Chapter 21 #2
“I’m fine,” he mumbled.
“No, you’re not,” I snapped, pulling his arm back so he could look at me.
Even drunk and half-frozen, his stupid eyes had a pull on me.
Could alcohol make them less blue? Right now, they looked dimmer, clouded over.
I hesitated, chewing the inside of my cheek before letting out a sigh. “Can we please come in?”
Chris’ eyes dropped to my lips, and I realized they were probably tinged blue from the cold.
His gaze shifted down, landing on my bare feet planted on the snow-covered ground.
I was freezing. His expression softened into concern, and his hand twitched, like he was about to reach for me.
But he caught himself. Worry flickered through his eyes before he straightened abruptly, slipping back into that fake, unattached look.
“Whatever…” he muttered.
We walked back, and I held the door open for him as we moved inside. The warmth of the house hit me, but it was still not enough to chase the cold from my bones.
“Shit, it’s cold,” I whispered to myself as I shut the door, still shivering.
Chris walked ahead of me without a word.
My eyes betrayed me, slipping down to those broad shoulders and the way his jacket pulled tight over his arms. Those stupidly delicious arms. Arms that could wrap me up and warm me in an instant.
Stop it, Jules. Seriously. Get a grip.
He suddenly stopped and turned to face me, his voice so devastatingly broken.
“Why didn’t you text me the address? I was serious about going with you. And if you didn’t want me to… why didn’t you say something?”
“What? I…” The words got tangled in my brain.
What was he even talking about? Then I noticed our voices were probably echoing up the stairs.
Shit. It was three a.m., and if he woke the children and I had to deal with two cranky kids tomorrow while being drowsy and sleep-deprived, I was going to end him.
“Come on,” I whispered and guided him toward the living room.
He let me guide him without argument, his steps slow and unsteady, like he’d burned through the last of his energy.
He slumped onto the couch, sinking deep into the cushions with a defeated sigh.
I stood there, looking at him properly. His shoulders were slouched, his face worn.
He looked so tired and crushed, and even though I was still angry with him, my heart broke a little.
I wondered if this was some sick, twisted game—telling me all the things he did the last time we saw each other, disappearing for a month, and then showing up in the middle of the night to wreck my sleep.
But if this was just a game, why did he look as messed up as I felt? Maybe even worse?
“I’ll get you something to eat. Wait here,” I said softly.
One thing at a time: first, make sure the drunk man doesn’t wake your children up.
Then make sure he doesn’t storm off and get himself killed.
Then attempt to get some damn sleep because I had an important meeting tomorrow.
And finally, book an emergency therapy session—because, at this rate, I had no idea how much longer I could hold on to my sanity.
I headed into the kitchen, trying not to make any noise.
With the open floor plan, Chris had a clear view of me as I moved around.
I could feel his eyes on me, and I kept my focus on the cabinets.
I opened the nearest one and grabbed the first package I saw, my hand closing around a box of those awful gluten-free cookies I bought for Liam on a whim. My eyes, though, drifted back to Chris.
He’d straightened up a bit and was looking down at the coffee table in front of him.
Specifically, at one of Nova’s drawings.
It was a chaotic little masterpiece—our whole family, surrounded by an army of dogs because, of course, she wouldn’t let go of the idea of us getting a puppy.
He was smiling. It lit up his whole face, softening the weariness and sadness I’d seen earlier.
For a second, it almost softened me up, too. Almost.
Then I noticed what his hand was doing.
He was reaching for the folder underneath the drawing. Oh, shit. My script.
Don’t read that.
My heart jumped into my throat. I abandoned the cup of milk I planned to grab and practically sprinted back to the living room, trying to keep my steps quiet but fast.
“I have this awful gluten-free cookie,” I said quickly, shoving the cookie at him.
He looked up at me, the faintest flicker of amusement in his tired eyes.
Then, holding up the folder, he said, “So, you’re also a writer here…” He referenced our shared dream, the one where I’d made it as a screenwriter. That’s how we’d met there.
Dream, Jules, I reminded myself firmly. Dream.
“It’s more of a hobby,” I dismissed it as casually as I could. I didn’t want to talk about it. The memory of the days when I believed I could make something of it was still too raw, too painful.
“Can I read it?” he asked.
“No way!” I blurted, snatching the script from his hands before he could open it.
“Eat!” I insisted, shoving the cookie closer to him and sitting down on the couch, a little too close to him, without even noticing it might be too much.
I only realized I should probably have chosen the chair instead when his scent wrapped all around me—his cedar cologne mixed with the sharp tang of alcohol, making my head spin.
Chris hesitated, then took a bite and immediately regretted it. He held the rest of it out toward me, wincing like I poisoned him.
“Don’t make me eat more. It’s…”
“Terrible, I know,” I finished for him, rolling my eyes.
He laughed, and I couldn’t help but join in.
It didn’t take long for the laughter to fade, replaced by something heavier as our eyes locked.
That pull between us was back, the one I couldn’t seem to escape. When we were this close, it took over.
“Why can’t we make this work?” Chris murmured.
My mind instantly jumped to the list. Oh, there were plenty of reasons.
Reason one: he was an asshole. Not all the time, sure, but often enough.
And I couldn’t afford that kind of chaos.
Reason two: my kids. I had to protect them from the whole celebrity circus.
That kind of life? Paparazzi, constant scrutiny?
It was the opposite of what I wanted for them—or for myself, honestly.
Reason three: I was too broken. Years of living in a haze, half-asleep and half-awake, had left me barely holding myself together.
The idea of taking on his asshole-building traumas when I could barely handle my own?
No way. There was no point in saying any of it, though.
No point in listing all the ways we would never work.
Whatever life we shared in our dreams could never exist here. Maybe if we had met sooner, like in the dreams, we wouldn’t have been so shattered. Maybe we could’ve helped each other heal and grow together instead of apart. But “maybes” had no place in a single mom’s life.
“You should sleep,” I could barely get the words out. “It’s the weekend, so the kids won’t be up until nine or ten. Just… try to leave before then.”
He leaned in, and I thought about resisting.
For a second, I told myself to turn away, to shut it down.
But I knew this would probably be the last time I ever saw him.
I might as well get one last kiss. His lips brushed against mine, soft and hesitant at first. Then a little firmer.
It wasn’t the kind of kiss that made the world fade away.
It was the kind that made you aware of everything—the air between us, the heat of his body close to mine, his beard brushing my skin.
He pulled back, and we stayed close for a while, our foreheads resting together. I wanted to touch his face, feel my fingers weave through his beard again, and let him pull me closer until nothing else mattered. Yet, I couldn’t.
My breathing was unsteady from the thought alone when I whispered, “I can’t do this… be the movie star’s girlfriend.”
Chris leaned back and met my gaze, looking almost sober, his eyes clearer.
“But you are. You are the movie star’s… wife.”
Wife. The weight of the word crushed my chest.
I wanted so badly to be that person we’d been dreaming about.
The version of myself that felt whole, light, and joyful.
I felt myself almost slipping into a daydream.
I wanted to remember what it looked like.
It had been so long since I got sucked up into one.
The edges of reality blurred like I was stepping out of my body.
No. Not now. I curled my fingers into my palms, pressing my nails hard into the skin.
I needed to stay present to finish this.
“Not here, I’m not,” I said softly, my hand reaching for his face.
My fingers gently traced the lines of his jaw, memorizing every detail.
I wanted to take it all in. The daydreams weren’t enough anymore.
I wanted real memories. Something to hold onto when this all inevitably disappeared.
Chris caught my hand before I reached his neck.
His eyes dropped to my palm, and I realized what he was looking at—the angry half-moon marks pressed into my skin.
His thumb brushed over them, then he lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it. Once. Twice.
“Don’t,” he whispered against my skin. “I’m here.
” Another kiss, this one lingering. “I hate when you do that,” he said louder this time, his eyes locking onto mine.
I gave him a sad smile. I knew that it meant he used to see me do it in our shared dream, because, in reality, I was pretty sure I’d never done it in front of him before.
I pulled my hand back and rose from the couch. Our fingers slowly slipped away from each other.
“Get some rest,” I murmured. Then I turned and walked toward the stairs, leaving him there alone. Halfway up, I paused, brushing my fingers over my lips. I could still feel him there, the ghost of his kiss. It was comforting. It was painful.
I woke up to the cheerful clatter of kitchen utensils and the unmistakable sound of my children’s laughter.
My wild and bright copper hair had fallen across my face, covering my eyes.
I brushed it aside, blinking awake as a smile tugged at my lips.
The room I was in stopped me in my tracks.
I sat up slowly, taking in the elegant, surreal space around me.
The bed was massive, with luxurious bedding, and framed by a vintage and expensive canopy.
A chandelier sparkled in the soft morning light, the sun’s narrow rays catching on the crystals and scattering reflections across the ceiling.
“That’s great!” Chris’ voice floated up from downstairs. I froze for a second, letting the sound of his voice sink in. And then laughter. The kind of carefree, joyful sound that felt like home. My chest tightened as I listened, and I couldn’t help but smile.
“I think that’s enough chocolate chips!” he called out, his tone half-serious, half-laughing. The sound of little giggles followed.
I stretched, still savoring the comfort of the bed. My hair brushed against my back as I sat up. It was incredibly soft. Then, my eyes fell on something across the room.
A picture frame.
It sat on a dresser made of real, polished wood. I focused on the photograph. It was a photograph of Chris and me. We were in full glam mode. His arms wrapped tightly around my waist, his lips pressed softly to mine. We looked so… in love.
“You’re not here.” A voice in my head whispered. The smile faded from my face, and I looked down at my hands, my palms soft and unmarked. No scars, no red crescents left behind by nails digging in too deep.
I pressed my nails into them—hard. Nothing.
Panic bubbled in my chest as my eyes darted around the room.
Suddenly, everything shifted. The vibrant colors of the walls and furniture dulled like someone had drained the life out of them.
I blinked hard, the picture frame on the dresser wavered, and the image dissolved into a fog.
One by one, the luxurious pieces of the room melted away.
And then I woke up. I was in my real bed, my breath coming fast and shallow.
My heart pounded as reality slammed into me like stepping off a violent roller coaster.
My palms were in my lap, and I turned them over, staring.
This time, the crescent marks were there.
Slightly red lines dug deep into the skin, overlapping with the older, already faded scars.
But the sounds were still there—Chris’ voice, the laughter of children.
I stayed still, waiting, hoping they’d fade away like the rest. Then… I heard it again.
“Grab me those. Yeah! Thanks,” his voice called out, clear and unmistakable, coming from the kitchen.
This wasn’t a dream. It was real.
I leaped out of bed, my pulse racing, and grabbed the robe hanging on the back of the door. I threw it on and rushed out of the room, my mind spinning as I hurried downstairs.