Chapter Forty-Two
S TEFANIE
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J ULIAN MOVED OUT THAT same night, just like I’d asked. I sat in Ronnie’s guest bedroom, curled up with a throw blanket around my shoulders, watching him on the bear’s cam as he packed his things.
I cried so hard my throat burned and my head throbbed. He didn’t rush. He moved slowly, like he was still hoping I’d change my mind. I wanted to. I’d almost done it two or three times. But in the end, I didn’t.
He left the key on the counter and then stared straight into the bear and said, “You can never make me stop loving you, Stefanie Adams. I’ll be back.” His words had only made me sob harder as I watched him walk out of my house, out of my life.
Over the next few days, he called me over a dozen times. Texted even more. He left voice messages I couldn’t bring myself to listen to. Each time the phone buzzed, my heart skipped. And each time, I ignored it, it was like cutting off my own air supply.
I felt like I was dying. And I’d never felt this way before. India left the next morning for school, and she didn’t say a word to me. She asked Ronnie to help her with her bags, and she said she didn’t want to deal with any more drama before she went back to campus.
Apparently, I was the drama she didn’t want to deal with. That had damn near crushed my soul. The last thing she told me was to just go home, like I was the one who didn’t belong here. I knew she was acting this way because we’d gotten into another argument after Julian left that day.
“You embarrassed me,” she snapped. “Even Joanie’s mom was asking whose that guy on Ronnie’s porch.”
I’d tried to explain. I told her I ended things with Julian, that I’d walked away from someone who made me feel like the best version of myself. But she wasn’t trying to hear that. She didn’t care that I was breaking on the inside.
She didn’t see that I was barely holding myself together. All she cared about was how she felt and how she looked to others. And I hadn’t raised her that way, but I understood at her age, those were the things that mattered.
But damn, couldn’t she see that her mother was struggling right now? For two weeks after she went back to school and after I returned home, she said nothing to me. No phone calls. No texts. No nothing. Then, finally, a single text came through.
INDIA : It doesn’t seem like Aubrey knows what you and her brother were doing. I hope it stays that way.
That was all. No, how are you . No, I miss you . Just her trying to preserve the illusion that everything was fine. And maybe that was my punishment for being selfish. For falling in love and daring to want more than just being India’s mom.
Life became super hard after Julian left, and after India and I became distant. I didn’t want to write. I barely ate or slept. I just stayed in bed, staring at the wall or the darkened screen of my phone, praying it would stop lighting up with Julian’s name, but aching every time it didn’t.
I missed him. My body missed him. My soul missed him. I also missed the version of me I’d started to become when I was around him. I’d begun to feel like my old self again. Carefree, stress-free, worry-free. Now, I just felt... depressed.
I stared at the document open on my laptop, blinking at the same damn paragraph for the fifth time. My eyes skimmed the words, but my mind wasn’t really reading. Every word, every kiss, every whispered line of dialogue in the manuscript came with memories of Julian Cattaneo.
The couple I’d written about months ago didn’t feel fictional anymore. They felt like us. Julian and I. The scenes that used to make me blush or smile now felt like a punch to the chest.
Those steamy chapters now made my body ache with the memory of my inspiration for those scenes. I couldn’t stop thinking of his hands on my body. His mouth on my neck. The way he used to say my name like a promise and a warning all at once.
I couldn’t read two lines without being dragged back into those memories. My cursor blinked on the screen, waiting for me to pick up the story. But I couldn’t write. I couldn’t edit, I couldn’t even think straight.
With a sigh, I reached for my phone and opened the voicemail app. There were so many messages from him. It had taken me a long time to work up the nerve to listen to them. Now, I did it a few times a day.
The first few were sweet with Julian just asking if I was okay, if I needed anything, if I’d eaten that day. The newer ones? They were harder to listen to. His voice sounded raw. Tired. On edge.
Sometimes angry. Always sad. I hit play on the latest one, even though I knew it would gut me. It always did.
"Stefanie... come on, baby. Pick up the phone. Answer your door. Let me see you. Say something. Anything. I’m not okay without you. I miss your voice. I miss your laugh. I miss the way you roll your eyes when I say dumb shit just to make you smile. I miss everything about you. Fuck the world, all I need is you. I promise you we can make this work. I swear we can. Just... call me back. Please."
I pressed the phone to my chest, squeezing my eyes shut, but the tears slid free. I deserved this pain. I deserved every ounce of this ache. I’d let him in, then I’d push him away. I was the worst of the worst.
I leaned back on the couch, thumb hovering over the next voicemail. I told myself not to listen. I told myself to stop torturing myself with something I’d never get back. And then I pressed play again because I needed to hear him.
Because hearing his voice made me feel closer to him, even if it also shattered me every time. Because pain was better than feeling nothing. My novel and his voicemails weren’t the only reminders Julian had left behind for me.
My house was one big ass reminder that Julian had been there and that he’d loved me fiercely. I was washing dishes one day when I noticed something... off. It was that damn corner of the kitchen counter that was different.
The one I used to bump my hip or arm on every other day, leaving random bruises I never remembered earning. I moved past it on my way to the sink, expecting the usual jab of pain... but nothing.
I mean, I bumped it, like I always did. But there was no pain. I stopped and turned. The sharp edge was gone. A clear, rubber covering now wrapped the corner, softening the blow I’d gotten so used to.
I blinked, then blinked again. When the hell had that gotten there? And just like that, the ache in my chest swelled to life again. Julian . It had to be him. There was no one else it could be. I didn’t even know he’d noticed.
I never said a word about those bruises. I’d chalked them up to me being clumsy, to the house being old. But he’d seen it. Seen me. Quietly, without asking, he fixed it. He didn’t tell me he’d fixed it.
Didn’t seek a reward. He saw a problem and he took care of it. Not for recognition, but because he loved me. I pressed my palm to the soft edge and whispered, “No wonder I haven’t been bruised in weeks...”
That broke me. I sank to the floor near the counter and bawled my eyes out for thirty minutes. But that was just the first thing around the house that made me think of him and made me cry like a baby.
The second came in the hallway. The coat closet door, which had always creaked when opened, didn’t anymore. I stared at it like it had betrayed me. I opened and closed it three times, slowly, testing it. He hadn’t oiled the hinges.
He’d put on an entirely new door, and I hadn’t even noticed. I sat in the closet and cried for about ten minutes that day. A week later, in the laundry room, the shelf I’d been meaning to secure had been reinforced.
He’d added brackets. Neat, clean, and tight against the wall like a professional had done it. I hadn’t even noticed when. But it was him. And in the bathroom... the drawer that used to jam? No longer jammed.
The way this man took care of me was exactly what I needed. His love language was caring for his partner in every way, and he deserved that back. He deserved the world. He not only showed his love by giving gifts and telling me how he felt, but he also showed it by making things easier on me.
He made me feel safer. He was a bright green flag. And now? He was gone. I stood in the middle of my hallway, surrounded by all these memories, and I just... broke. I slid down the wall, knees to my chest, sobs strangling me.
It wasn’t just the counter or the shelf or the drawer. It was the way he never let me lift a grocery bag heavier than five pounds. The way he learned how I liked my tea and bought that exact brand without asking.
The way he refilled the hand soap when it was low. The way he folded my throw blankets when I wasn’t looking. The way he made sure our slippers were always lined up perfectly for us.
The way he never let the tissue roll get empty. His memory was everywhere in this damn house. He’d left his love everywhere. And I’d let him walk out of this house thinking I didn’t want it, thinking I didn’t appreciate it. Thinking I didn’t want him. That I didn’t appreciate him .
Every little repair, every quiet act of care, screamed louder than anything he’d ever said. And the worst part? I didn’t even realize how much he’d given me until he wasn’t here anymore. I wiped at my face, but the tears just kept coming.
What had I given him? Nothing. What did he have to show for his time with me? Nothing. I’d done nothing for the man I loved. I hadn’t even told him I loved him. I hadn’t shown him how important he was to me. And that was tragic.
Because he’d never know that he was my first love. Archie didn’t count. My feelings for him hadn’t run this deep. Julian Cattaneo was my first real love. And I’d broken his heart. God, why did you send that man my way? It would’ve been better if he’d never seen me.
At least then, he wouldn’t have fallen in love with a broken woman. Days turned weeks, and life continued on without Julian with me. But it didn’t feel the same. Things were getting better between my daughter and I. I guess.
She’d been texting more lately. She’d apologized for yelling, for storming out, and for the things she said out of anger. I told her it was okay, that I understood. But the truth was, it wasn’t okay. Not really.
I was angry. Not just at her, but at the situation, at myself. I had always put her first, always made sacrifices for her. And now, when I had found something, someone, that made me feel alive again, she couldn't support it.
I understood her reasons, I did. But understanding didn't make the hurt go away. She was still working part-time at the coffee shop. She texted me pictures of her coffee art, and I always replied with little hearts and smiley faces.
But seeing her happy and living her life only made me realize how quickly I was dying inside. I was trying my best not to be selfish, not to be angry, not to be bitter. But this was starting to feel too much like a past I promised myself I’d never go back to.
I was back to drinking my pain away. That night, I poured myself a glass of the whiskey Julian had left behind. The amber liquid caught the light from the television, reminding me of his eyes.
I took a sip, the warmth spreading through me, but it didn't chase away the chill in my bones or the ache in my chest. Later, lying in bed, I opened my phone and found myself on Julian's social media page.
There was a new post that read: I’m grateful for another year. Thank you all for the birthday wishes.
My heart clenched. I had forgotten his birthday. Tears welled up, spilling over as I stared at the screen. I whispered into the darkness, "Happy birthday, Julian." The words felt inadequate, lost in the silence of the room.
I wanted to tell him happy birthday on the post, but I didn’t have the right to do that. I drifted off to sleep with tears streaking down my cheeks, the glow of the phone fading beside me. It was Julian’s birthday and I couldn’t be with him. Not this year. Not next year. Not ever.
Life wasn’t fair at all!
***
J ULIAN
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H OME WASN’T HOME ANYMORE . I’d walked through my front door every night for the past few weeks and dropped my keys on the counter like I used to at her place, like my muscle memory refused to update.
And it needed to be updated because there was no counter there. My keys clanked to the floor every evening. And then it all came back to me. This was my place, not my home. Home was where Stefanie Adams was.
The silence hit me next, thick and absolute. No laughter drifting down the hall. No one waiting on the couch for me to come home. No one smiling at me and reaching for me, ready for me to fall into their embrace, to fall into them.
Then there was the smell. I missed the scent of cocoa butter lotion. I missed making her breakfast. I missed watching her sleep and hearing her snore. I missed that fucking woman, and I was nearing my fucking breaking point.
Inhaling deeply, I kicked off my shoes, sat on the edge of the couch, and stared at my phone. Still nothing. I had missed calls. Just not from her. I had unread messages. Just not from her. When I opened up our previous texts, there was no little bubble popping up to let me know she was typing.
“Fuck Stef,” I whispered, glaring at my phone, ignoring a call that was coming through from my cousin Bryceson. “I just need to hear your voice, baby. Even if it’s just you telling me to fuck off. Please, baby... call me.”
I waited, hoping this would be the night she reached out to me. Five minutes later, I was still waiting. My phone lit up again. But it was only my cousin Cas. Fuck! I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the couch.
I couldn’t even spy on her anymore. She’d thrown away the bear the day she’d gotten home. I knew because I’d checked the feed, and it was gone. Instead of her room, I’d seen a banana peel on the screen.
She’d tossed the bear into a dumpster like I didn’t mean shit to her. The same way she’d tossed me away. I rubbed a hand over my face, then down my throat. I hadn’t shaved in days. They were starting to call me a caveman at the job sites.
I couldn’t bring myself to care. Neither could I bring myself to eat like I used to, either. Food didn’t taste right without her seated across from me, telling me how good it tasted or moaning over dessert just to watch me squirm.
God, I missed her mouth. I missed everything about her. I missed the way she’d steal the covers, the way she hummed when she cooked. I missed watching her type on her laptop, missed her smile. I missed being hers. I was going crazy not seeing her.
I didn’t care how pathetic that sounded. My days had gone from full to hollow, my nights from hot to cold. Every room in this damn house reminded me of what I’d lost. There was no color here.
This place didn’t look lived in. It looked more like a showroom or a furniture store. I hadn’t even slept in my bed since I’d moved out of her place. I tried, but I just couldn’t sleep in it. I slept fitfully on the couch most nights. Or didn’t sleep at all.
I was slowly losing myself to the dark hole she’d left behind. Others were starting to notice. But there was nothing I or they could do to help me. I needed her. And she wouldn’t even answer my calls.
It was like she was trying to kill me. Without her by my side, life didn’t feel that special after all, anyway. I was starting to think death would be better than this. It had to hurt less than this. But I couldn’t die.
I wouldn’t give up. Stefanie would be mine again. I just had to figure out why she’d left me and fix whatever was broken. I was going to get her back. And when I did, I’d make sure her stubborn ass never left me again.
My phone buzzed for the fourth damn time in five minutes. I checked, hoping it was her. It wasn’t. It was my father. I let it go to voicemail, already knowing what he wanted. I checked the message, mainly out of boredom.
“Answer your damn phone, Julian,” my dad sounded annoyed as hell. “Your cousins are here. The cake’s here. Your mother’s rearranging your presents for the fifth time. Where the hell are you, son? Everyone is at your birthday party but you.”
I sighed. I wasn’t in the partying mood. And in my defense, I’d told my dad not to throw me a party. But Cattaneos never passed up a chance to party. I stood, feeling sluggish, and strode into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of whiskey.
I downed it in one long ass swallow, then poured up another one and downed that one too. It burned my throat as it went down. And for a second, I was able to focus on that burn, instead of the pain in my heart.
I poured a third glass and drank it down fast. The burn came and faded much too quickly. I stared around the house. I didn’t want to spend another night here alone. I could be celebrating my birthday right now.
Fuck it! I was going to celebrate my birthday.