She opens the door, stepping out first. I let out a slow breath before following her to the counter.
“Can we get a Serial Killer on the house?” she calls to the barista.
I arch a brow. “Serial Killer?”
Jules smirks. “Black coffee. A serial killer’s beverage of choice. Don’t you keep up with statistics on criminals, Corbin?”
A reluctant chuckle slips out before I can stop it.
Damn her.
Her quick wit. Her sharp tongue. The way she always knew how to make me laugh. Just enough to keep me on edge.
Our fingers graze as she hands me the cup, and electricity snaps through the contact. Her breath hitches. For a fraction of a second, we aren’t exes. We’re just Jules and Corbin. And I know I should say something.
But instead, she clears her throat. “Have a good day, Corbin.”
Her voice is steady. Controlled. Like she’s willing herself not to break.
I swallow the words I want to say. The ones that might make this harder.
“You too,” I murmur, stepping back, wishing—for the first time in years—that I could stay.
When I reach my car, the cell phone I shoved into the glove box is vibrating. Guess I can’t avoid the inevitable forever.
I exhale and pull it out, answering without checking the screen. “Hello?”
A pause. Then a woman’s voice. “Is this Mr. Banks?”
Something in her tone makes my grip tighten on the steering wheel.
“Yes,” I say, placing my coffee in the cup holder.
“This is Georgie Whitney, the assistant principal at Sacred Heart Elementary.” A beat. “There’s been an incident involving your son, Tate.”
A sharp pang twists in my gut.
“What happened?” It comes out steady, but the question punches out of me too fast.
“Tate got into a scuffle with a classmate,” she explains. “Would it be possible for you to come down to the school right now?”
I run a hand through my hair. “Yeah.”
There’s a hesitation. “Tate is asking for his mom.”
My chest tightens.
“We tried getting ahold of her,” she adds, “but the line kept ringing.”
Jules’ phone is probably buried under a pile of flower crowns or sitting next to an empty coffee mug she forgot she left somewhere.
I inhale sharply. “I’ll make sure we’re both there.”
***
Jules’ knee bounces beside me as we sit in the main office, her flower crown slightly askew. I don’t think she realizes she’s doing it. Or that she’s twisting the hem of her dress, wringing the fabric between her fingers. Or that she hasn’t taken a full breath since we walked in.
I want to reach for her hand, still her movements, settle her, but I keep my hands in my lap. I’m not sure she’d want me to touch her right now.
