Chapter Five
Jules
Sarge watches me like I’m about to shatter right in front of him. I’m not, for the record. I’m just… processing.
“I’m fine,” I mutter, throwing every ounce of frustration into the ball of dough in front of me. Push, roll, knead. Repeat.
He chuckles. “You keep saying that.”
“I’m fine,” I say again. “Seriously.”
Sarge exhales, unimpressed. “How did breakfast go?”
My lips press together. “You saw.”
My brother is observant. You have to be when you grow up walking on eggshells.
You learn to recognize the subtle shift in someone’s mood, the flicker of an expression that warns of an impending outburst. That was life with our father before he left.
Sometimes, I think that’s why Sarge is so overprotective.
He doesn’t want me to feel that kind of fear ever again.
“It felt more like a public execution,” Sarge notes, rubbing the back of his neck. “Corbin didn’t seem happy I was here.”
“Corbin is…” I trail off, but the words don’t come.
What is Corbin? A mistake? A regret? A memory I keep clinging to?
He didn’t even flinch when I told him we could co-parent, have Wednesday night dinners together for Tate’s sake, but that was it.
I should be grateful he respected the boundaries I set, but I hate that he didn’t push back.
He never fights for me.
Never has, Jules. Never will.
Then again, I don’t make it easy for him.
I thought he might at least try to explain why he’d sleep with me while he’s seeing Susan. He claims it’s casual, but the second I pushed, he shut down. That’s what Corbin does. Shuts down. Walks away. Files for divorce and blindsides you when you least expect it.
“I told him we needed to focus on Tate,” I finally say, my voice quieter now.
“And will he listen?” Sarge smirks, clearly skeptical.
My heart clenches. “Of course, he will.” Because that’s what Corbin does. He listens, he nods, he agrees. Because it’s easier than fighting. Because maybe he never really wanted this in the first place.
“He brought up Peggy Lou’s,” I tell him, changing the subject.
“Oh, shit.” Sarge’s brows lift. “You guys used to go there all the time.”
“It was awful,” I say, shaking my head. “The memories of that place.”
“I thought you had great memories of the diner.” Sarge frowns, clearly confused.
“I do,” I admit. That’s the problem.
I remember what it was like when we were young and madly in love. When our differences weren’t something to overcome, they were something exciting, something that kept us up all night talking, learning each other like a foreign language. When I couldn’t stand the hours we were apart.
It’s hard to love someone that much and end up here. Two strangers who share a child. Nothing else.
Sarge watches me carefully, like he’s gauging whether to push. Then, he exhales and shakes his head. “Like I said yesterday, you have to put yourself out there. Go on a date. Meet new people. There’s more to life than Corbin Banks.”
I blow out a breath, rolling the dough into a tight ball and placing it back in the bowl to rise in the warm window. “Maybe you’re right.”
Sarge grins. “You know I’m right.”
I don’t know if I believe that, but I do know I can’t keep standing here, letting myself get pulled into old routines. There are a lot of reasons I haven’t dated since the divorce. I wasn’t ready. I was too hurt. Tate needed me. I had to build a life that could support us.
I didn’t have time to think about anything else. I didn’t want to.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I guess you are.”
Sarge perks up. “Does this mean I can finally set you up with Trey?”
I groan. “Your friend?”
“He’s nice,” Sarge insists, grinning like he’s been waiting for this moment forever.
I hesitate for half a second before shrugging. “Alright. I’m free Sunday night.”
Sarge claps me on the back as I run a tired hand over my face.
“I knew you’d finally see the light of day, sis.”
The rest of the day passes in a blur. I fill coffee cups, bake pastries, and rearrange my office three times.
Tate spends the afternoon working through his take-home assignments in the same booth where he sat with Corbin.
Every time I glance over, I try not to let my emotions bleed through my skin and bones.
But it’s hard when I think about the kind of family Corbin and I should have been building for Tate—one centered on mutual respect and understanding.
One that made him feel safe. One that didn’t leave him forgetting things or asking to stay with one parent instead of the other.
Have I failed Tate? Or do Corbin and I bear that weight together?
I slide into the seat across from him, offering a soft smile. “Hey, bud.”
Tate sips his berry smoothie, his pencil scratching against the last page of his math assignment. “Did you know snakes can hear even though they don’t have ears?”
I blink, caught off guard. “I did not.”
He taps a finger against the dried snake skin beside him. “They shed their skin every two to three months. It’s called molting. Mr. Red told me that.”
“You really like snakes, don’t you?” I chuckle.
Tate shrugs. “Not as much as I liked having Dad over for dinner last night.”
My heart clenches, something sharp wedging itself between my ribs. “Yeah?”
He nods eagerly. “He said we’re gonna start doing family dinners every Wednesday.” His entire face lights up with unfiltered, uninhibited joy. “I can’t believe it.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Me either.”
Tate chews on the inside of his cheek before his gaze lifts to mine. “Do you and Dad love each other?”
I freeze. How the hell am I supposed to answer that?
“Of course, we love each other,” I say carefully. “But… we don’t love each other the way we used to.”
His brows pull together. “Like when he took you to get ice cream for breakfast?”
I force a smile, even as my chest tightens. “Yeah.”
“Sarge says sometimes parents have to live in separate houses because if they don’t, they won’t like each other anymore.” Tate frowns, his small fingers tracing the rim of his smoothie cup. “Is that why you live above the bakery and Dad lives in the house?”
I wish there were enough glasses of wine in the world to get me through this conversation.
“Sometimes,” I say softly.
Tate pauses, his expression distant, like he’s trying to piece something together. “I don’t remember what it was like when you and Dad lived together.” He lifts his smoothie, taking a long sip. “What was it like?”
I know I should be entirely honest, but I don’t want to make this harder on Tate. “It was hard sometimes,” I admit. “Dad and I… we’re very different people.”
“You mean he likes everything perfect, and you like things with lots of color?” he asks, trying to make sense of it.
“I mean more like… we had different dreams. I wanted to open a coffee shop and paint. Dad wanted to work his way up through Grandpa’s company.
He liked going to meetings and on business trips.
We just… we were moving in opposite directions.
Sort of like two magnets. When you put the wrong ends together, they push against each other. ”
“But if you flip them around,” Tate says, demonstrating with his hands, “they snap right into place.”
I scratch my nose. “What do you say we close up and head home? I’m thinking chicken pot pie for dinner.”
“That’s my favorite!” Tate pumps his fist in the air.
We hold hands as we walk down Main Street, the late-evening air chillier than yesterday.
Autumn is right around the corner, and with it, the changing leaves.
The trees let go so much more gracefully than I do.
If only I could borrow their bravery for a season and release everything that’s ready to take off with the wind.
Let go, Jules.
But it’s not that easy.
Back at home, I season the chicken thighs and slide them into the oven.
I make pie dough from scratch. Just flour, butter, a dash of salt, and ice water.
I wrap it in plastic and place it in the fridge while I start chopping vegetables—carrots, celery, onions, potatoes.
Tate sits at the table, drawing pictures.
I work with my hands, grounding myself in the motions, ignoring the ache in my chest. Ignoring the way my eyes flick to my phone every few minutes, wondering what Corbin is doing right now. He’s probably out with Susan. Drinks. Dinner.
Whatever it is they do when Tate’s not around. When I’m not around.
I don’t even know why I care.
I pull Mom’s old pie dish out of the cabinet and run my fingers over the raised red hearts on the edges.
When Dad first left, Mom always made fresh strawberry pie.
I used to wonder why, but as the years passed, I realized the strawberries reminded her of home.
Of her own mother, who used to make strawberry pie when things were rough.
Like a fresh slice of pie could mend every ache, no matter how big or small.
I roll out the pie dough, press it into the dish, and ache for Mom to still be here. She died two summers ago right before Corbin filed for divorce. Losing them both, in different ways, nearly broke me.
I shred the chicken thighs and make a roux. Butter, flour. A simple start, but it always reminds me of home. I pour in the chicken broth and stir, watching as it thickens, filling the kitchen with warmth. Then, I add the sautéed vegetables and shredded chicken.
When it’s in the dish, I lay the final piece of pie dough on top, careful to slice a cross-shaped cut in the center.
It goes into the oven just as my cell phone lights up.
I wipe my hands on my apron and grab it. A new message from Corbin.
My heart stumbles as I open it.
There’s an image of a snake in a glass cage at a pet store, followed by a message: I almost brought this thing home for Tate. Then I remembered I’d have to take care of it when he’s not here.
He’s home.
But is he alone?
Of course, he is, Jules. Don’t be ridiculous. Why else would he be texting you right now?
I rub the back of my neck before typing a response. Forget taking care of it. What if it gets out of the cage?
Three dots appear. I hold my breath.
A text pops up: I’d burn this whole house down.
I cover my mouth, laughter bubbling up.
I shake my head, setting the phone face down on the counter.
A laugh. A text. A memory. It shouldn’t be this easy for him to slip back in.
The oven timer dings, sharp and insistent, pulling me back to the present. I reach for a potholder, ignoring the phone, ignoring the warmth still lingering in my chest.
Walls, Jules. Keep them up.
I take the pie out of the oven, but even as I set it on the counter to cool, I feel it. Somewhere beneath all the self-preservation, Corbin is still there. Still finding ways to make me smile.
I exhale, pushing the thought aside.
Tonight, I’ll put Tate to bed, wash the dishes, and go to sleep alone. Just like I’ve done every night for the past two years.
And that’s exactly how it should be.