Chapter 29
JULIETTE
Ismooth my hands over the edge of the table like that might smooth out my nerves, too.
Across from me, the woman in charge of handing out the grants—the woman—sets her tote neatly at her feet and offers me a warm, professional smile. Clipboard. Pen. Calm energy. The kind of person who decides futures before lunch.
“Shall we?” she says.
“Yes,” I say, already sitting straighter. “Absolutely.”
And that’s when my phone rings. Because of course it does.
I glance at the screen and my stomach drops.
David. The timing is so on-the-nose it almost feels intentional.
Did I manage to talk to him yesterday? No, he texted to tell me he’d “explain later.” I waited all day and later never came.
Then first thing Monday morning, I tried again and nope.
No contact. My last text message I fired off to him late last night was along the lines of “you’d better show up for your son tomorrow or I will unalive you. ”
I guess I’m about to find out if unaliving is going to happen.
“I’m so sorry,” I say quickly, already standing. “I—this is my son’s father. I need to take this.”
She nods, gracious. “Of course.”
I step a few feet away, inhale once, and answer.
“What?” I say. Not hello. Not pleasant. Just what.
“Juliette,” David says, breathless, like I should be impressed. “I’m sorry. I know I messed up.”
“You didn’t mess up,” I say quietly. “You disappeared. Are you at the school?”
“I had to leave,” he says immediately, ignoring my question. “I wasn’t going to get the job. My headhunter found me another opportunity, but it was last-minute. Alaska.”
I close my eyes.
“Alaska,” I repeat. “You’re going to Alaska.”
He’s quiet. Deadly quiet. Unbelievably so quiet. “I’m not going to Alaska…”
“So you are at the school?”
“I’m in Alaska.”
I pull the phone away and stare at it before putting it back to my ear. “I’m sorry, David, our connection is terrible. I would have thought you just told me you’re in Alaska?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t have time to call,” he says. “Everything happened fast.”
“No,” I say, my voice tightening. “You didn’t make time to call. His birthday was three days ago. Three. Then I tried to reach you all day Sunday and yesterday. You say you’re going to call me but don't. You don’t deserve to be able to even have children. You should be castrated.”
“That’s not fair—”
“What’s not fair,” I cut in, “is telling a ten-year-old you’ll be somewhere and then vanishing without a word. What’s not fair is me standing in front of him trying to explain why his dad didn’t show up again.”
There’s a beat of silence on the line.
Then David exhales. “Juliette, I know you’re upset, but—”
“No,” I say, the word landing hard. “You don’t get to but this.”
I pace once, fingers digging into my palm as I look at my watch. “Our son is at school right now. At a Father-Son Breakfast. He is sitting there thinking you are on your way.”
“What?” he says. “I thought that was next—”
“You knew,” I snap. “You knew, David. I’m in a meeting I can’t walk away from without consequences. I cannot get to him in time to soften this or spin it or lie my way through it.”
My voice cracks, just a little, and that somehow makes me angrier.
“Do you have any idea,” I say, “that this is the kind of thing therapists make whole careers out of? This is the stuff that sticks. The waiting. The empty chair. The wondering what he did wrong.”
“That’s dramatic,” he says weakly.
I laugh—short, sharp, incredulous. “You know what’s dramatic? Flying to Alaska without calling your kid. What I’m being right now is accurate.”
“I said I was sorry.”
“I’m saying sorry doesn’t clean up the mess,” I snap. “You don’t get to parachute in with explanations after the fact and expect that to fix it. Sorry doesn’t walk through the door. Sorry doesn’t show up with a tray and sit down next to him. Sorry leaves him staring at the clock.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“I’ll call him,” he says. “I’ll explain.”
“No,” I say immediately. “But you will stop making promises you don’t intend to keep.”
“I’m trying—”
“Then try where it matters,” I say. “Because I am done absorbing this for you.”
My chest is tight now, breath coming fast, but my voice stays steady. That might be the most dangerous part. It’s as if my panic buildup is, for once, not coming to fruition. That’s a first, and I’m going to make it my new superpower.
“I have to go,” I add, stronger. “I’m fighting for something right now, something that means a lot to me and your son, and this conversation is not going to help things.”
I end the call before he can respond.
For a moment, I stand there, phone pressed to my ear, heart pounding like I’ve run a mile without moving an inch.
Then I smooth my jacket. Lift my chin. Walk back to the table.
The woman with the clipboard looks up at me, eyes kind, unreadable.
“Everything okay?” she asks.
I sit down, place my hands flat on the table, and meet her gaze.
“No,” I say honestly. Then I breathe. “I need to reschedule. My son…”
The door opens behind me before I can finish.
Charlie steps in, phone still in his hand, eyes flicking from my face to the woman with the clipboard and back again. He doesn’t say anything—just gives me a small, steady nod. The go kind.
I push my chair back, already gathering my bag. “My son is at school right now, waiting for a father who isn’t coming. I need to mitigate the emotional wreckage of that.”
The woman across from me smiles gently. Not surprised. Not inconvenienced.
“It’s fine,” she says. “I didn’t mean to overhear—but I did.”
I freeze.
“My daughter is also a single mother. Don’t get me started on that former husband of hers.” She sets her clipboard down. “Please know that you got the grant.”
“I—what?”
“In fact,” she continues, smiling wider now, “you sailed through. Highest scores of any business we’ve ever reviewed.”
Charlie lets out a stage-whisper-style yes under his breath, still pretending to read his phone.
“From your workshops,” she says, “to your social engagement, to the uniqueness of having a hockey player take care of the mystery shopper—who, by the way, did an excellent job—you built something special here. You deserve this grant.”
My chest tightens, pride and relief colliding hard enough to steal my breath.
“Thank you,” I say, voice thick. “Truly.”
She nods. “Go be with your son. Paperwork can wait.”
I don’t argue.
I sling my bag over my shoulder, give Charlie a look that says tell everyone later, and head for the door.
Because yes—this is a win, but right now, there’s a ten-year-old who needs his mom.
And I’m already on my way.