Chapter Three
Jules
“Are we going to talk about why your ex-husband showed up here this morning?” Sarge crosses his arms over his chest, watching me like he already knows the answer. “And why he dropped you and Tate off this afternoon?”
I scratch my nose, avoiding his gaze as I adjust a tray of coffee beans. “Family stuff.”
Sarge scoffs, rolling his green eyes. “He ended your marriage, Jules. Why are you hanging around with him?”
Wednesday afternoons are slow. Quiet enough that I can rearrange plants and tables and paintings—anything to make the space feel alive again. I hate when things stay in one place for too long.
I pick up a small fiddle-leaf fig in a pink ceramic pot, avoiding the conversation.
Sarge doesn’t let me.
“Tate got into a fight,” I remind him.
“Yeah, I’m aware.” His tone sharpens. “But why did Corbin show up here this morning? Why did he drive you to the school? Why did he drop you off? Unless…” His voice trails off.
I still. “Unless what?”
Sarge chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “My baby sister wouldn’t be dumb enough to sleep with the man who broke her heart, would she?”
My back stiffens. I would never . The words almost leave my mouth. But my throat tightens because that’s a lie.
Sarge watches me closely. Then he exhales. “You did, didn’t you?”
I turn, placing the fig on the window shelf. “It was an accident.”
“An accident.” He repeats it flatly. “Right. Like you tripped and fell into his bed?”
I whip around. “You don’t understand.”
“Then help me understand.”
I exhale, rubbing my temples. “Before Corbin was my husband, he was my fiancé. And before that, he was my boyfriend. And before that…” My voice drops. “He was the person I was madly in love with.”
Sarge’s jaw ticks. “Key word: was.”
I swallow hard. “He’s a lot of things to me, Sarge. Sometimes, I have a hard time sorting through what he is and isn’t.”
He leans in, his tone quiet but firm. “Jules. He’s not any of those things to you anymore.”
I cross my arms. “He’s Tate’s dad.”
“And other than raising a child together, he’s nothing.”
“I know that.” I tug at the ribbon on my flower crown, suddenly restless.
Sarge doesn’t look convinced. He shakes his head. “You have to put yourself out there. Go on a date. Meet new people. There’s more to life than Corbin Banks.”
More to life than Corbin Banks.
I chew on the inside of my cheek. Maybe. But what if no one else ever feels like home?
“I will,” I lie. “When I’m ready.”
Sarge sighs. “It’s been two years, Jules. There are other men in the world. Men you actually have things in common with.”
My throat burns.
“I’m just not ready,” I admit. “And I don’t think I ever will be. I don’t think I’ll ever feel the way I feel about Corbin for anyone else.”
Sarge watches me, reading me like a book. “What’s so special about him, Jules?”
I shake my head, smiling softly. “It’s hard to explain.”
“Try me.”
“It’s like he’s…” I pause, thinking. “He’s a blank canvas.”
Sarge lifts an eyebrow.
“And I’m watercolors and molding clay and worn paintbrushes,” I continue. “And he let me create over and over again on his blank canvas.”
A memory flickers in my mind. Corbin lying in bed, tracing his fingers over my paint-stained hands.
Sarge leans against the counter. “Until he was done with your creations and dumped your ass.”
The words punch the air from my lungs. I blink hard. “I know Corbin and I don’t work.” I glance toward my office, checking to make sure Tate isn’t listening. “It was one night, Sarge. Let it go.”
My brother exhales. “I saw the way he was looking at you, Jules.” His voice is almost gentle now. “It wasn’t one night to him.”
My throat tightens.
“I don’t care what it was to him,” I say, lifting my chin. “It’s over.”
Sarge tilts his head. “But is it?”
I force a shrug. “He has Susan.”
His whole face scrunches. “He has a girlfriend? And you still slept with him?”
“I didn’t know about her until this morning,” I snap, defensive. “Or I never would have, you know, painted his blank canvas.”
Sarge throws up both hands. “I don’t need visuals, thanks.”
A sigh pulls from my chest. “I know how bad this looks, okay? That’s why it won’t happen again.”
Sarge studies me for a long moment. Then, finally, he nods. “I have to head out on deliveries.” He gestures over his shoulder. “Just don’t let him back in, Jules.”
I feel something splinter in my chest.
“You worked so hard to create this amazing life for yourself.” His tone changes. “In spite of him.”
That’s what he thinks. That I built this life to spite Corbin. But the truth is I built it because I had to. Because if I didn’t pour myself into something—my shop, my son—I would’ve drowned in the heartache of losing him.
I swallow hard. “It won’t happen again.”
Sarge’s green eyes soften. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I just love you.” He hesitates. “And the thought that he might hurt you again? I don’t know how you and Tate would get through that.”
I drop my gaze. “I know.”
Sarge leaves, and the air feels too still without him.
I stare at the spot where he stood, his words lingering.
Corbin didn’t just break my heart when he filed for divorce. He broke Tate’s, too. And now, Tate is forgetting things. Acting out.
I can’t let Corbin back in.
Not when my son needs me more.
I watch from the window as my brother’s car disappears down the road. Sarge has always looked out for me. Always.
After our dad left when we were kids, it was just the two of us holding each other together while everything else fell apart.
Sarge and Corbin used to be close. Best friends, even. Brothers. Until Corbin left me. And I think, in some way, Sarge felt like he left him, too.
Because Sarge and me? We don’t do well when people leave.
I need a distraction.
I water African violets. Peace lilies. Orchids. Strings of hearts. I pour myself into the soil and leaves and petals, hoping that as the flowers grow, so will my resolve.
After I close up the shop, I toss my flower crown into the empty basket where I keep my Wednesday creations.
Every Wednesday, I make flower crowns for my customers and hand them out.
Because I believe too many people miss out on the beauty of small things.
Flower crowns. Coffee beans. Rainbow sprinkles.
Dollops of whipped cream. They make life sweeter.
And if I can give someone that—even for a moment—then I will.
“Mom?”
Tate’s small fingers squeeze mine as we walk down the block toward our apartment above the bakery on Main Street. The bruise on his cheekbone is now plum-colored.
“Yeah, bud?”
His little shoulders slump. “I know I’m supposed to be with Dad tonight… but I’d rather stay with you.”
I lick my lips, my gaze flicking ahead to the curb. To Corbin’s car. He’s already here.
Tate notices the second I do, his grip tightening in my palm.
“I’ll talk to Dad,” I say gently.
Our pace slows as Corbin steps out of the car, running a hand through his dark hair.
The last shreds of daylight cast golden rays across his sharp jawline, his high cheekbones, his gorgeous, unreadable face.
My heart kicks against my ribs.
“Hey, bud.” Corbin’s voice is smooth, easy, like this is any other night. I watch as he ruffles our son’s hair. The way Tate leans into the touch, like he needs it. “You ready to go?”
Tate hesitates. His blue eyes darting to mine.
I clear my throat. “Tate would like to stay here tonight if that’s okay with you.”
Corbin’s gaze falters. And for the first time in years, I see him completely unguarded. Worried. Upset. Unsure.
“I, uh…” I fidget with the strap of my bag. “I was going to make spaghetti and meatballs…” I trail off. Then, before I can stop myself— “If you wanted to stay for dinner.”
Corbin’s brows lift slightly. I’ve never invited him up before. He’s never even stepped inside the stairwell.
His surprise is evident, but he nods. “Yeah. That sounds good.”
Tate lights up. He tugs on Corbin’s hand. “Come on, Dad! You have to meet Igor!”
“Who’s Igor?” Corbin asks.
“My snake.”
Corbin blinks. “Your what?”
I press my lips together, holding back a smile as he follows Tate inside.
We climb the wooden staircase, and I fumble in my purse for the keys. My fingers tremble slightly. Why am I nervous? Corbin’s house is pristine. A minimalist dream. Mine? Lived-in. Warm. A little chaotic.
I step aside to let them in first. As Corbin passes, his hand grazes mine. A silent thank you.
Tate races to his room, his feet working double time as he goes to grab his robotic snake.
I exhale, setting my purse on the crowded coffee table and moving toward the kitchen. Dishes overflow in the sink. Flower petals cover the countertops.
It’s a mess.
And I hate that I suddenly care.
“This place looks like you,” Corbin says warmly, edged with something almost nostalgic.
I grab a pot from the faded yellow cabinets, filling it with water. “I’m sorry it’s a mess.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, my face burns.
Corbin pauses. Then, softly— “I don’t mind. I know how hard you work.”
His eyes scan the apartment. The mismatched dishes. The books stacked in uneven towers. The sketches pinned to the walls. “If I didn’t have cleaners, my house wouldn’t look like it does.”
I laugh, glancing over my shoulder. “You folded my thong, Corbin.”
His lips twitch. “I did.”
“Even without cleaners, your place would still look like a museum.”
His smile lingers. There’s something lighter in the air now. Something almost… familiar. I hate that I miss it.
“Dad!” Tate’s holler cuts through the moment.
Corbin’s eyes lingers on my lips. Then, finally, he turns, following the sound of our son’s voice.
I exhale sharply, gripping the counter, trying to quiet the ache pressing beneath my ribs. Because for a second—just one stupid second—I let myself forget that Corbin isn’t my home anymore.
From the living room, Tate’s eager voice fills the space as he introduces Corbin to all his stuffed animals, and Igor, his robotic snake.