Jules chuckles. “What?”
He frowns slightly, turning to me again. “Ra-caught, right?”
“Ricotta,” I supply, smirking.
Jules’ eyes flick between us, pretending to consider. “Hmm. Is it... lasagna?”
Tate erupts into a happy jump. “Yes! And we have another surprise.”
Jules tilts her head. “Oh yeah? What is it?”
Tate wraps his arms around her neck in an eager hug, then pulls back, brushing curls off her shoulder as if he’s about to deliver the best news of her life. “We made the noodles. From scratch.”
Her eyes widen in genuine shock. “From scratch?”
Tate nods enthusiastically. “Dad taught me.”
Jules straightens, licking her lips, the tension in her shoulders softening just a little. “Wow. I can’t wait to try them.”
I gesture toward the kitchen. “You want a glass of wine?”
She exhales, offering a small but real smile. “That’d be great.”
Tate barrels into the living room, determined to clean up his toys before dinner. Jules follows me into the kitchen, and I keep my back to her as I pour her a glass of wine, trying to act casual.
“How’s your week been so far?” I ask as I hand it to her.
She takes the glass with a quiet "thanks" and nods. “Not too bad. I started putting out the Halloween decorations in the coffee shop. Can you believe Tate’s going to be seven in a few weeks?”
I lean back against the counter, keeping my posture easy. Relaxed. Like her being here doesn’t throw me off my axis. “I know. Seems impossible.”
“He was this little,” Jules says, balancing her wine glass in one hand while using the other to gesture a tiny space between her fingers. “And now he’s—” Her words trail off as I catch sight of a white bandage on her wrist.
I frown, pointing to it. “You okay?”
She stiffens, just slightly. “Yeah.”
She’s being weird about it. Too weird.
I glance at her again. “What happened?”
Jules clicks her tongue, like she’s searching for the right words. “I got a tattoo,” she admits, her voice measured. “I wasn’t sure how Tate would react.”
She means me. She wasn’t sure how I’d react.
Something in my chest tightens. The thought of that tattoo artist—of anyone—marking her permanently does something sharp and ugly inside me. But I bite it back. I can’t lose my cool. I won’t. I’ve already lost too much.
So I force myself to say, “Can I see it?”
Her expression shifts, lighting up like she didn’t expect that. “Really?”
“Yeah,” I say, setting my glass down on the counter. “Really.”
She carefully peels off the bandage, and my breath catches.
A paintbrush.
It’s small, delicate. So her. It’s the kind of tattoo that looks like it’s always belonged on her skin.
