Chapter Ten
Corbin
Jules will be here any minute. The lasagna will be done any minute, too. And if I don’t stop pacing, Tate is definitely going to call me out on it.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, reaching for my glass of red wine and taking a slow sip. “Just hoping the lasagna turns out okay.”
“I can’t wait to tell Mom we made the noodles from scratch!” Tate grins, fist-pumping the air.
I chuckle, ruffling his blond hair. “I think she’ll be very impressed, buddy.”
“She will be.” His voice drops to something almost reverent as he looks up at me, eyes wide with excitement. “I can’t believe she’s coming over for dinner. We’ll be together as a whole family.”
My chest tightens at his words. He says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like it’s the way things are supposed to be.
Because to him, maybe it is.
I stare down at his little face. The same blue eyes as mine, Jules’ nose and full cheeks. The perfect blend of us. The one thing we didn’t screw up. Even if we failed at everything else.
The doorbell rings, and Tate nearly jumps out of his skin.
“Dad! She’s here!”
He takes off before I can stop him, his excitement radiating through the house.
I take another sip of wine, bracing myself. This is going to be a long night. Especially since Jules and I haven’t really talked since Tate and I unknowingly crashed her first date.
Driving Tate to school Monday morning was painful. Awkward. I didn’t know what to say, or how to say it in a way that wouldn’t upset her.
I didn’t ask if that tattoo artist took her home. Or if they went back to her place. I don’t want to know.
Because no matter who it is, when Jules finally decides to give her heart to someone else, it’s going to break mine even more than I broke hers two years ago.
For once, I don’t know what to do with myself. Do I wait for her to come to me, or do I meet her in the entryway?
It’s a split-second decision, but I choose to go to her.
I want her to feel welcome here. I want her to know that putting aside our differences—however big or small—for Tate means something to me.
I want her to know that even when things are complicated, we can still show up for him. We can still be good parents.
“Hey,” I say as she hangs her coat on the rack.
Her curls tumble down her back as she glances at me, offering a tight, uneasy smile. “Hey.”
“Guess what we made?” Tate nearly vibrates with excitement. “You’ll never guess.”
Jules presses her lips together, playing along. “Smells like... sauce.”
“You’re close!” Tate bounces on his toes, eyes alight with joy. “Try again.”
“Spaghetti?” she guesses.
Tate shakes his head, giggling. “Nope.”
“Baked ziti?”
“So close!” Tate grins. “I’ll give you a hint.”
Jules kneels so they’re eye level. “Alright, what’s the hint?”
Tate looks to me for help, then squares his shoulders, proud. “Ra-caught.”
Jules chuckles. “What?”
He frowns slightly, turning to me again. “Ra-caught, right?”
“Ricotta,” I supply, smirking.
Jules’ eyes flick between us, pretending to consider. “Hmm. Is it... lasagna?”
Tate erupts into a happy jump. “Yes! And we have another surprise.”
Jules tilts her head. “Oh yeah? What is it?”
Tate wraps his arms around her neck in an eager hug, then pulls back, brushing curls off her shoulder as if he’s about to deliver the best news of her life. “We made the noodles. From scratch.”
Her eyes widen in genuine shock. “From scratch?”
Tate nods enthusiastically. “Dad taught me.”
Jules straightens, licking her lips, the tension in her shoulders softening just a little. “Wow. I can’t wait to try them.”
I gesture toward the kitchen. “You want a glass of wine?”
She exhales, offering a small but real smile. “That’d be great.”
Tate barrels into the living room, determined to clean up his toys before dinner. Jules follows me into the kitchen, and I keep my back to her as I pour her a glass of wine, trying to act casual.
“How’s your week been so far?” I ask as I hand it to her.
She takes the glass with a quiet "thanks" and nods. “Not too bad. I started putting out the Halloween decorations in the coffee shop. Can you believe Tate’s going to be seven in a few weeks?”
I lean back against the counter, keeping my posture easy. Relaxed. Like her being here doesn’t throw me off my axis. “I know. Seems impossible.”
“He was this little,” Jules says, balancing her wine glass in one hand while using the other to gesture a tiny space between her fingers. “And now he’s—” Her words trail off as I catch sight of a white bandage on her wrist.
I frown, pointing to it. “You okay?”
She stiffens, just slightly. “Yeah.”
She’s being weird about it. Too weird.
I glance at her again. “What happened?”
Jules clicks her tongue, like she’s searching for the right words. “I got a tattoo,” she admits, her voice measured. “I wasn’t sure how Tate would react.”
She means me. She wasn’t sure how I’d react.
Something in my chest tightens. The thought of that tattoo artist—of anyone—marking her permanently does something sharp and ugly inside me. But I bite it back. I can’t lose my cool. I won’t. I’ve already lost too much.
So I force myself to say, “Can I see it?”
Her expression shifts, lighting up like she didn’t expect that. “Really?”
“Yeah,” I say, setting my glass down on the counter. “Really.”
She carefully peels off the bandage, and my breath catches.
A paintbrush.
It’s small, delicate. So her. It’s the kind of tattoo that looks like it’s always belonged on her skin.
Before I can think better of it, my fingers brush over the ink. I trace small circles over it, the way I used to when I held her hand. Jules’ breath hitches, and when I glance up, our eyes lock.
We stay like that. Suspended in the moment.
Her skin under my touch, my thumb making those same light circles I used to.
And for the first time in two years, it feels like nothing has changed.
And that’s the problem.
“I’m glad you did something for yourself,” I say, breaking the silence.
Jules’ eyes soften, her guard slipping just a little. “I did do it for me.” She tilts her head slightly, looking at me like she’s seeing me for the first time all over again.
“Good,” I murmur.
She blinks slowly, hesitating before asking, “Do you have any tattoos? I mean, uh, have you gotten one since we…”
Her words trail off, but I know what she means. Since the divorce. Since we unraveled.
I lick my lips, my gaze flicking to her mouth. God, I want to kiss her right now. “You still can’t remember?”
Jules swallows hard, her throat working, the pulse at her neck betraying her tension. She knows I’m talking about last week. About the night we spent tangled together, skin to skin, her body pressed against mine.
And yet, she can’t remember what I look like naked.
“Uh… not exactly,” she finally admits.
“That’s too bad,” I say quietly, my thumb stilling against her smooth skin. A beat passes before I add, “I still don’t have any.”
“If you were going to get one,” she asks, her voice softer now, like she’s afraid of disrupting whatever fragile moment we’re standing in, “what would it be?”
I think about it for a second. I’ve never been the kind of guy who needed something permanent inked on my body. But if I had to choose…
“I’d probably get Tate’s name somewhere,” I confess. “Maybe on my arm.”
Jules’ face breaks into a smile, wide and genuine. It knocks the air right out of my lungs.
“Not the answer I was expecting,” she says.
“What were you expecting?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“I thought you’d say you’d never get a tattoo,” she murmurs.
I let my hand fall away from her wrist, my fingers cooling from where they had been resting against her skin. And for just a second—just one—I see something flicker across her face.
Regret.
Did she… miss my touch?
No. I’m imagining things.
Before I can say anything, Tate’s voice rings through the kitchen, bright and full of unshaken joy. “I love it when we’re all together!”
Jules jolts, and just like that, the wall goes back up.
Mortar. Barbed wire. Cement.
She’s locking me out again, and I’m starting to wonder why the hell I don’t just smash through it.
We eat dinner at the dining room table, just like we used to.
Tate sits next to Jules, his little legs swinging under his chair as he talks a mile a minute.
He recounts every detail of his day at school—who got in trouble, who traded what at lunch—and then, with barely a breath in between, tells Jules that his class is getting a pet hamster.
“We all have to take turns taking care of it,” he explains excitedly.
Jules smiles, but I catch the way her eyes flicker toward my side of the table. It’s happened all night—every time she takes a sip of wine, every time I ask Tate a question, every time our son laughs. She can’t stop looking at me.
Then again, I haven’t taken my eyes off her, either.
And Tate notices.
Because he’s grinning from ear to ear.
“Dad made dessert,” he announces proudly. “Your favorite.”
Jules leans back in her seat, wine glass in hand like a shield. “A chocolate sheet cake.”
I smirk. “Yep.”
“And he purred raspberries,” Tate says confidently.
Jules presses her lips together, trying not to laugh.
“Pureed,” I correct, shaking my head.
She chuckles lightly, and something in my chest tightens.
“Are you surprised?” Tate asks, still grinning.
Jules’ fingers trace the rim of her wine glass, her expression stoic. “I am.”
But I can tell she’s not.
If anything, it’s like she expected it.
Am I really that easy to read?
“I’ll get the cake,” I say, pushing back my chair then heading into the kitchen, listening as Jules and Tate keep talking.
I don’t know what they’re saying, but the sound of their voices—soft, warm, familiar—does something strange to my chest. It’s been a long time since it was just the three of us in this house. The house we bought, the one we filled with dreams. The house where we planned a life together.
I never should have let her go.
And even though some guy, who will one day fade into the background, put ink on her skin, that’s not why I want her back.
I want her back because I’ve never stopped loving her.
I let my dad get in my head. Let his bitterness, his failed marriage, his warnings about resentment and regret fester until I convinced myself I was protecting Jules by letting her go.
But the truth?
I was just scared.
Scared that one day she’d look at me the way my mom looks at my dad. With nothing but regret. Scared that she’d resent me for the things I couldn’t change.
But pushing her away wasn’t the solution.
It was the biggest mistake of my life.
Time has done a lot of things. It’s made Tate taller, made Jules stronger, and made me realize that I’ve spent two years trying to pretend I wasn’t still in love with my ex-wife. But time doesn’t fix mistakes, and it sure as hell doesn’t give you a second shot unless you’re willing to take it.
I grab the cake, plates, forks, and raspberry sauce, then head back into the dining room.
Tate is looking at Jules the way I used to, like she’s the sun and the rest of us are just lucky to be in her orbit.
And maybe that’s what wrecks me the most. He doesn’t remember when we were happy together.
He doesn’t know what it felt like when she used to look at me that way.
Maybe I want another chance for myself. But more than that?
I want my son to know that love doesn’t always have to end in regret.
I watch them for a second, soaking it in.
I have made a lot of mistakes where Jules and I are concerned. But I’m done making them. She can keep building walls, but I’m not going to be afraid to tear them down anymore.
I set the cake down and clear my throat. “Who wants dessert?”