51. Jules
CHAPTER 51
Jules
“Can I help you with that?” the Uber driver asks the second I step outside, his eyes glued to the suitcase that’s threatening to burst at the seams.
Wow, he got here fast.
I hand it over without a second thought. “Thanks.”
The SUV he pulled up in is way bigger than I expected—far more space than I need, but considering I was on the phone with Eomma, Dad, and Halmeoni, being told to pack everything but the kitchen sink “just in case,” I’m grateful for the room.
And yeah, I’m late.
I’ve also heard airport security is its own special brand of adventure, so the fact that I’m being limo-ed to the fresh side of hell in an ultra-plush vehicle? Count me in.
As he loads my suitcase into the trunk, I open the back door, and a tiny voice squeals, “Princess Peach Pop!”
I blink. Is that . . . the little girl from the restaurant?
“Sit next to me!” she insists .
Which, okay, since I’m not hauling some high-end purse, I slide in next to her.
I glance at the two boys in the third row—one glued to a comic, the other engrossed in a game on his phone. They both look up, give me a quick wave, then promptly go back to being boys.
My gaze shifts to the man in the driver’s seat. The man’s rugged looks and the way he carries himself tell me one thing: driving people around is definitely not his gig.
If I were to guess, military vet is high on the list of possibilities.
“You’re not an Uber driver, are you?” I ask.
He holds out a hand. “Harrison. And I’m guessing you haven’t formally met my kids—Connor, Ollie, and this little tornado is Sophia Hannah Evans, also known as Snooki Pie.”
“Hi.” I wave awkwardly, offering a smile to them all, but my stomach knots as realization dawns.
Brian sent him.
He sent all of them, which—using kids to pull at my heartstrings—feels like cheating.
And the truth is, I’m not ready to see him. Not yet.
“Where are we going?” I ask, my voice betraying the smallest quiver.
“Normally, hostages don’t get clues,” Harrison says with a smirk, smoothly merging into traffic. “But Brian didn’t want you to worry. We’re taking you straight to the airport. International terminal at JFK.”
“I was worried you’d be taking me to Brian, and I’d have to tuck-and-roll,” I say, only half kidding .
“Bolting from moving vehicles is strictly prohibited,” Harrison says with a wink in the rearview mirror.
I let out a small sigh, a little relieved, until the other half of me wonders why I’m not the kind of woman worth chasing after.
“Do you know how to braid hair?” Snooki asks, already handing me a brush.
I nod confidently. “Champion braider. Three years running. Totally unofficial, but still, the title stands.” She flips through an Angelina Ballerina book—a Spenser family favorite because of Angi’s full name—and I get to work, taming her thick locks.
Soft music plays in the background, The Spinners, I think, and I catch Snooki bouncing her feet and humming along like she knows it by heart.
Working my way back to you, babe, with a burning love inside.
By this point, I can’t hold it in any longer. “Is he going to try and stop me?”
“Brian?” Harrison glances at me in the mirror. “He’d never stop anyone from chasing a dream. Least of all someone he loves.”
Loves.
The word lands on me, soft as a feather, lingering for just a second before I let it drift away. I refocus on the braid. “Her hair is amazing,” I murmur, my fingers weaving through the silky strands.
“She got those incredible locks from her mother,” he says, his voice tinged with sadness .
He said got . Past tense. And even though he’s still wearing his wedding ring, I feel the weight of their loss.
“I’m sorry,” I utter before I can stop myself.
He nods, his expression heavy with emotion, but he won’t say more in front of the kids. And I don’t press, though my heart aches for him. For all of them.
Three beautiful kids growing up without a mother. And a heartbroken father, carrying the unbearable weight of it all, silently strong, all on his own.
I can’t imagine it.
“Never go to bed mad,” he adds after a moment, his voice soft. “That’s what she used to say. And for the record, with her Italian fire and my Irish temper, it wasn’t exactly easy. But I’m so glad we never did.”
My chest tightens as I take in his words. And the storyteller in me, the part that craves knowing people on a deep, human level, aches to hear more. “What else did she used to say?”
“Lots of things. That pasta is a staple. That tiramisu without espresso is sacrilege. That life’s too short to drink bad wine. And that when you love, love with all your heart or not at all.”
Funny, I’ve tried not at all, and it was a cold, empty wasteland I acclimated to, but never enjoyed being in. But with all my heart ? Will I ever be ready for that?
Harrison continues, a small smile tugging at his lips. “She always said love is like a pretzel.”
“A pretzel?”
“Yeah. It twists you up, bends you out of shape, makes you uncomfortable. But that’s the only way it exists. And if, even through all of that, you still can’t see yourself with anyone else...that’s how you know.”
“Know what?”
“That it’s real. And the kind of love worth fighting for.”
We pull up to the curb, and even though my feet are ready to step out, my heart isn’t. I’m not sure I’ve fully processed everything—Brian, home, leaving it all behind.
But Snooki doesn’t let me linger in my thoughts. She throws her arms around me, hugging me tight. “Thanks, Princess Peach Pop!”
I smile, squeezing her back. “Anytime, Princess Snooki.”
As I start to leave, I catch Harrison’s eyes in the mirror one last time. There’s something deep in his gaze—sadness, maybe, but so much love, too. It’s like he’s showing me what it means to have love, to lose it, and keep it all together. Because he has to.
My heart squeezes. I want him to find that again.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say softly.
“Anytime,” he replies.
Once inside, I’m swallowed whole by noise and chaos. The airport hums with the frantic energy of travelers, people surging past in that take-no-prisoners stride reserved for Olympic speed walkers and New Yorkers.
I stand there, utterly turned around, so lost I can’t even tell which way is up. I try to master the flight board. It pretty much looks like a giant Battleship screen, an endless blur of cities, airlines, and the ominous trifecta of statuses: on-time, delayed, canceled.
Please don’t be canceled.
“Juliana Spenser? ”
The woman is petite and pretty, but all business—sleek suit, hair in a tight bun, looking slightly harried, like she’s done this six times already today.
“What gave it away? Is it the signature Spenser look of complete confusion in airports?”
Her giggle is genuine, but brief. “Mr. Bishop sent me. Your ticket’s been upgraded. The valet will take your luggage, and I’m here to escort you to the lounge.”
The lounge. I would protest, but at this point, I’ll go anywhere to get away from this crowd.
Eagerly, I follow on autopilot as my nerves simmer beneath the surface. “Is Mr. Bishop in the lounge?” I ask.
“I don’t believe so.”
We breeze through two sets of glass doors, and bam—five-star luxury. Champagne flows like a river, and there’s every kind of food imaginable, but I’m too anxious to eat.
I sink into a cushy seat by the window, feeling the tension in my shoulders start to ease. The woman hands me a small envelope. “Mr. Bishop asked me to give you this. But don’t open it until you’re in the air. Enjoy your flight.”
“Thanks.”
After a short while and three champagnes, boarding begins.
Doubt sinks in that much more, but still, I shuffle toward the gate, one slow step at a time.
I’m in first class, the seat so plush it could easily be a bed. I scan the cabin, hoping—no, expecting—to see him.
But he isn’t here. And when an older woman with a MacBook settles into the loungey seat next to me, I know he’s not coming.
The envelope in my hand feels like a live wire, begging to be torn open. My fingers twitch, but I do as I’m told, waiting until the plane lifts off.
His handwriting is bold, strong, and achingly familiar. My heart skips a beat as I read the words.
Jules,
Nae maeumeun dangsini issneun gose isseoyo.
Translation: My heart is where you are.