My stomach growls, and Tate frowns. “Aren’t you gonna eat?”
I smirk. “Yeah, let me go find your mom.”
Slipping out of the booth, I weave through the shop, feeling Sarge’s gaze drilling into me from across the room. I keep him in my peripheral, his presence is as unwelcoming as ever. But I’m not here for him.
I clear my throat as I reach the counter. Jules doesn’t look up. “Jules?”
She exhales through her nose. “Yeah? Everything okay?”
“Can I order breakfast?”
Her fingers tighten around the portafilter before she sets it down, still avoiding my eyes. “Sure. What do you want?”
“Look at me.” My voice drops, quiet but firm.
She swallows. “I remember you like French toast and sausage.”
“Jules.” I soften my tone.
She scratches the side of her face, still refusing to meet my gaze. “I’ll get that order in.” Then, she disappears through the swinging doors, and just like that, she’s gone.
I barely have time to process before Sarge materializes, arms crossed over his chest. “What the hell are you doing here?”
I exhale sharply. “Having breakfast with my son.”
“You could’ve taken him somewhere else,” he shoots back. “Didn’t have to come here.”
“Jules invited me.” I keep my voice even. I don’t owe him an explanation.
Sarge snorts. “Sure.”
I shake my head. “Good seeing you, Sarge.”
I head back to the booth, ignoring his glare. Tate, oblivious to the tension, has chocolate smeared across his cheek. He beams when I slide back into the seat.
“Do you think Mom will sit with us?”
I hesitate. “She’s working, bud. She might not be able to.”
“Oh.” His face falls.
I take a breath. “Do you want to talk about school?”
Tate looks down at his plate. “I’m sorry for saying mean things to Lance.”
“You should tell him that.”
Tate scrunches his nose. “Does he have to say sorry to me, too?”
I press my lips together. “Sometimes, we have to apologize even if the other person doesn’t. It’s about doing the right thing.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” he mutters just as Jules emerges from the back, her cheeks flushed.
My heart pounds against my ribs as she walks toward us, a plate and cup of coffee balanced in her hands. She places both in front of me without a word—French toast, sausage, perfectly golden, just the way I like it.
A lump rises in my throat.
She still remembers.
