Whatever it is they do when Tate’s not around. When I’m not around.
I don’t even know why I care.
I pull Mom’s old pie dish out of the cabinet and run my fingers over the raised red hearts on the edges. When Dad first left, Mom always made fresh strawberry pie. I used to wonder why, but as the years passed, I realized the strawberries reminded her of home. Of her own mother, who used to make strawberry pie when things were rough.
Like a fresh slice of pie could mend every ache, no matter how big or small.
I roll out the pie dough, press it into the dish, and ache for Mom to still be here. She died two summers ago right before Corbin filed for divorce. Losing them both, in different ways, nearly broke me.
I shred the chicken thighs and make a roux. Butter, flour. A simple start, but it always reminds me of home. I pour in the chicken broth and stir, watching as it thickens, filling the kitchen with warmth. Then, I add the sautéed vegetables and shredded chicken.
When it’s in the dish, I lay the final piece of pie dough on top, careful to slice a cross-shaped cut in the center.
It goes into the oven just as my cell phone lights up.
I wipe my hands on my apron and grab it. A new message from Corbin.
My heart stumbles as I open it.
There’s an image of a snake in a glass cage at a pet store, followed by a message:I almost brought this thing home forTate. Then I remembered I’d have to take care of it when he’s not here.
He’s home.
But is he alone?
Of course, he is, Jules.Don’t be ridiculous. Why else would he be texting you right now?
I rub the back of my neck before typing a response.Forget taking care of it. What if it gets out of the cage?
Three dots appear. I hold my breath.
A text pops up:I’d burn this whole house down.
I cover my mouth, laughter bubbling up.
I shake my head, setting the phone face down on the counter.
A laugh. A text. A memory. It shouldn’t be this easy for him to slip back in.
The oven timer dings, sharp and insistent, pulling me back to the present. I reach for a potholder, ignoring the phone, ignoring the warmth still lingering in my chest.
Walls, Jules. Keep them up.
I take the pie out of the oven, but even as I set it on the counter to cool, I feel it. Somewhere beneath all the self-preservation, Corbin is still there. Still finding ways to make me smile.
I exhale, pushing the thought aside.
Tonight, I’ll put Tate to bed, wash the dishes, and go to sleep alone. Just like I’ve done every night for the past two years.
And that’s exactly how it should be.
Chapter Six
Corbin
Saturdays are usually reserved for Tate. With Jules working long hours on the weekends, we’ve made a habit of planning something together—museums, ball games, the zoo. But today, Tate wanted to stay at the coffee shop.
So, I threw myself into work. Numbers. Reports. Meetings. The things I’m supposed to care about.
