Chapter Thirty
Corbin
Jules is reading Tate his bedtime story, and I watch from the doorway, silent and still. I’ve traveled a bit, seen mountains at sunrise, oceans at dusk, but there’s no view on Earth as perfect as this one. I could stand here forever and never get tired of the sight.
Tate is curled up against her, his head resting on her shoulder as she runs her fingers gently through his hair.
They’re reading a book about construction trucks, his current obsession.
He knows every word by heart, but you’d never know it.
Every page is a new adventure, and he watches her like she’s the one holding the world together.
She kind of is.
Jules is a great mom. The very best kind. She leads with love, soft but strong. She’s present. Affectionate. Creative. She’d give Tate anything. She has given him everything. She’d deny herself what she wants—what she needs—just to make sure he’s okay.
And for a long time, she did.
Back when we were married, I didn’t always see it. I didn’t protect her the way she protected us. I didn’t make sure she was happy or safe. But I see it now.
And I want to do better now.
I will do better now.
The story ends, and Jules quietly slips out of Tate’s bed. She pulls the comforter up to his chin, turns on the nightlight, and clicks off the lamp. I walk over and press a kiss to his forehead as she smooths the blanket one last time.
“I love us all being together,” Tate murmurs sleepily.
Jules stiffens beside me.
“Sleep tight, bud,” I say, ruffling his hair.
“I love you,” Jules adds softly.
We both step out of the room, pulling the door closed behind us, and I can feel the tension radiating off her as we make our way downstairs.
“You alright?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
She lets out a breath. “I don’t know. I just… I feel restless.”
Once we reach the bottom step, she stops and turns to face me. Her features are twisted with frustration—an emotion I’m starting to recognize as grief in disguise.
“What’s wrong?” I ask gently, cupping her cheek.
She leans into my touch for a second, then pulls back slightly. “I think it’s just all catching up to me. I lost my home twice now, Corbin. In less than two years.” Her voice shakes. “I’ve had to walk away from everything— everything —and it’s…”
“It’s what?” I urge her.
Jules swallows hard. “It’s hard not to resent that you haven’t.”
The words hit me straight in the chest. But I don’t flinch.
“I have lost a lot, Jules,” I say quietly. “Maybe I still have this house, but I lost you. I lost our life. I know it’s not the same kind of loss, but I swear, I’d rather lose every possession I own than go through that again.”
Her expression softens, the tension in her shoulders easing just a little. “I guess you have a point.”
“Wait here,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to her forehead before slipping past her toward the garage door.
Two years ago, she left with a few boxes and nothing else.
The rest—her paintings, her art supplies, her favorite ceramic mugs she used every morning—sat untouched in the quiet corners of our house. I kept them. Not because I thought she’d come back, but because I couldn’t bring myself to let go of the pieces of her. The ones she left behind.
And the paintings. God, the paintings. They were her heart on canvas.
Every stroke of color, every curve and line, those were pieces of the Jules I fell in love with.
Pieces I failed. Pieces I never deserved to keep, but still did.
I couldn’t hang them. I couldn’t look at them without breaking.
So, I wrapped them in cloth and stored them in the garage, tucked away like a shrine to the life we lost.
Maybe that’s what this has been. Grieving in silence while she rebuilt her life without me.
I know what she went through. Sarge helped with her apartment deposit after she spent those first months couch surfing and working insane hours at that tiny café before opening the coffee shop, all while raising Tate without complaint.
She didn’t take a cent from me. No alimony.
No child support. Barely let me cover Tate’s health insurance.
She said she didn’t want to owe me anything, but I think she just didn’t want to be hurt by me again.
She never asked for anything. Not even closure. And I let her walk away thinking I didn’t care, when the truth was, I was gutted. I just didn’t know how to show it. Not then.
But now, she needs this. Something that reminds her that not everything she built has been destroyed.
I walk into the garage, flick on the light, and stare at the stack of canvas-wrapped memories.
There are over two dozen of them. I always said I parked in the driveway because the garage was too tight, but really, I couldn’t bring myself to move these.
This space, cluttered and dusty, still feels more alive than I’ve been in years.
I grab a few paintings, their edges worn soft from time, and head inside.
“Close your eyes,” I whisper-yell from the doorway.
“They’re closed,” Jules calls back, amusement in her voice, unaware of what’s coming.
I set them up carefully in the dining room, leaning them against chairs like a makeshift gallery. Then I guide her in, her hand in mine, her breath catching as I whisper, “Open.”
Her gasp cracks something open in me.
“My paintings,” she breathes, stepping forward like she’s seeing ghosts made of color and canvas.
“There’s more,” I say gently. “Let me grab the rest.”
I leave her there, frozen in awe, and return with more bundles. She picks them up one by one, her fingers brushing across dried paint, tracing old memories. Her eyes flicker between joy and grief, each canvas pulling something buried up to the surface.
I hate that I kept these from her for so long. I hate even more that it took a fire for her to see them again.
“We should hang them up,” I suggest softly. “Pretty sure I left the hooks in the walls.”
She turns to me, eyes wide and glassy. “But… they’re so full of color,” she says, almost laughing through the tears. “And your place is…”
“White,” I finish for her. “Empty. Cold. I know.”
She looks around, suddenly small and unsure. “I don’t want you to hang them just to make me feel—”
“Like you belong?” I cut in. I set the mountain painting down and step closer. “Stay with me, Jules. Live here. Make this home again.”
Her eyes flash with a thousand emotions—hope, pain, uncertainty, fear. “I don’t know,” she whispers. “I need time. I need to think about it.”
“That’s okay,” I say, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Take all the time you need. But before you decide, you should know something.”
I take a breath, steady myself, then say it—what I should’ve said two years ago, what I should’ve screamed through the silence.
“I love you, Jules. I’ve always loved you. Even when I got it all wrong. Even when I didn’t say the right things, or do the right things, or show up the way you deserved. That love never left. And all I want—all I’ve ever wanted—is this. Us. Under one roof. Safe. Whole. Together.”
Her face crumples. The tears she’s been holding back fall freely as she presses her hands to her mouth. I step forward, and she lets me pull her into my arms.
“Really?” she chokes out. “You still love me?”
“More now than I ever did before.”
She nods against my chest, slowly, as if convincing herself. “Okay,” she whispers. “Then let’s hang up a few paintings.”
“Yeah?” I ask, hope blooming like spring in my chest.
She smiles through her tears. “But just a few,” she warns. “I’m not sure you’re ready for all this color.”
I laugh, wiping a tear off her cheek. “I’ve never been more ready.”
And maybe for the first time in a long time, I mean it.
We hang the paintings slowly, letting the past settle back into the walls one memory at a time.
Then, I pour us each a glass of wine and dim the lights, the kind of cozy intimacy I used to take for granted now feeling like a quiet miracle.
Jules curls into my lap as we sink into the couch, her legs tucked beside mine.
I flip on a rerun of that old sitcom we watched religiously in the early years of our marriage.
The kind of background noise that makes a house feel like a home.
Her head rests against my shoulder, and my fingers trail gently through her curls as she talks about painting again.
The way her voice lights up, the way her mind dances from one creative thought to another, I’m mesmerized.
This woman, this soul. She's never been ordinary.
And somewhere along the way, I forgot how much color she brought into my world.
Without her, everything dimmed. Dull. Grayscale.
Yeah. My life has been monochrome without her.
“Do you remember when I went into labor with Tate?” she says, half-laughing, half-gasping at the memory. “You were a complete wreck.”
I chuckle. “I was.”
“You ran every red light between our house and the hospital,” she says, smiling wide. “You kept yelling, ‘I’m not missing this!’ like anyone was going to stop you.”
“We had somewhere important to be,” I say, softly.
She goes quiet for a beat, then: “Did you ever think about having more kids?”
The question lands in my chest with the weight of a future I hadn’t let myself fully picture. “Yeah,” I admit. “I do. I have.”
She swirls the wine in her glass, her gaze distant. “I haven’t really let myself think about it. I’ve been so focused on surviving, building something stable for Tate… for myself.”
“You’ve done more than that,” I tell her. “You built a beautiful life.”
She shakes her head gently. “I think I pushed away everything that felt uncertain, like dreaming was too dangerous. But lately I keep thinking… Tate deserves a sibling. He deserves a family that feels whole.”
“As an only child,” I say, reaching for her hand, “it’s lonely sometimes. I don’t want that for him either.”
She nods slowly. “I hate that I haven’t allowed myself to hope for things like that again.”
I stroke the back of her neck, watching the conflict play across her face. “Hope’s allowed, Jules. Especially now.”
“We haven’t exactly been careful,” she says, a little breathless as she tips back the rest of her wine. “It might already be too late for condoms.”
“I can buy them tomorrow,” I grin. “Unless we’re not going to need them.”
She laughs softly. “It took us almost a year to get pregnant with Tate.”
My eyes narrow as I study her. “I remember.” A beat before I add, “What are you saying?”
She bites her bottom lip, her eyes gleaming with something wild and tender. “I have no idea,” she says, laughing again, but there’s heat in the curve of her mouth, and certainty in the way she moves.
She sets her wine down and climbs off my lap, standing in front of me. Then, with a slow grace that makes my heart thud in my chest, she pulls her sweater over her head and lets it fall to the floor.
“Jules…”
She holds my gaze as she unclasps her bra and drops it behind her. With the same boldness, she unbuttons her jeans and slides them and her underwear down in one motion.
“I still don’t know what you’re thinking,” I whisper, breath catching. “Though I have an idea.”
She gives me that look—that impossibly confident, soft-smirking look that used to undo me in all the best ways. “We had so much fun trying the first time.”
My voice falters. “Julianne…”
She straddles me, completely bare and utterly fearless.
Her skin is warm against mine, her eyes locked onto mine with purpose.
“I have lost everything, Corbin. Most of my material possessions, but the things that really mattered—Tate, you, the coffee shop—they’re still here.
It’s not things that make a life. It’s people.
It’s dreams. And maybe the dreams are different now.
Maybe I want to focus on something real.
The only things that have ever lasted in my life are the things I’ve built with you. ”
“Are you sure?” I ask, my voice low and reverent.
She nods, no hesitation. “We can buy the condoms tomorrow. But tonight? If it happens, then it was always meant to be.”
“You’re leaving this up to fate?” I tease, even though my heart is pounding. “That doesn’t sound like you.”
“I’ve spent so long building walls,” she murmurs, her hands cradling my face. “I want to build something else now. A home. A family. With you.”
“Say it,” I whisper, because I need to hear it. I need her to say the thing I’ve wanted for years.
She breathes it out like a vow. “I love you, Corbin. I want to live with you. Dream with you. Make babies with you. Grow old beside you.”
“Right now?”
“Right now,” she says, smiling against my mouth as her fingers find the button of my pants. “I want forever to start right now.”