Chapter Three #2
While they talk, I fall into the familiar rhythm of cooking. I boil pasta. Simmer sauce from scratch. Shape meatballs with practiced hands. Toss garlic bread into the oven.
By the time Tate has forced Corbin to memorize every stuffed animal’s name, dinner is ready.
“Tate?” I call. “Can you set the table?”
Corbin pokes his head into the kitchen. “I can do it.”
I motion to the mismatched dishes stacked on the shelf above the sink. Corbin grabs three plates while I dig around for utensils.
It’s... comfortable. Like it used to be. And I don’t know how to feel about that.
Tate talks through the entire meal, his excitement spilling over in waves. He keeps saying how happy he is that Corbin and I are here together. And as I watch him grin from ear to ear, something inside me twists. He’s not an unhappy kid. But this? This feels like joy.
And it makes me wonder—why didn’t we try harder to figure this out for him?
After dinner, Corbin and Tate handle the dishes while I move through the living room, tidying up. I hang coats. Straighten couch pillows. Adjust picture frames on the bookshelf. I hate that I feel so self-conscious about the mess.
Corbin has never made a big deal about my inability to keep things perfect the way he does, but still. What if he’s silently judging me?
“Can Dad read me my bedtime story after my shower?” Tate asks, practically bouncing on his toes. “Dad, you can pick out the book!”
I glance at Corbin. There’s hope in his expression. Too much of it.
So, I nod. “Yeah, of course.”
Tate beams. They disappear down the hall.
I exhale and put the teapot on the stove, pressing a hand to my face. Eventually, Tate will go to bed. And then it will be just Corbin and me. The last time that happened, we wound up in bed together. I can’t let that happen again.
Forty-five minutes later, Corbin steps into the kitchen. “He’s passed out.”
I clutch my mug, my stomach twisting into a tangled knot.
“Do you want some tea?”
A slow smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “This feels like déjà vu.”
Oh. Right. He offered me a drink last night, and then we…
Anyway.
I clear my throat. “Thank you for letting him stay here tonight.”
Corbin leans against the counter, crossing his arms. There’s an effortless confidence about him. He always looks like he belongs exactly where he is.
Meanwhile, I feel unsteady in my own skin. Like I’m a mess, and he’s a masterpiece.
“It’s been a long day for him,” Corbin says, tilting his head.
I let out a breath. “It’s been a long day for all of us.”
Corbin pushes off the counter and moves closer. “Jules.”
The way he says my name—low, careful—sends something warm curling through my stomach. I bite my lower lip as his eyes roam my face.
I can tell he wants to say something real. Honest. But instead, he settles with, “You’re a good mom.”
My heart dips. “Thank you.”
“Tate is really lucky to have you.” He offers a crooked smile.
“He’s lucky to have you too, Corbin.”
Corbin exhales. “I should go.” But then, almost hesitantly—“I think we should try doing this once a week. Have dinner together. For Tate.”
My pulse stumbles.
Spend more time with Corbin? That sounds like a terrible idea. But Tate… Tate would love it.
I manage a small smile. “I think he’d really like that.”
“I’ll text you, and we can coordinate for next week,” he says. “Let’s plan for Wednesdays. I’ll cook.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“I’ll pick Tate up on Sunday.” He watches me carefully. “Right now, he needs you more.”
I press a hand against my chest, steadying my breath. “If you have time tomorrow morning, you should stop by the coffee shop for breakfast with him,” I say.
Corbin blinks. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
His gaze lingers. Then, he inhales sharply. “I should go.”
I want to tell him he should stay. That we should sit on the couch with mugs of tea and talk about Tate. Talk about what happened last night. Talk about why our son is forgetting things because of how much he has to go back and forth.
But I don’t say any of that.
Because Corbin pulls me into a hug, and I swallow the words.
I lay my head against his shoulder, letting him hold me. I’ve let him do a lot of that today. His hands smooth up and down my back, gentle, steady. Something in my chest clenches, and before I can stop myself—
“Corbin,” I murmur.
His heart beats against mine. Then, after a breath, he pulls away. “See you tomorrow, Jules.”
I walk him to the door. Watch as he leaves. Lock up behind him. And suddenly, my chest is full of emotions I don’t know how to name.
I’ve never been good at putting feelings into words. I’ve always been better with paint. With a blank canvas and a worn brush in hand. With Corbin standing behind me, whispering, “Create.”
But whatever I feel for Corbin has to come second. Tate’s well-being comes first. Corbin walked away from our marriage in one piece. I didn’t. And neither did Tate. I can’t let my careless mistakes break my son the same way again.
Tomorrow, I’ll be civil to Corbin.
But late nights, lingering touches, him holding me like this?
That’s over.
I press my lips together, fighting the lump in my throat as I head toward my bedroom.
Tonight, I’m sleeping alone.