled out, like some twisted joke.”
“Oh, God.”
I swallow hard, the weight of that humiliation still heavy even after all these years. “It was a living nightmare, Tay. Every time I thought it couldn’t get worse, it did.”
Taylor’s eyes widen with a mix of horror and disbelief. “Please tell me you at least got the scholarship.”
“Ha, right. The wholesome candy shop giving five grand away to ‘scandal girl?’” A lump rises in my throat, and I swallow back the tears threatening to spill. “From then on, I was Peach Pop.”
Taylor’s mouth drops open. “And Brian did that?”
“Oh, he did,” I say, the memory still sharp and raw. “Before I got fired from being the worst-paid employee ever, I dug up the receipt. Three hundred peach lollipops, courtesy of Brian Gabriel Bishop.”
Taylor looks genuinely horrified. “Jules, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I missed all this. I could’ve been there for you.”
“Trust me,” I say with a bitter laugh, “if I could’ve been off jet-setting with you, I would’ve. In a New York second.” I try to joke, but there’s an edge of truth there that I can’t quite mask.
Taylor’s expression hardens, her voice sharp. “You don’t have to face him alone, you know. I’m here, and I will absolutely carve asshole into the side of his car for you.”
“Promise?” I ask, swiping at a tear that slips free.
“Hell, yeah,” she says, with the kind of conviction that only a true friend can muster. “And if you don’t want to work tonight, I’ll find someone else to cover. You don’t need to deal with this right now.”
Her words are like a balm on every last one of my frayed nerves, and for the first time in a long while, I feel like I might actually be able to breathe again.
I shake my head. “It’s fine. I need to do something tonight other than drown in the next pint in the queue—Half Baked, I believe.”
“You sure?”
I nod, more to convince myself than her. “It’s been ten years. It’s definitely time I moved on with my life.”
“Hell fucking yeah, it is.” Taylor pumps a fist in the air, her fierce energy radiating through the screen. Her confidence is infectious, the kind that makes you believe you can take on the world. And right now, I almost believe it.
For the next hour, we lose ourselves in an episode of Bridgerton , escaping reality just long enough for me to hear Taylor’s soft snores. I whisper a quiet goodnight and disconnect, turning my attention to the laptop waiting patiently for my next move.
It’s time to face this demon head-on. I fire it up and reread the screen .
We need to talk.
Funny thing is, I don’t feel anxious or intimidated reading his name with those words. At this very moment, I feel rage. My fingers fly across the keys.
You want to talk, then let’s talk.
Anytime. Anywhere, Asshole.
Which feels so good, but I instantly delete it.
Then I start typing:
I need to speak to you like I need bed bugs and a scorching case of herpes.
But considering this is my first real writing gig and my editor’s already throwing around words like lawsuit , unless I’m ready to torch my career on the spot—and frankly, that douchebag has already cost me more than enough in this lifetime—that’s not happening.
Delete, delete, delete.
But here’s the thing—I’m not that scared little girl anymore. I’m Sydney Goddamn Sun, and it’s time to erase Brian Bishop from my life for good.
He wants to talk? I want a peach pop crammed up his a-hole so it wags when he’s excited. But I simply type four little words.
When hell freezes over.