Chapter 7 #2
“How was it?” He knew Liam and me too well for this to be a casual question. He wanted to know how many meltdowns we had to endure during the experience.
“It was…crazy!” I admitted because talking to George still felt natural and familiar. He had been my friend long before anything else, and I was so glad our friendship mostly survived our failed marriage.
With him, it felt safe to share some of my quirks, my rhythms, and the way I thought.
In small doses, of course, but still. For as far as I could remember, I’d been the girl with the walls up, keeping people at a safe distance.
Years of feeling like an alien forced to live among humans had trained me to guard my true feelings to myself.
But George had caught glimpses of what lay on the other side of the wall.
And I missed that. I missed him. I hated that even though we were still, technically, friends, I had to measure every word and navigate our conversations through a minefield.
Never knowing what was acceptable in our new setting.
I set my phone against the mirror, freeing my hands, and took off my accessories—earrings, bracelets, necklaces— each item back in its designated spot, like a little robot in a production line.
“Too many people?” He guessed, picking up on my exhaustion.
“Yeah, let’s go with that.” I wasn’t going to mention the real reason I was spiraling. Kissing Chris Jones at a Comic-Con wasn’t exactly the kind of thing you casually drop into a conversation with your ex. Right?
Adjusting to having a filter when talking to George sucked.
“How did he handle it?” He softened his voice when asking about his son.
“Better than I did, honestly,” I laughed, remembering how Liam had handled the insane day like a champ.
I’d braced myself for a major meltdown within the first hour, but nope, he surprised me.
I was so proud of him. Sometimes, the idea of him missing out because of the same sensory issues I struggled with worried me.
Today didn’t mean he’d overcome them completely, not by a long shot, but it was a step forward, and I clung to that.
“I’m sorry,” George said, and I could tell he felt guilty for sending me to that war zone.
“It’s okay.”
“I promise I’ll take him to the next convention.
” He said, his smile wide, thinking about it.
They could talk for hours about comic books, superheroes, and robots.
I knew he was feeling a little left out, probably wishing he’d been the one to take Liam today.
But he was out of town for a good reason.
He was away on a work trip, meeting a potential client for a career-changing opportunity.
The fact that he’d actually considered rescheduling showed how much family came first to him, even over the work he loved so much.
“Oh, yes, you will.” I teased, smiling at the thought of the two of them geeking out together and me being nowhere near it.
“Maybe we could all go together. The four of us. Like old times…” George said, his voice careful, but the meaning was clear.
He still hoped. Still wanted that picture-perfect family back.
Emphasis on the picture because that was the only place we were perfect.
And he knew that even if he didn’t want to admit it yet.
I smiled, tight-lipped, unsure of what to say that I hadn’t already said a hundred times before. It had been long enough. He should’ve stopped trying by now.
Sensing the shift, he quickly pivoted. “But come on… it was at least a little fun, right? Did you guys get to see anyone famous?” And there it was—the thing I’d been dreading. Lying wasn’t exactly my strong suit, especially to George.
404 error on my brain, and before I could stop myself, the words tumbled out.
“We met Chris Jones, actually.”
What the actual fuck, Jules?
“Oh, really?” George laughed. He obviously thought I was joking. “Great timing! Now that you’re single, you could go for it!”
I faked a chuckle, hoping that would be the end of it. He had no reason to think I was being serious. I mean, come on. In what universe did a 34-year-old divorcee with chipped nails and bags under her eyes ended up on a date with 2022 People’s Sexiest Man Alive? The math wasn’t mathing.
But George was always freakishly perceptive and could always tell when I was hiding something. His laughter faded, and his tone shifted.
“Jules? What is it?”
I froze. My mind scrambled to find a way out of this, but instead of making up a story, any story, I heard myself say it. Out loud. Like an idiot.
“I’m actually going on a date with him… tonight.”
I needed to double my therapy sessions because I was obviously insane and in need of serious treatment.
Did I say it to hurt him? My heart ached with guilt instantly. Maybe I did.
Some part of me wanted to throw it out there, to say, “I’m moving on,” and he shouldn’t keep sending me freaking flowers every damn week.
Or maybe I was being an actual bitch, letting my anger take over, like, “Since you took me for granted for so many years, I went and found myself a Hollywood A-lister instead.”
Bitter. Ouch. I would feel guilty for a second. But not for too long because, in some capacity, he deserved it.
For the longest time, there was only silence long enough that I thought the call had dropped.
“George?” I asked, grabbing my phone from the table.
When he finally spoke, his voice had that forced sarcasm he got when he was trying to sound fine but absolutely wasn’t.
“That’s not fair, Jules! How the hell am I supposed to top that? Your first date after the divorce is with Chris Jones?”
He forced a laugh, one that couldn’t fool anyone.
The hurt in his voice cut right through me.
Maybe I went too far here. I knew he’d have to watch me move on eventually, like I knew about the dates he’d been on over the last few months.
But this felt different, even though he couldn’t possibly understand the extent of it.
Yes, he knew I had a tendency to daydream and knew that Chris had been my celebrity crush. But he didn’t know the whole complex world I’d built in my head. He didn’t know that Chris had existed in my daydreams long before he had entered my life.
I cleared my throat, trying to maintain a steady voice, and asked, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, of course,” he said, way too fast. “I’m… happy for you.”
“Thanks…” I forced out. My big mouth had already messed everything up, so I left it at that.
He quickly steered the conversation.
“So, is Carol staying with the kids?”
“She is.”
“Good, good,” he mumbled, rushing his words like he couldn’t get out of the conversation fast enough. “I’ll be home Monday. I’ll pick them up then.”
“George—” I started, but he cut me off.
“Hey, I’ve got to go, Jules. Don’t want to be late for this meeting.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Okay. Bye.” He abruptly ended the call.
I stood there, the phone still clutched in my hand. I hit it against my forehead three times, muttering,
“Fuck, fuck, fuck…”
I yanked open the vanity drawer, and of course, my eyes landed right on our wedding photo.
There we were, smiling, looking every bit like the perfect couple everyone thought we were.
And then, eventually, the perfect family.
The kind people envied. We had the whole act down.
The park picnics, loud cheers at school plays, and showing up to every family gathering hand in hand.
That was all anyone ever saw—the flawless, outside version of us.
No one saw the cracks beneath it all. No one noticed the autopilot I’d been running on for years, like a robot that knew how to play perfect wife and mom when the inside of me was in shambles.
My mind would drift away at the worst moments, no matter how much I wanted it to stay.
I was constantly at war with myself, trying to be present, trying to… feel.
I was bleeding inside, and nobody even knew. Not even George. He might have gotten closer than anyone else to the other side of the wall, but he was still on the outside. And eventually, being married to someone who wasn’t fully there probably wore him down.
He’d never admit it or be the one to walk away. No. He was too proud of the TV-worthy family he’d constructed for the world to see. But behind closed doors—when it was just him and me— there was no spark left. No real effort from either of us to be what the other needed anymore.
That’s the hardest, isn’t it? When no one’s done anything particularly terrible, nothing you can point to and say, “This is why.” But you were still so unhappy that, at some point, you had to say something. You had to leave.
I stared at the photo, my chest tightening with that familiar pain it always brought.
Part of me wanted to grab it and toss it out, but I couldn’t.
I wasn’t even ready to touch it, let alone part with it.
Instead, I shoved the box with my accessories back into the drawer on top of the frame, hoping that hiding it would somehow quiet the ache.
Spoiler: It didn't.