Julia #3
He sets the fork down. “I wish you would stop apologizing for that asshole.”
“It wasn't just him,” I say. “When I was with Harrison, I let him shrink my world until he was at the center of it. At first, I thought it was because life was busy. Then, because the campaign was busy. Then…” I take a breath.
“Then it was just easier not to argue anymore. I let him take my friends. I let him take our friendship.”
“I know.” He sits back, expression more serious than most people ever get to see. “I’m not mad at you.”
“You should be a little.”
“I was, for a while.”
The honesty hits me in the gut and shames me, but it feels cleansing somehow.
I nod.
“I was mad because I missed you, and because I knew something was wrong, and because every time I tried to get near it, you gave me some polished answer that didn't sound like the Julia I knew. It sounded like a memo approved by your mother.”
I wince. “That's painfully accurate.”
“But I wasn’t angry in the way you think.” He leans forward, forearms on the table. “I was scared.”
I look at him. “You? Scared?” I say, trying to make a joke, but the lump in my throat won’t let me raise my voice higher than a whisper.
Dante does not smile.
That alone makes my chest tighten.
“Yeah,” he says. “Me. For you.”
I look down at my plate.
He is quiet for a moment, then says, “You used to tell me everything. Stupid things. Important things. Things you pretended were stupid because admitting they mattered made you uncomfortable.”
A shaky laugh leaves me. “That sounds like me.”
“It was you.” His voice stays low. “Then suddenly everything was fine. Always fine. Perfectly fine. Your answers got shorter. Your laugh got quieter, more practiced, and somehow rather fake. You stopped complaining about your mother, which was when I knew we had a real problem.”
I press my lips together, but a sound still escapes me.
Dante’s eyes soften.
“I didn’t know how to get to you without making it worse,” he says. “And I hated that.”
“I didn’t know how to get out,” I admit.
His jaw tightens.
“I knew I was unhappy. I knew I was lonely. I knew I missed you and I missed my life, but every time I tried to name what was happening, it sounded too small. Too ordinary. He didn’t lock me in a room.
He didn’t forbid me from calling anyone.
He just made everything harder until I stopped reaching. ”
Dante’s hand curls around his fork, but he does not interrupt.
“I kept thinking, if I were stronger, I would fix it. If I were kinder, he would soften. If I explained better, he would understand.” I look down at my plate. “And then one day I realized I was spending all my energy trying to make a man treat me decently.”
Dante goes very still.
“Jules,” he says, and there is so much in my name that I have to look away.
“I know.”
“I’m glad you called.”
My throat burns.
“Me too,” I whisper.
“You’re here now.”
“I don’t want to disappear again,” I say, genuinely terrified.
“You won’t.”
I laugh softly. “Just like that?”
“No,” he says. “You’ll have bad days. You’ll cancel plans. You’ll want to retreat. You’ll want to go back where it was comfortable and easier to just go along with it.”
My stomach twists because the truth lands a little too close to home.
Dante sees it and leans closer, his voice quieter.
“But you’ll call me. Or I’ll call you. Or I’ll show up at your apartment with food and annoy you until you let me in.”
“Very healthy boundaries.”
“We don't have those in my family, and Julia…” He waits until I meet his eyes. “You are my family.”
My breath catches.
For a second, I am back on my apartment floor with torn paper in my hands and no idea what to do with the mess I just made.
“Dante,” I whisper.
“I mean it.” His voice stays low and firm. “You don’t have to earn your way back or apologize. You’re already here.”
I look down at my plate and breathe through the ache in my chest.
“What if I don’t know how to be the old me anymore?” I ask.
Dante is quiet for a second.
“Then we’ll start with lunch,” he says. “And lemons. And one box at a time.”
I half-laugh.
“I fear I've opened more than one box,” I say. “My apartment's a disaster. I've got too many piles and don't know what to do with them.
“Then we’ll start there,” he says.
I look up.
“What?”
“With the piles.” He picks up his fork again, as if this is the simplest thing in the world. “After lunch, I’ll come over. You point. I carry things. We throw out whatever needs throwing out, hide whatever you’re not ready to deal with, and pretend the lemon print was a rational purchase.”
“It was a rational purchase.” I pause for a beat. “So was the red pillow.”
“Ugh,” he says, disgusted. “A red pillow and a lemon print? You and Tomasso are a match made in heaven. Do you know what monstrosity he brought to the house this week?”
“Can’t be nearly as bad as my red throw pillow, can it?” I joke.
“Just wait,” he says, rolling his eyes.
He launches into a description of Tomasso’s newest crime against furniture, complete with hand gestures, personal outrage, and a level of detail no lamp, no matter how ugly, deserves.
By the time lunch is over, I am laughing again.
And for a little while, that is enough.