Chapter Four
Corbin
I shouldn’t be nervous. It’s just breakfast. Just sitting at a table with my son, drinking coffee, and pretending not to notice his mother.
Except I do notice her. I always have.
I spot her the second I step inside. She’s behind the counter, laughter slipping from her lips, the sound carrying over the low hum of morning conversations.
A bright pink flower is tucked behind her ear, and she’s wearing one of her ridiculous coffee-themed T-shirts.
This one says Espresso Junkie with a cartoon espresso shot tap dancing.
I choke back a laugh.
Tate sees me before Jules does. His whole face lights up, and he waves frantically from a booth by the window.
“Dad!”
I weave through the crowd, dropping a hand to ruffle his hair as I slide into the seat across from him. “Hey, bud.” The bruise on his cheek looks awful.
Jules appears a moment later, balancing a coffee cup and a plate of chocolate chip pancakes. She sets the plate in front of Tate before steeling her gaze on me.
“Thanks for coming,” she says. Then adds, “ For Tate. ”
She’s obviously in a mood.
A smirk tugs at my lips. “Morning to you, too.”
She narrows her eyes. “Corbin.”
Yep, definitely in a mood.
I lean back in my chair, taking my time. “I got the message loud and clear. I’m only here for Tate.”
Her lips press together.
“Good,” she mutters as she sets the coffee cup in front of me. “Black, right?”
A flicker of amusement crosses her face, and I know she’s thinking about the Serial Killer joke from yesterday.
“Right.” I watch her too closely as she turns on her heel and walks away, ponytail bouncing.
This is fine. We’re co-parents. Breakfast shouldn’t be complicated.
And yet, I can already tell it’s going to be.
I watch Tate devour his chocolate chip pancakes while Jules busies herself behind the espresso machine, her back rigid, her movements precise. Like she’s trying too hard to focus on anything but me.
My stomach growls, and Tate frowns. “Aren’t you gonna eat?”
I smirk. “Yeah, let me go find your mom.”
Slipping out of the booth, I weave through the shop, feeling Sarge’s gaze drilling into me from across the room. I keep him in my peripheral, his presence is as unwelcoming as ever. But I’m not here for him.
I clear my throat as I reach the counter. Jules doesn’t look up. “Jules?”
She exhales through her nose. “Yeah? Everything okay?”
“Can I order breakfast?”
Her fingers tighten around the portafilter before she sets it down, still avoiding my eyes. “Sure. What do you want?”
“Look at me.” My voice drops, quiet but firm.
She swallows. “I remember you like French toast and sausage.”
“Jules.” I soften my tone.
She scratches the side of her face, still refusing to meet my gaze. “I’ll get that order in.” Then, she disappears through the swinging doors, and just like that, she’s gone.
I barely have time to process before Sarge materializes, arms crossed over his chest. “What the hell are you doing here?”
I exhale sharply. “Having breakfast with my son.”
“You could’ve taken him somewhere else,” he shoots back. “Didn’t have to come here.”
“Jules invited me.” I keep my voice even. I don’t owe him an explanation.
Sarge snorts. “Sure.”
I shake my head. “Good seeing you, Sarge.”
I head back to the booth, ignoring his glare. Tate, oblivious to the tension, has chocolate smeared across his cheek. He beams when I slide back into the seat.
“Do you think Mom will sit with us?”
I hesitate. “She’s working, bud. She might not be able to.”
“Oh.” His face falls.
I take a breath. “Do you want to talk about school?”
Tate looks down at his plate. “I’m sorry for saying mean things to Lance.”
“You should tell him that.”
Tate scrunches his nose. “Does he have to say sorry to me, too?”
I press my lips together. “Sometimes, we have to apologize even if the other person doesn’t. It’s about doing the right thing.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” he mutters just as Jules emerges from the back, her cheeks flushed.
My heart pounds against my ribs as she walks toward us, a plate and cup of coffee balanced in her hands. She places both in front of me without a word—French toast, sausage, perfectly golden, just the way I like it.
A lump rises in my throat.
She still remembers.
“Mom, please sit with us,” Tate pleads, swinging his legs under the table.
Jules stiffens. “I have to work, bud.”
“But Sarge and Connie are here,” Tate says. “Just for a minute?”
Her fingers tighten around the apron at her waist. She doesn’t want to. I can tell by the way her jaw tenses, the way her body is coiled like a spring.
“Please,” Tate tries again, softer this time.
She exhales through her nose. I already know—she won’t do it for me. But for him?
Jules lets out a slow, controlled breath. “Fine,” she murmurs, sliding into the seat beside Tate.
He grins, triumphant.
“It’s been a while since I’ve had French toast,” I say, breaking the thick silence.
Tate groans. “Dad usually eats egg whites. It’s so gross.”
Jules forces a smile for Tate’s sake, but her hands stay curled in her lap, her posture stiff.
“Not today,” I smirk, spearing a bite of French toast.
Silence settles over the table, thick and uneasy. Jules shifts in her seat, eyes darting around the coffee shop like she’s looking for an escape. I don’t know why she’s acting so strange, but Tate is starting to notice.
“When your mom and I were in college,” I say, nudging the conversation in a different direction, “we used to go to this little diner near campus and have ice cream for breakfast.”
Tate’s blue eyes go wide. “No way.” He whips his head toward Jules. “Mom, what kind did you get?”
Jules exhales, her lips twitching at the memory. She tries to fight the smile, but I see it in her eyes. The fondness, the warmth. “Vanilla with hot fudge and the biggest dollop of whipped cream.”
“And rainbow sprinkles,” I add.
Her gaze flicks to mine, and for a split second, we’re back there—two kids, reckless and in love, sharing sundaes in a worn booth, her laughter the only thing I ever wanted to hear.
But then, her expression shifts. Her smile fades. Her shoulders curl in slightly, like she’s trying to protect herself from the memory.
And I lose her again.
Tate pouts. “You never let me have ice cream for breakfast.”
“That’s because we don’t want your teeth to rot out,” I tease.
Tate giggles, but Jules doesn’t react. Instead, she crosses her arms over her midsection, holding herself together.
My chest tightens. “You okay?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
She swallows, nodding once. “Yeah.”
She’s lying.
I know her too well. The way her fingers press into her arms, the way she won’t meet my eyes. It’s all too familiar.
Last night, when I held her in her apartment, she didn’t flinch. She let me in, even if just for a moment. But this morning? It’s like night and day.
What changed?
I follow her gaze across the café, and the second her eyes settle on her brother, I have my answer.
Sarge.
Of course.
“We should go there for breakfast one day,” Tate suggests, shifting Jules’ attention back to him.
“Maybe,” she mutters, distracted.
“What kind of ice cream would you get?” I ask, keeping the conversation going.
Tate taps a finger against his chin. “Rocky Road.”
I chuckle. “Yeah?”
“It’s my favorite.”
“I know,” I tell him.
The coffee shop door dings, and Tate’s face lights up. “It’s Mr. Red!”
I glance toward the entrance and spot a white-haired man in a red sweatshirt.
“Mom.” Tate tugs at her arm. “Can I go say hi? He said he’d bring me a snake skin today.”
Jules clicks her tongue. “Yeah, go ahead.”
Tate scrambles out of the booth, climbing over her in his eagerness.
I glance over my shoulder as Tate rushes toward the older gentleman in the red sweatshirt.
“Snake skin, huh?” I ask, turning back to Jules.
She wrinkles her nose. “Yeah. Don’t even start.”
I should let it go. But the way she looks at me, her lips pressed into a firm line, her arms wrapped tightly around herself like she’s bracing for something. I can’t.
“Jules—"
“What are we doing, Corbin?” she asks quietly.
I lean back in the booth, exhaling. “Trying to be good co-parents.”
She lets out a hollow laugh. “How can you just sit there and act like this is normal?”
“It’s not easy for me,” I tell her.
She scoffs, shaking her head. “You make it look easy.”
I swallow hard. “It’s not.”
I want to reach across the table, take her hand, trace circles over her wrist like I used to when she was overwhelmed. But I can’t. That’s not what we are anymore.
Jules looks away, exhaling through her nose like she’s trying to rein herself in. “What happened the other night was a mistake. A slip-up. It won’t happen again.”
My chest tightens, but I nod. “Okay.”
Her gaze snaps back to mine, like she wasn’t expecting me to agree so easily.
“We have a son who needs us to be better for him,” she says, firmer now, like she’s convincing herself as much as she is me.
I tilt my head. “What does the other night have to do with being better parents to Tate?”
Her eyes darken, and she runs a frustrated hand through her hair.
“Because I can’t do this again, Corbin. I can’t sit with him at night while he cries for you like he did the first year after we split.
I can’t be the one wiping his tears and making excuses for why his dad isn’t there.
” Her voice cracks, just a little, and it guts me. “It nearly broke me.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
I thought I knew what our divorce did to her. I thought I was doing the right thing back then—letting her go so she could be free. But sitting here, seeing the way her pain still lingers beneath the surface, I realize something I hadn’t before.
Maybe I didn’t set her free.
Maybe I just left her drowning.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and for once, I mean it in every way that matters. “I didn’t know.”
Her eyes glisten with unshed tears. “Of course, you didn’t know.”
“You should have told me,” I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair.
Jules wraps her arms around herself, a shield against the weight of our past. “Maybe. But it wouldn’t have changed anything.”
“We’ll figure this out,” I tell her, determined.
“There’s nothing to figure out,” she counters, the words steady, final. “We are co-parents to a son who is struggling right now. Can we just…” She trails off, her thoughts slipping somewhere I can’t follow.
I see the walls going up in real time. Walls that say there is no future here. Not for us. Not beyond this. Two people who once meant everything to each other, now just trying to learn how to coexist after breaking each other’s hearts.
“If Wednesday night dinners are too hard,” I begin.
“No,” she says, jaw tightening. “Tate needs us. What I’m saying, Corbin, is that we have to be on the same page. There won’t be another slip-up.”
The message is crystal clear. I can sit across from her in a booth, pretend the past doesn’t ache between us. I can make dinner, share a table every Wednesday night, pretend we’re something we’re not. But that’s all this will ever be.
“Agreed,” I force out, though it lacks conviction.
Tate barrels toward us, his arm stretched high over his head. “He gave me a snake skin!” he shouts, excitement vibrating off him.
I fight back the lump in my throat as Jules musters a smile.
“Let’s see it,” Jules says as she slides out of the booth and crouches down beside him.
For a fraction of a second, she glances at me, her guard slipping just enough for me to see the truth. The other night wasn’t nothing to her. But she can’t afford another heartbreak. Not from me.
And for some reason, it feels like I’m losing her all over again.