Chapter Eighteen
Corbin
The doorbell rings, and Tate launches off the couch like a rocket.
"Grandma is here!" he yells, barreling through the living room toward the entryway.
I chuckle, standing as I follow him to the door. Sure enough, my mom is standing on the other side, a suitcase in one hand, a familiar warm smile on her face.
“Is that my Tater Tot?!” she screeches, dropping her bag and stretching her arms wide.
Tate slams into her embrace, wrapping his arms around her waist. She lifts him slightly, swaying side to side, as if soaking in every second of the long-overdue hug.
I shove my hands into my pockets, watching the reunion unfold. There’s something about seeing my mom with Tate that grounds me, reminds me of everything good in my life.
When Tate finally pulls back, his face is beaming.
"Grandma! You came for my birthday!"
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, sweetheart.”
Her eyes flick to me next, and her lips twitch. She didn’t forget about me.
“Mom.” I nod at her, offering a small smile. “Good to see you.”
She lets out a warm laugh, grabbing her bag. "I didn’t forget about you, my son."
I step aside to let her in, and as soon as she crosses the threshold, she drops her bag by the stairs and pulls me into a hug.
"I missed you," I murmur, surprising myself with how much I mean it.
“Not as much as I missed you.” Her voice is quiet, firm, familiar. A mother’s comfort.
When she finally lets go, she takes a step back, looking between Tate and me with that all-seeing mom gaze.
“So,” she says, hands on her hips, “what have you two been up to?”
Tate bounces on the balls of his feet. "Dad was on a business trip! And I hung out with Sarge while Mom went to an art show."
Mom’s brows lift slightly. “Oh really?” There’s an unmistakable interest in her tone. “How is your mom doing?”
"She’s good," Tate chirps. “Now that we have family dinners every Wednesday night, she’s been much happier.”
My breath catches. Happier?
I glance at Tate, my stomach twisting unexpectedly. Is that true? Is Jules happier because of our family dinners? Because of me?
Mom watches me carefully, and I swear I see a knowing smile twitch at her lips.
"That’s… interesting." She tilts her head, amusement dancing in her expression. “Jules and you having dinner together.”
Of course, she’s thrilled. She’s always been Jules’ biggest fan.
She once told me that Jules softened my hard edges. Back then, I brushed her off.
Now? Maybe she wasn’t wrong.
I clear my throat, pushing past whatever the hell is stirring inside me. “Dinner?” I ask her. “You must be starving from the drive.”
Mom hums, tapping her chin. “What about that steakhouse up the road?”
Tate practically dances with excitement. “I love that place!”
***
After a heavy but satisfying dinner at Lloyd’s Steak House, we grabbed ice cream on the way home. Tate barely made it through a few licks before his head started drooping in the back seat.
By the time we pulled into the driveway, he was completely passed out.
I carried him upstairs, his arms draped limply around my neck. Even half-asleep, he managed to mumble something about brushing his teeth. After he reluctantly changed into his pajamas, he asked if Grandma could read him his bedtime story.
I took the opportunity to put on a pot of tea and catch up on some emails.
Now, Mom sits across from me at the kitchen table, her blue eyes warm and all too knowing.
“Tell me about these family dinners,” she says casually.
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “Do we have to?”
“Yes,” she replies matter-of-factly. “We do.”
Of course we do.
I lean back, bracing myself. “Tate was having some issues at school,” I begin carefully. “His assistant principal suggested we spend more time together as a family. So I came up with weekly family dinners. It’s been good. For all of us.”
Mom’s lips press together in a knowing smile. “Does that mean you and Jules are getting back together?”
I exhale sharply, shaking my head. “No.”
“Why not?”
Her tone is light, but I can feel the weight behind it.
I rake a hand through my hair again, my fingers gripping the back of my neck. “Because we didn’t work out the first time.”
Mom watches me for a beat. Then, she tilts her head. “But you want her back?”
It’s not even a question. It’s a fact she’s already decided on. She’s only been here for a few hours, and she’s already cutting through my bullshit.
I swallow, my jaw clenching. “It doesn’t matter what I want.”
She doesn’t let me off the hook so easily.
“And why’s that?”
I shake my head, the words catching in my throat. “I’m not… she doesn’t… it’s complicated.”
Mom reaches across the table, her hand warm as it settles over mine.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, squeezing gently. “Love always is.”
“I think our problems are too complicated,” I make clear. “And we’re different people.”
Mom studies me over the rim of her mug before taking a slow sip. “Your father and I were too different. Different dreams. Different goals. Different life values. Different morals.”
She scoffs at that last one, shaking her head.
“How did you two end up married in the first place?” I ask, realizing I’ve never actually asked her this before.
She exhales, a small, almost bitter smile forming.
“He was different when we were younger,” she explains.
“We met when I was seventeen and he was eighteen, both working at that little burger joint off Belmount.
And maybe… maybe we both had our reasons for getting married that had more to do with escaping our parents' houses than they did with love.”
Her gaze shifts over my shoulder, settling somewhere beyond me, lost in memory.
“But I tried,” she continues. “I really did. I tried to make the most of it.”
There’s a pause, like she’s weighing how much to say.
“I settled.” Her voice drops slightly. “I didn’t know any better at the time, but I settled. And settling…” she trails off, then lets out a soft chuckle that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Settling adds a hard layer to a marriage.”
I lean forward slightly, drawn into her words.
“Your father was unhappy from the start,” she admits. “He thought I should work full-time, keep the house spotless, do all the laundry, the cooking, and make our tiny apartment look perfect. But I was tired, Corbin. He worked the same hours I did, but he wouldn’t lift a damn finger to help me.”
Her fingers tighten slightly around her mug before she shakes her head, as if shaking off the weight of the past.
“Then you came along.” Her expression softens, and she reaches across the table, squeezing my hand. “And you were the best part of that marriage for me.”
Something tightens in my chest.
It hurts knowing she didn’t marry someone she couldn’t live without. She married someone she thought she could tolerate. And that didn’t end well.
“I’m sorry that it was hard for you,” I say, meaning it.
“We all make choices,” she exhales heavily, the weight of experience behind her words. “And then we have to live with them. But the moment I saw you with Jules, I knew you weren’t settling. You chose someone who challenged you, who helped you grow—who would always be in your corner.”
I swallow hard. “Yeah, but she didn’t choose someone who would fight for her the way she needed to be fought for.”
Mom tilts her head, studying me. “It’s never too late to change, Corbin.” Her voice is softer now, more certain. “And it’s never too late to fight.”
I let out a breathy chuckle. “Even if you’ve been divorced for two years?”
Her lips curve into a knowing smile. “Even if it’s been fifty years, sweetheart. If it’s worth it, the fight is always worth it.”
I nod slowly, her words settling deep. “Yeah… maybe you’re right.”
“Of course, I’m right.” She winks at me, mischief dancing in her blue eyes. “Well, I think I’m going to turn in for the night. Since I have to see your father tomorrow, I need my beauty rest. Gotta show him what he missed out on.”
I chuckle as Mom stands and takes her mug over to the sink. “For what it’s worth, Corbin, I think you and Jules have done a good job of putting Tate first.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
She grabs her bag on the way up the stairs to the guest room, and I pick up my phone from the kitchen counter.
A new text from Jules.
You up?
I stare at the screen, Mom’s words echoing in my head.
It’s never too late to change, Corbin. And it’s never too late to fight.
I don’t hesitate. Instead of texting her back, I call.
She answers on the second ring.
“Hey,” she says, and just like that, my chest tightens, the sound of her voice pulling something sharp and deep inside me.
“I’m still up,” I tell her.
A soft laugh fills the line. “I’m painting.”
The smile comes before I can stop it. “What are you painting?”
“Trees.”
“What kind of trees?”
“Pine trees.”
“Are they symbolic for something?” I ask, curious if she’s trying to say something without saying it.
She clicks her tongue. “No, I just thought they’d be easy to paint as I slowly ease back into it, you know?”
I can see her now—sitting at the table, auburn hair messily pinned up, paintbrush in hand, completely lost in her own world. The image alone might be my undoing.
“Can I see it when you’re done?”
Jules sighs. “If I ever finish it.”
I frown. “Why wouldn’t you finish it?”
There’s a beat of silence before she finally says, “Why did you talk to Gio Gatti two years ago about showcasing my art?”
My breath catches.
Shit.
“How do you know about that?” I ask, though I already have a pretty good guess.
“He told me,” she says simply. “I just don’t understand, Corbin. Why did you do that?”
I exhale, running a hand through my hair. “I knew you wanted to paint full-time,” I say honestly. “So, I started reaching out to galleries to see if they’d be interested in selling your work.”
There’s a pause. “Galleries,” she repeats slowly. “As in… more than one?”
“Five,” I admit. “And three of them were willing to showcase your art.”
She lets out a long breath. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I shrug, even though she can’t see me. “We were going through a rough patch, and I didn’t want you to feel pressured.”
Another pause. This one heavier.
“I wish you would have told me,” she says quietly. “I wish…" She trails off, and I don’t know if I want to press or if I just want to let her sit with whatever thought she doesn’t want to finish.
There are so many things I want to say.
I miss you.
I want you.
I love you.
But I don’t. Not yet.
Instead, I say, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I should have.”
“Maybe it was for the best.” She lets out a quiet, almost defeated sigh. “Maybe it would have been too much pressure.”
I hesitate, searching for the right words. “In the future, I won’t keep something like this from you.”
A pause. Then, softer this time, almost disbelieving, “You really believed in me that much, huh?”
I don’t even think before I answer. “I still do.”
She clears her throat, shifting the conversation. “You’re still coming to help with decorations tomorrow for Tate’s birthday party?”
“Yeah.” The answer leaves my mouth before she even finishes asking. “My mom drove in for the party, so she’ll be tagging along.”
“How is Deanna?” she asks.
“She’s good. Excited to see you tomorrow.”
A chuckle. “Unlike your father.” I smirk. “It’s going to be awkward, Corbin.”
“For them,” I clarify. “This is Tate’s birthday party. We’re not the odd ones out.”
A quiet moment lingers between us before she finally exhales. “You’re right.”
I lean my head back against the kitchen cabinets. “I should let you get back to painting.”
Another small laugh. “I think I’m done for the night. I have to be up early to make the cake.”
“Need me to pick up anything?”
“I think I’ve got it covered. But thanks for offering.”
Silence. The kind that lingers, stretches, pulls at something deep between us.
“Good night, Jules,” I say quietly.
“Good night, Corbin.”
The call ends, but I don’t move right away.
Two years ago, I was a coward. Two years ago, I let her slip through my fingers when all she wanted was for me to fight. Two years ago, I convinced myself it was over.
I’m not that man anymore.
I want her back.
And this time, I won’t just say it.
I’m going to prove it.