Chapter Seventeen
Jules
“You’ll call me if anything happens, right?” I ask Sarge, lingering by the door.
He waves me off as he flips open a box of pizza on the dining room table. “Jules, I can take care of my own nephew for two hours.”
Connie invited me to an art exhibit tonight, a friend of hers showcasing new work at a local gallery. With Corbin out of town, I tried to get out of it. Tried to convince myself that a night in with Tate sounded better. But Sarge, who overheard the entire conversation, volunteered to babysit.
And by ‘volunteered’, I mean he told me flat-out that I needed a fun girl’s night instead of another family dinner with my ex-husband.
I still don’t know why he’s so against Corbin and me spending time together. It’s not like we’re sneaking around behind Tate’s back. We’re doing this for him.
“I’ll only be ten minutes away,” I remind Sarge, hesitating.
He grabs a slice of pizza and takes a massive bite straight from the box.
“Plate?” I widen my eyes at him.
Sarge shrugs, completely unbothered, as Tate dissolves into laughter.
I shake my head and grab two plates from the kitchen, setting one in front of Tate before placing a slice of cheese on it.
“Don’t be like your uncle,” I lecture, shooting Sarge a pointed look.
With a mouth full of food, Sarge grumbles, “Hey!”
Tate grins, already reaching for his slice, and I kneel beside him. “I don’t have to go, bud. If you’d rather I stay here—”
His small hands cup my cheeks, his fingers warm and sticky with pizza grease. “Mom, Sarge and me are gonna eat pizza and watch a movie. We’ll be fine.”
My heart squeezes at the confidence in his voice, the certainty that he’s safe and loved.
“Two hours,” I promise. “I’ll be back in time to tuck you in.”
Sarge rolls his eyes dramatically. “We’ll be fine, Jules. Go have fun. Or, you know, try.”
I sigh, smoothing down the hem of my black, thigh-length dress. “I mean it, Sarge. Call me if anything happens.”
He rolls his eyes like I’m overreacting, but I catch the small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Connie is already parked out front when I step out into the chilly night air. She waves from behind the windshield, and I hurry toward her, my heels clacking against the sidewalk.
“Hey, girl!” she greets as I slide into the passenger seat and reach for my seatbelt. “I’m so glad we’re doing this.”
I nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah, me too.”
Connie talks nonstop as we head down the highway.
Her friend Shawna has been sketching with charcoal for years, but tonight marks the completion of her most ambitious project yet—sketching her entire family.
And, apparently, Connie. She hasn’t seen her portrait yet, and the unveiling is happening tonight.
Excitement practically radiates off her. I wish I could match it.
“You paint, right?” Connie suddenly remembers.
I hesitate. “I used to.”
I ordered some new supplies last week and need to pick them up from the local art store. But other than Corbin, no one knows I’m even considering painting again. It’s been two years. What if I’ve forgotten how?
“What did you paint?” she asks.
“Landscapes, mostly,” I say.
“You ever showcase your work?”
I shake my head as we take the off-ramp. “No, never.” Then, after a beat, I add, “With Tate and the coffee shop, I don’t have a ton of time to devote to it anymore.”
Connie side-eyes me. “You also have your very active dating life.”
I let out a soft chuckle. “Actually… I think I’m taking a break from dating.”
“What?” She whips her head toward me so fast I worry for a second she might swerve. “You only went on, like, two dates. And both of them were with the same guy.”
“I know.” I cringe.
“That barely even counts as dating!” she laughs.
I shift in my seat, gripping my hands together in my lap. “I just… I don’t know. I think I need to work on my relationship with myself before I get involved with anyone.”
Connie makes a hmm sound, like she doesn’t quite buy it.
And then, of course, there’s the elephant in the room.
My ex-husband.
Sometimes, it feels like he’s the only person I can truly be myself with. The only one who doesn’t push me to be someone I’m not. The only one who doesn’t ask for more than I’m ready to give.
We park along the street, and as we step out, my phone rings.
Panic grips my chest as I dig it out of my purse.
Tate . Something happened to Tate.
But when I see the name flashing across the screen, my stomach flips for an entirely different reason.
Corbin .
I release a breath and glance at Connie. “I’ll meet you inside?”
She nods without hesitation, already making her way toward the brightly lit white building.
I swipe to answer. “Hey.”
“Is this a bad time?” His voice is gruff, edged with exhaustion.
“No,” I say, stepping closer to the building but lingering outside. “I’m not at home, though. Connie invited me to an art show, so Sarge is watching Tate.”
“An art show?” Corbin perks up slightly. “What kind of art show?”
“Her friend sketches charcoal portraits, and she’s showcasing them at this cute little gallery on the corner of…” I glance up at the street signs. “Peach Tree Lane and Cordella.”
“I know that place,” Corbin says without missing a beat. “Guy named Gio owns it. He really promotes local artists.”
I frown. “How do you know this?”
“Just…” he hesitates, then clears his throat. “From around.”
A strange feeling settles in my stomach, but before I can press, I change the subject. “How’s your trip?”
“I think I spent most of my day talking,” he mutters. “And you know I’m not much of a talker.”
I smirk. “Except when it comes to Tate.”
He exhales a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Except for Tate.”
A pause stretches between us, the silence heavier than it should be.
“Well,” he finally says, “I won’t keep you. I was calling to say goodnight to Tate, but I’ll try him tomorrow morning before school.”
I hesitate, my fingers tightening around my phone. “I could have him call you when I get home.”
The offer comes out too quickly, too eager. I feel it the second the words leave my lips.
Corbin doesn’t acknowledge it, though. “Up to you. But I really don’t mind calling tomorrow.”
“I won’t be here long,” I add for no reason other than to keep him on the line a little longer. “We’re just walking the gallery, having hors d’oeuvres, then heading home.”
“You should stay as long as you want, Jules,” he says. “It’s not often you get a night off. Maybe it’ll give you some inspiration.”
The warmth in his voice makes my throat tighten.
“I don’t like being away from Tate too long,” I admit. “I always feel guilty when I do things on the nights he’s with me.”
“You shouldn’t feel that way,” Corbin reassures me. “Tate’s in good hands with Sarge. Just… enjoy yourself.”
I sigh, twisting my bracelet around my wrist, my fingers brushing over the paintbrush tattoo I still can’t believe I got. “Yeah, okay.”
A beat passes.
“I’ll call in the morning,” Corbin says.
“Okay,” I murmur.
“Good night, Jules.”
I swallow. “Good night, Corbin.”
The line goes dead, but I keep the phone pressed to my ear for a moment longer, listening to the silence.
When I finally pull the phone away, my heart stutters. Just a little.
I close my eyes, and for a fleeting second, I’m back in his bed.
It’s still fuzzy, still fragmented, but I remember the way his hands felt—big, steady, familiar. I remember the way he reached up, cupping my face so gently, as if I were something fragile. Something worth holding onto.
And I remember the way I moved against him. How natural it felt. How easy it was to forget everything else.
A sharp ache slices through my chest. God, why does he still feel like home? Why is he the person I still want to tell everything to? The first person I think of when something good happens? When something bad happens?
This isn’t healthy, Jules .
He’s your ex-husband.
But I was honest with him. I told him I’m still attracted to him.
So why am I still lying to myself?
Maybe I should wait to unpack all of this until I start painting.
Yeah. That’s what I’ll do.
Tonight is about Connie’s friend, about supporting her art. I’ll deal with Corbin later. With a paintbrush in hand, where things make sense. That seems the most logical.
I scan the room and find Connie in the corner, chatting with a small group. Grabbing a flute of champagne from a passing waiter, I make my way over.
She immediately pulls me into the conversation.
“This is Coraline,” Connie says, motioning to a petite brunette with perfectly straight micro bangs and a bold red lip.
She wears a black-and-white striped dress, tall black socks, and Mary Janes.
Everything about her looks like an artist. Someone who has spent years creating, honing her craft, living in the world of paint and charcoal.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” I say.
Coraline offers me a firm handshake. “Call me Cora.”
“And this is Tomas,” Connie continues, pointing to the man standing next to Cora.
Tomas is shorter than me but solidly built, his black T-shirt sleeves rolled just enough to show off toned biceps. His jet-black hair is gelled to perfection, and there’s something effortlessly cool about him.
“Glad you could make it tonight,” he says, his voice carrying a subtle accent.
“I’m glad I could be here,” I reply.
Connie grins and gestures toward the last man in the group. “I saved the best for last. This is Gio Gatti. He’s the owner.”
I shake Gio’s hand, taking in his graying hair and warm but assessing gaze.
“Jules Banks,” I introduce myself.
His head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing. “Corbin Banks’ wife?”
Connie nearly chokes on her champagne.
“Uh… ex-wife,” I correct quickly, ignoring the way my stomach flips.
Gio nods, as if that piece of information snaps everything into place. “That explains so much.”
Connie clears her throat. “That explains what exactly?”
Gio chuckles. “Corbin stopped by a couple of years ago. Wanted to talk about showcasing his wife’s work.”
My heart slams against my ribs.
“My work?” My voice sounds distant, like it belongs to someone else.
Gio nods. “Yeah. He went on and on about how talented you are. Said you had something special. I kept hoping he’d come back with some of your paintings, but he never did.”
My lungs feel too tight.
Connie groans and grips my arm. “Oh no. This is going to wreck her world.”
I force myself to stand tall, blinking away the sudden lightheadedness. “I’m fine,” I insist. But I don’t feel fine.
Corbin went to a gallery about my art? He believed in me that much?
Then… why did he divorce me?
Why did he end us when he clearly believed in me this much?
“We should check out Cora’s art,” Connie says carefully, her eyes scanning my face. She knows. She can see how this revelation has shaken me.
“Y-yeah.” The word barely makes it past my lips before I tip back my champagne flute, draining the last drop. It burns in my throat, but not as much as the truth I just swallowed.
I follow Connie toward the first portrait, but my mind is a tangled mess of what-ifs and too-late realizations.
Corbin had a gallery lined up.
He pushed me to paint.
He was the one who convinced me to take that class.
And then after the gala…
The memory crashes into me so suddenly, I nearly stumble in my heels.
The gala.
The one where his dad spent the entire night picking me apart.
The one where I finally snapped.
I started a fight with Corbin when we got home. I begged him to stand up for me. I told him I was tired of trying to be perfect.
I asked him if we were going to last.
If we were going to make it.
He shrugged. Shrugged. Like it didn’t matter. Like I didn’t matter.
“I don’t know,” he said.
I pushed harder. I asked if he wanted a divorce. I threw words at him I barely remember now. Something sharp, something reckless—
Something about how if he couldn’t be the man I needed, then he should just let me go.
And he did.
He let me go.
A lump rises in my throat as we stop in front of Cora’s second portrait. My vision blurs, my breath catching.
I always blamed Corbin for the divorce. I thought he ended it. I thought he walked away out of stubbornness, or spite.
But maybe I pushed him, too.
Maybe his dad pushed him.
Maybe we were both drowning, and I was the one who cut the last thread.
I exhale shakily.
I don’t know what to think anymore.