Chapter Thirty-One
Jules
“What do you mean Trey is coming here for Thanksgiving?” Corbin whisper-yells, his voice sharp but barely above a growl as Tate sits at the dining table, hunched over a turkey-shaped coloring page, chatting cheerfully with his grandma.
I pause mid-peel, the potato slipping slightly in my hand as I glance at Corbin. He’s standing by the stove, the oven light casting golden warmth across his scowling face.
“He didn’t have anywhere else to go,” I say. “His parents are in Aruba. His sister’s in Seattle. He was going to spend the holiday alone.”
“So he’s crashing our family dinner?” Corbin shoots me a look. “Jules.”
“He’s bringing a date,” I add, wiping my hands on a dishtowel. “It’s not like he’s coming to—”
“Coming to what?” Corbin cuts in, lowering his voice even more as he leans in close, his words brushing against the shell of my ear. “Make things awkward? Because he already did that when he kissed you.”
My shoulders tense, but I keep peeling. “It was one kiss,” I murmur, trying not to let guilt seep into my tone. “It wasn’t even that good.”
“That’s not the point,” he mutters, his hand finding my waist like it’s second nature. “I still don’t like him.”
His lips graze my cheek in a quick, familiar press before he pulls open the oven and bends to baste the turkey. He’s trying. I know he is. And I love him for that.
But the lines of tension in his back say everything his words don’t.
Tate looks up from his coloring with crayon-streaked fingers and a wide grin. “How long until Sarge gets here?”
I glance at the clock. “About an hour,” I reply.
Tate lights up. “Do you think Sarge will hold my snake?”
Corbin snorts from the stove. “Highly doubtful.”
“No, bud,” I add with a smile. “Sarge is not a fan of reptiles.”
“What a shame,” Corbin says, mock-dramatic, but his eyes flicker back to me. There’s something in them. Something uneasy. Not quite jealousy. Not quite possessiveness. Something closer to fear. Fear of losing what we just started to rebuild.
And I wonder, as I reach for the next potato, if I should have told him sooner. Or at all.
“Are you okay?” I ask Corbin gently, sliding a peeled potato across the cutting board and starting the next. The scent of turkey and sage fills the air, warm and grounding.
“I’m fine,” he exhales, though there’s tension in his shoulders. “I just feel enough pressure with Sarge being here. He doesn’t like me.”
I pause, knife hovering above the cutting board. “He doesn’t have to like you,” I say, reaching for him. My arms circle his neck and I breathe in his scent—warm, familiar, steadying. “It only matters that I like you.”
His arms tighten around my waist, his hands sliding to my lower back. A soft smile curves his lips. “Do you like me?”
I smile. “I like what we did this morning in the shower.”
He groans playfully, resting his forehead against mine. “We should go do that again. Right now.”
“Not with your mother here,” I whisper, though laughter dances on my tongue.
“His mother,” Deanna calls from the table, “who can hear every word you two are saying.”
“Whoops,” I say, cheeks burning as Corbin winces.
“It’s okay,” Deanna says, her voice gentle. “I’m grateful you two have found your way back to each other, even if I have to listen to... whatever this is.”
Corbin brushes a kiss to my temple before heading over to Tate. I return to the potatoes, my heart strangely full. It’s been years since a holiday felt like this. Like a promise instead of a performance.
Stuffing. Potatoes. Gravy. Cranberry sauce. The rhythm of preparing dinner calms the frayed edges inside me. Sarge is bringing salad. Deanna’s homemade rolls are rising. The food is simple. The day is monumental.
“So, how’s the house hunting going?” Deanna asks as I mash the potatoes.
I freeze for a heartbeat, then meet her eyes. “I, um, I’m not house hunting.”
Her smile is soft, knowing. “I didn’t think so.”
There’s a pause, tender in the quiet. Then she adds, “I’m very sorry about the fire, Jules. I can’t imagine how hard that must have been.”
The kindness in her voice undoes something in me. “I’m just grateful Tate was here. That night could’ve gone so differently.”
“I noticed you put your paintings back up,” she says, glancing toward the living room. “I’m glad. It looks like your home again.”
The words hit me harder than I expect. I nod, emotion thick in my throat.
“He wants to get married again,” I blurt, voice small.
Deanna chuckles, not unkindly. “Do you?”
I let out a shaky breath. “Yes. I think I do. But it feels fast. Like I need time to be sure. Not just for me, but for Tate.”
She follows my gaze to Corbin and Tate at the table, both bent over a drawing. “Having his parents together is all he wants. And from the outside, Jules? It doesn’t look fast. It looks like coming home.”
I blink back sudden tears. “You really think this could work? That it’s not just nostalgia?”
“I think,” she says, squeezing my hand, “that love like this doesn’t happen twice. I think you and Corbin are stronger now. Wiser. I think this time, you’re building something together. Not just for Tate, but for yourselves.”
I glance at the living room again. At my paintings on the walls. The warmth in the kitchen. The laughter from the table.
She smiles. “And now that Corbin isn’t working for that snake of an ex-husband of mine, there’s one less thing standing in your way.”
“There is,” I whisper. “He’s so much happier now.”
“He is,” she agrees. “And I hear he’s learning espresso machines, too.”
I laugh. “He’s determined to figure it out.”
Deanna’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “This is all I ever hoped for you two. That you wouldn’t just share a life, but you’d build dreams. And help each other chase them.”
My throat tightens, and I can only nod. Because this? This feels like a dream worth chasing.
The doorbell rings, cutting off whatever Deanna might’ve said next. I see the moment wash over her face. The polite pivot from our intimate conversation to gracious host.
“I’ll get it,” she says, her tone warm and unbothered.
Corbin appears at my side, hands shoved in his pockets. There’s a slight tension in his jaw, one I recognize instantly. The kind that comes from bracing yourself for something unpleasant.
“This is going to be fun,” he murmurs, clearly unconvinced.
I reach for his hand, my fingers brushing his knuckles. “We have a lot of holidays ahead of us,” I remind him softly. “We’ve got to find a way to make this work. You and Sarge… you’re both my family. I’m all he has left.”
Corbin exhales slowly. The kind of breath that carries more than air—old grudges, unspoken worries, unresolved history.
“You’re right,” he finally says. “We’ll figure it out, Jules.”
From the entryway, we hear Deanna’s bright laugh. “It’s so nice to meet you, Trey,” she says, and I feel Corbin go still beside me.
“And you are?” she asks.
“Flor,” comes the woman’s reply, her voice light, lilting with a delicate accent.
Corbin doesn’t move, but I feel him bristle, his whole body subtly drawing inward. I squeeze his hand gently.
Deanna ushers them inside just as I turn, and it’s like we’ve stepped into a slightly warped version of a memory. Trey is as charming as ever, dressed smartly with a date on his arm who radiates poise and warmth.
Tate, of course, breaks the silence. “Hey, I know you!” he calls out with a wide grin.
“Hey, little man,” Trey returns, grinning as he reaches out for a fist bump. “How’s it going?”
“Good,” Tate says, then turns his bright eyes on Flor. “And who are you?”
“I’m Flor,” she says with a laugh, and Tate nods solemnly, absorbing this new information.
“I’m Tate. Trey had pizza with my mom once,” he announces, deadpan.
Heat floods my face. A beat of stunned silence follows, broken mercifully by Trey’s smooth cover. “We all did,” he says quickly, motioning between Corbin, Tate, and me. “Great pizza spot.”
If I had to guess, Flor doesn’t know about the brief, forgettable blip that was Trey and me. And thank God for that.
“Thank you for coming,” I say, stepping in to redirect the moment. I extend my hand to Flor. “I’m Jules.”
“You have a lovely home,” she replies, her smile polite and practiced.
“This is Corbin,” I say as I step aside, trying to introduce the elephant in the room as gracefully as possible. “My, uh…”
“Boyfriend,” Corbin says with calm confidence.
And Tate, in perfect comedic timing, chimes in: “They used to be married. Now they live together again.”
Trey’s eyebrows lift. “Oh, really?”
Corbin’s hand finds the small of my back—reassuring, grounding—and his voice is smooth as silk. “Would anyone like a glass of wine?”
“I’d love one,” Flor answers brightly.
“Got any beer?” Trey asks, already glancing toward the kitchen.
“We do,” Corbin replies, and the two men disappear.
I exhale as I lead Flor toward the coat rack. “You can set your things here,” I offer, still feeling the residual awkwardness tighten in my chest.
Deanna, ever the social goddess, saves me once again. “You have a lovely accent,” she tells Flor. “Where are you from?”
“Spain,” Flor says as we step into the living room.
Her eyes drift immediately to the wall of paintings behind the couch, her footsteps slowing until she stops in front of a city skyline bathed in watercolor dusk.
“These paintings are maravillosas ,” she breathes, her voice filled with wonder. “Who’s the artist?”
I lift my hand awkwardly. “Um… me.”
Flor turns, her eyes lighting up. “You?”
“She’s very talented,” Deanna beams, like she’s been waiting years to say it.
Flor steps closer to the painting, her gaze attentive, appreciative. “Do you take commissions?”
I shake my head. “Not really. I run a coffee shop, so painting’s kind of taken a backseat.”
Flor gives me a conspiratorial smile. “Well, if you ever get back into it, I want to be the first to know.”
I smile back. Genuinely. “You’ll be the first to know.”
“Hello?” I hear Sarge’s voice behind me.
I turn around and see my brother standing there, holding a salad bowl like it might bite him. His shoulders are stiff, his expression guarded, but he’s here. And that alone means everything.
“You look great,” I say, wrapping him in a hug that’s warmer than any we’ve shared in a long time. He’s wearing dark jeans and a hunter green sweater that brings out the kindness in his eyes.
“You too,” he murmurs, still sounding unsure.
“It’s been a while since you’ve been here,” I say.
“It’s been a while since you’ve been here,” he counters softly.
“True.” I smile. “But I’m here now. And I’m happy.”
Sarge blows out a breath, his defenses finally loosening. “I’m happy for you.”
“Really?”
He nods. Slowly. Honestly. “Yeah. I really am.”
“Good,” I grin, the tension finally lifting from my chest. “Now, let’s get you a glass of wine.”
“My favorite eight words.”
I laugh as he follows me into the kitchen, where Corbin and Trey are still locked in a spirited debate over beer preferences— Corbin defending stouts, Trey arguing for something lighter. It’s surprisingly civil. It’s even a little fun.
I clear my throat with a teasing edge. “Sarge is here, and we’re still waiting on our wine.”
“Right.” Corbin turns, all easy charm, and grabs a glass of wine from the counter. He hands it to me with a small smile that says a thousand things. Then, he turns to Sarge, offering him one, too.
“I’m glad you could make it,” Corbin says.
“Me too,” Sarge replies, and the honesty in his voice stuns me. It softens something deep in me that I didn’t know was still braced for disappointment.
Corbin sets the salad on the table and claps his hands. “I think we’re ready.”
The living room glows warm with the soft shimmer of candlelight. Deanna and Flor are already settled, their glasses in hand, mid-laughter about something I missed. Tate is perched at the table, eyes wide and fixated on the turkey like it’s the star of the show.
We gather. We sit. We settle in—Flor beside Trey, Deanna across from Tate, Sarge at my left, Corbin to my right.
And for the first time in a long time, everything feels… right.
Not perfect. Not easy. But whole.
Family .