Have I failed Tate? Or do Corbin and I bear that weight together?
I slide into the seat across from him, offering a soft smile. “Hey, bud.”
Tate sips his berry smoothie, his pencil scratching against the last page of his math assignment. “Did you know snakes can hear even though they don’t have ears?”
I blink, caught off guard. “I did not.”
He taps a finger against the dried snake skin beside him. “They shed their skin every two to three months. It’s called molting. Mr. Red told me that.”
“You really like snakes, don’t you?” I chuckle.
Tate shrugs. “Not as much as I liked having Dad over for dinner last night.”
My heart clenches, something sharp wedging itself between my ribs. “Yeah?”
He nods eagerly. “He said we’re gonna start doing family dinners every Wednesday.” His entire face lights up with unfiltered, uninhibited joy. “I can’t believe it.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Me either.”
Tate chews on the inside of his cheek before his gaze lifts to mine. “Do you and Dad love each other?”
I freeze. How the hell am I supposed to answer that?
“Of course, we love each other,” I say carefully. “But… we don’t love each other the way we used to.”
His brows pull together. “Like when he took you to get ice cream for breakfast?”
I force a smile, even as my chest tightens. “Yeah.”
“Sarge says sometimes parents have to live in separate houses because if they don’t, they won’t like each other anymore.” Tate frowns, his small fingers tracing the rim of his smoothie cup. “Is that why you live above the bakery and Dad lives in the house?”
I wish there were enough glasses of wine in the world to get me through this conversation.
“Sometimes,” I say softly.
Tate pauses, his expression distant, like he’s trying to piece something together. “I don’t remember what it was like when you and Dad lived together.” He lifts his smoothie, taking a long sip. “What was it like?”
I know I should be entirely honest, but I don’t want to make this harder on Tate. “It was hard sometimes,” I admit. “Dad and I… we’re very different people.”
“You mean he likes everything perfect, and you like things with lots of color?” he asks, trying to make sense of it.
“I mean more like… we had different dreams. I wanted to open a coffee shop and paint. Dad wanted to work his way up through Grandpa’s company. He liked going to meetings and on business trips. We just… we were moving in opposite directions. Sort of like two magnets. When you put the wrong ends together, they push against each other.”
“But if you flip them around,” Tate says, demonstrating with his hands, “they snap right into place.”
I scratch my nose. “What do you say we close up and head home? I’m thinking chicken pot pie for dinner.”
“That’s my favorite!” Tate pumps his fist in the air.
We hold hands as we walk down Main Street, the late-evening air chillier than yesterday. Autumn is right around the corner, and with it, the changing leaves. The trees let go so much more gracefully than I do. If only I could borrow their bravery for a season and release everything that’s ready to take off with the wind.
Let go, Jules.
But it’s not that easy.
Back at home, I season the chicken thighs and slide them into the oven. I make pie dough from scratch. Just flour, butter, a dash of salt, and ice water. I wrap it in plastic and place it in the fridge while I start chopping vegetables—carrots, celery, onions, potatoes. Tate sits at the table, drawing pictures.
I work with my hands, grounding myself in the motions, ignoring the ache in my chest. Ignoring the way my eyes flick to my phone every few minutes, wondering what Corbin is doing right now. He’s probably out with Susan. Drinks. Dinner.
