Chapter 2
JULES
Thump thump thump.
The sharp knocks pulled me out like a bucket of cold water, and I was back. The elegant celebrities, the blinding flashes of the cameras, the hum of a crowd calling my name. All gone.
I blinked, trying to make sense of where I was.
My bedroom.
The musky green walls and the quirky, mismatched decoration were unmistakable. The buzz of the dream applause still echoed in my ears for a second before it was completely gone.
Great. Now I had a major headache that wasn’t there before.
Another daydream.
My hand was tingling, and I realized I’d been holding my mascara up mid-movement for too long.
Before it could finally touch my lashes, my eyes met my reflection.
I wanted to focus on every feature to bring myself fully back to reality, but the woman in the vanity mirror looked…
rough. My eyes looked pitch black in this lighting, rimmed with dark circles—a reminder of how fucking tired I constantly was.
And my hair, in the messiest of buns, desperately needed a gloss to revive the fiery red tone to its full glory.
“Mom! We have to go!” Liam’s voice rolled from the hallway. His urgency snapped me out of my daze.
Eight-years-old. My firstborn, my little boy, was suddenly not so little anymore.
If I tried hard enough, I could still feel his baby hands holding my fingers, though the memories always felt blurred around the edges.
Sure, I was there, but I hadn’t been there, not really.
I had spent much of those early motherhood years dissociating to survive.
It was like watching someone else living my life, floating outside my body while time passed.
My aunt praised me for rocking my babies to sleep for hours, admiring my patience and dedication. The reality? I was often completely lost in a daydream, like a second ago. My only consolation was that it was better than the wild 90s parenting advice she would have me follow instead.
I looked down at the desk. What a mess!
I swept all the clutter, mascara included, into one of the drawers.
Tucked among the loose odds and ends was a photo—a wedding picture.
The frame looked brand new, even though the image had been there for almost a decade.
My ex-husband George and I stood side by side, his arms wrapped around my waist. He looked tall and wide-shouldered, his dark hair slicked back perfectly.
We were smiling like we had the whole world figured out. So young and naive.
Little did we know.
Looking at those frozen smiles now was like a punch to the gut. A reminder from a past life that barely felt like mine anymore. My gaze traveled through the picture and landed on my hand, hanging by my side, holding a shot glass overflowing with tequila.
Of course, I couldn’t take a normal, boring wedding picture.
It made me chuckle.
She used to be fun, that girl. A total mess, sure. Reckless, impulsive, and always getting herself into trouble, but damn, she was fun. I didn’t necessarily miss the chaos, but I missed… her.
I ran my fingers over the frame, and an ache in my chest grew sharper. Every time I looked at this picture, it hurt. Every single time. How had we gone from that hopeful day to… now?
I was lost, not in a daydream but in a vicious cycle of hurtful thoughts. With my head, it was often one or the other.
Stop. Be human. Now.
I shut the drawer more forcefully than necessary, as if slamming it closed would lock the memories away. Then, I took a deep breath and turned to the closet, opening the doors to reveal my neatly arranged closet.
Color. Freaking. Coded.
My fingers brushed over the different fabrics, checking what level of discomfort I could endure today, and the answer was none. So I grabbed a cotton T-shirt and tugged it over my head, but the moment that tag scraped my neck…
Nope. Not today, Satan.
I yanked at it, trying to rip it off, but the damn thing wouldn’t budge. I tore the shirt off and tossed it onto the floor.
Tag, 1. Jules, 0.
I returned to my closet and grabbed the softest shirt I could find. My skin had yet to recover from the irritation, so I wasn’t going to push it. I got dressed so quickly that I had to check if I had fully hooked my bra on my way downstairs.
As I passed through the living room, my eyes caught on a bouquet of roses sitting on the coffee table. I didn’t want to go near it. I didn’t have to. I already knew who it was from. But it was off-center. Enough to throw off the balance of my perfectly arranged room.
No, no, no.
I moved toward it, reaching out to nudge it back into place. My hands hovered, adjusting it slightly. One more tiny shift… there. Perfect. My fingers accidentally brushed against the card.
“From: George To: Jules.”
I took a deep breath. This was precisely why I didn’t want to look. Now, I had to deal with it. I had to call him. Again. And ask him, again, to stop sending me flowers every damn week.
“Mom! We’ll be late.” Liam’s voice sounded even more impatient this time.
I blinked, shaking my head as if to clear the fog, and hurried into the kitchen.
I avoided looking directly at the countertops as they looked like a battlefield of half-made lunches and snacks.
It was a sign the kids had tried, and failed, to pack their food, so I wasn’t going to say anything that would discourage them from keep trying. But the mess bothered me way too much.
I grabbed a microfiber cloth to clean the surface so I could finish packing. Apples for Liam and clementines for Nova. I moved quickly, almost automatically, like muscle memory kicking in. And then something stopped me.
A strong, unfamiliar scent hit my nose, breaking my streak. My brows furrowed as I sniffed the air.
“What’s that smell?” I muttered, mostly to myself, as I scanned the room.
My eyes found Carol stepping out from behind the refrigerator door.
Long walnut-brown hair cascaded over her shoulders in that effortlessly messy way she always managed to pull off.
Her outfit was another work of art. It was a mix of vintage prints and colors that no sane person would ever think to combine, yet she made it look like she’d stepped out of a fashion magazine.
And, of course, the tattoos. Her arms were like an open journal, with drawings telling stories of her life all inked there for the world to see.
God, she was so beautiful.
Carol was the pretty sibling—the fashionable, edgy one. I didn’t envy her, but I genuinely looked up to her. I wished I could be that free, that bold.
Meanwhile, here I was, stuck in my safe zone of 100% cotton shirts, skirts (because fabric touching my knees felt like a slow and painful death), and blazers. My closet was a sea of neutrals and a haven of textures that wouldn’t stab me like tiny needles all day.
At least I could have fun with the prints.
Today, I wore my all-time favorite: “May you have the confidence of a mediocre white man.” A quiet greeting to my younger self, the one who was always raging against the patriarchy and flipping people off.
The spirit was still there… I was just so, so tired now.
My sister stood across the kitchen with her perfect hair and an open bottle in hand. “Kombucha!” she announced. “You can’t possibly smell it from over there. Don’t be dramatic.”
Disgusting.
I wrinkled my nose, trying to ignore the scent that made my stomach twist, and turned back to slicing apples.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nova and her beautiful bronze curls bounce up the counter.
My youngest. My, let’s say… spirited little girl.
In her hands, a children’s book full of dog pictures.
She held it up and looked at me with her huge, hopeful eyes.
“Can we adopt a dog?” She asked, pointing to a fluffy puppy with a pink bow.
I tried, and failed, to hold a laugh. She was too damn cute for her own good.
“We already adopted Aunt Carol,” I said with a smirk. “That should be enough, don’t you think?”
Nova frowned, unimpressed. “Aunt Carol isn’t cute.”
Carol responded, “Excuse me?” without missing a beat, and took another dramatic sip of her kombucha, “Rude.”
I gave my sister a playful once-over, then turned back to Nova.
“Well, she could brush her hair a little more often and maybe use a lighter perfume, but I think she’s cute enough.”
“Argh!” Nova let out a groan of frustration.
“What? Do you want her to bark too?” I teased, barely able to keep a straight face.
Always ready for a joke, Carol turned dramatically toward Nova, letting out a loud, hearty “Woof!” And that was it. We were all guffawing. Well, most of us, anyway. Nova stood her ground, arms crossed, glaring at us like we’d ruined her entire week.
“Why are you guys so weird?” She huffed, stomping off toward the couch like a pint-sized diva. Six years old, and she already had the sass level of a teenager.
Where did she get that temper?
Well, that was easy. Me. That was clearly young Jules’ attitude right there.
Liam, who’d been quietly reading at the kitchen table this whole time, finally chimed in without looking up from his book.
“Nova, I hate to break it to you, but it’s genetic. You’ll probably end up as weird as the rest of us.”
“Oh, definitely,” Carol said with a sly grin. “And we’re also very heat intolerant.”
True.
“Don’t forget all the tummy issues,” I added as I closed the lunchboxes.
“Sorry.” My sister and I said in unison. I was indeed sorry for the lousy genetics, but at least no one could say we weren’t good at having fun at our own expense. Silver lining, I guess.
Nova finally burst into giggles. That sound was one of my absolute favorites.
I was back into the morning chaos. I grabbed the school bags and handed them to the kids. Then I paused for a second, leaned against the counter, and watched as they bounced towards the door.
Despite the age difference, they looked so alike with their bronze curly hair and hazel eyes.
But their personalities? Night and day. Nova was my little firecracker, always on the move, bold as hell, and completely unafraid to charm, or bulldoze, anyone in her path.
Liam, on the other hand, was a classical overthinker.
Quieter, more reserved, happiest when he could tuck himself away with one of his elaborate LEGO creations.
Yet, somehow, they were best friends. They were magic. Inseparable. They didn’t know it yet, but they had something rare they’d cherish for the rest of their lives. I would know. I had that with Carol.
They were halfway out the door while I dragged my body behind them like I needed a motivational speech to make it to the car.
I glanced over at Carol with a defeated look.
She looked back, snuffed at her kombucha, and raised an eyebrow.
Her face twisted in a grimace so dramatic I thought she would drop the bottle.
“Maybe you weren’t being so dramatic…”
Yes, of course. Kombucha is revolting.
And I was out the door.