Jules
The TV’s on, sound muted. Every few minutes, I check for his face on the screen, but Cash isn’t there.
He’s not here either.
Cash is somewhere in between, having left a half hour ago. No matter how hard I try to remain patient, to remind myself he’s coming back, I’m incapable of exuding calmness. From the moment he left my apartment, I’ve debated on whether to watch the conference, turning the television on and off at least half a dozen times. In the end, curiosity won, but the wait is killing me.
For the second time this morning, a knock sounds, and I hurry to pull open the door, my pulse a nervous flutter in my throat at the thought of finding Cash on the other side. “I didn’t expect you back so—” I cut off, the ability to speak stolen by the sight of flowers. But Cash isn’t standing behind the huge bouquet of tulips.
“Hi,” Chris says, holding out the bouquet, his stance nonchalant as if showing up on my doorstep in Seattle is an everyday occurrence for him. “I couldn’t come empty-handed, and I know how much you love tulips.”
Words die in my throat as I reach for the flowers. Our fingers brush together for an instant, and something inside me cracks—a place I thought was impenetrable when it came to my ex.
I do love tulips. For the longest time, I loved him too.
He shuffles his feet. “Can I come in?”
No, my mind screams, but my fingers curl around the door and edge it open. He steps inside, and that’s when I find my voice again.
“What are you doing here?”
How is he here?
“Your sister gave me your address,” he answers, as if I asked the question aloud. As if that explains everything. He gawks at me for several seconds, brown eyes taking me in from my blond locks to the painted toenails on my bare feet. “You look amazing. Are you heading to work?”
“Um…” Trailing off, I shut the door. “No. I’ve got today off.” I make my way into the kitchen to find a vase, and Chris follows.
His presence has caught me completely off-guard, and as I fill a vase with water for the tulips, I’m out of my element, even in my own apartment. Done with the task, I set the flowers on the kitchen counter, but it doesn’t feel right because they’re housed in the same vase I used for the sunflower bouquet Cash gave me.
The thought makes me want to cry.
Or maybe it’s the past standing in my apartment that’s bringing on the threat of tears. With my arms crossed over my chest, I face Chris. “Why are you here?”
“You wouldn’t return my calls.”
“So you come halfway across the country?”
He opens his mouth then shuts it, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he struggles to find whatever he’s trying to say. “I came halfway across the country because I’m still in love with you.”
I gape at him, at a loss for words. He’s the last person I expected to find on my doorstep.
“I want you back, Jules.” His voice cracks on my name, and I scoot past him in the tight space, not liking this boxed-in feeling. Our arms brush together, and my steps falter. The history between us is thick, suffocating, larger than the two of us.
So is the pain.
Keeping my back to him, I swipe a tear from my cheek, and that’s when I spot movement on the television. Cash is standing at the podium, his sad eyes penetrating me clear to my bones. With the sound still muted, I can’t hear what he’s saying, but his somber expression gives away the gravity of the situation.
“Jules?”
I whirl at the sound of my name. “Why are you here?” My voice is shrill enough to echo.
“I told you. I want you back.”
“It’s been two months.”
“Two miserable months.” He’s stepping closer, his sneakered feet eating up the distance. I should move, but all I can think about is how I bought him those black and white shoes last Christmas.
For the first time in my life, I hadn’t gone home for the holiday. Instead, Chris and I stayed in, and it had been perfect. Just the two of us, no family drama. The best Christmas I can recall.
And that makes the memory hurt that much more.
“You need to leave.” I’m still staring at his feet, so I don’t notice his fingers against my cheek until it’s too late.
“Don’t cry.” His voice is gentle as he wipes the tears from my face.
Funny how two months, 2,000 miles, and falling in love with someone else still doesn’t dull the sharp ache in my chest. I guess it’s true what they say—mending a broken heart does take time. Backing away from his touch, I raise my eyes to his and slam the metaphorical hammer down on my reaction to him.
“You know what? You’re right. Crying over you is pointless.”
“I didn’t come here to fight.” A hint of irritation infuses his words. If I didn’t know him so well, I would have missed it.
The tears are already drying on my face, leaving behind tracks, but all I can think about is Cash and how he said he’d come back. But with Chris here…
I imagine the two of them squaring off in my living room, radiating testosterone and alpha vibes. That would be a disaster. I grab my phone and shoot off a quick text to him.
Me: My ex just showed up. Coming back is too risky.
Setting my cell to vibrate, I clutch it in my hand and turn back to Chris. He’s busy taking in my apartment.
“Nice place. I heard you got a job at MontBlake.” Admiration laces his tone. The company has become a household name since the merger last year, and it’s common knowledge the pay is good.
Chris wanders to the bar that separates the kitchen from the living room. As he runs his hand along the clean surface, he seems to be coming to some sort of conclusion, because he’s nodding his head.
His intentions wind around my throat, and I’m barely able to squeak out a response. “Here?”
Pausing, he brings his gaze to mine. “In Seattle. I’ve already lined up a few job prospects.”
“Why would you do that?”
The corners of his mouth twitch, hinting at a smile. “You’re my home, Jules.”
I wring my hands. Shake my head. Try to pull in a full breath. Nothing stops the stress of the morning from eating away at my composure. It’s just too fucking much all at once.
Cash.
Chris.
No chance in hell.
“I mean it, Chris. You need to go.” I stride to the front door and swing it open. The rain from the weekend is nowhere in sight, having cleared at some point while Cash and I were caught up in each other.
God, I want that feeling back. The world hadn’t existed. The complexities of real life hadn’t mattered during those hours. There had been no right or wrong, no viewing the situation through black and white lenses.
We’d been entwined in shades of passion, lost in a red haze that set my sunlit room on fire. The clouds had cleared long enough for us to make love in the brightness of the rays coming through my bedroom window.
It was symbolic.
It was meant to be.
My phone vibrates against my palm, and while Chris is ignoring my demand to leave my apartment, I peek at the screen.
Cash: Are you okay? The conference is over. I can be there in twenty minutes.
Chris strolls into my kitchen and opens the fridge. “Have you eaten breakfast?” He tries disarming me with his charming smile, but it doesn’t work on me anymore. Not like it used to.
He pulls out a carton of eggs, followed by a half gallon of milk. “Have breakfast with me. Remember how much you loved my French toast?” He rifles through my cupboards and pulls out a loaf of bread and a mixing bowl, and I let the front door shut with a defeated sigh.
“Fine. Cook breakfast if it’ll make you happy.” I plop onto the sofa and send Cash another message.
Me: I’m okay.
Me: He’s making French toast in my fucking kitchen. Can you believe that?
Cash: To hell with the risk. As your boss, I might have some files that I NEED to drop off.
Me: Please don’t. He knows me too well. It won’t take him more than five seconds to figure out how I feel about you. Just give me an hour. I’ll let him say what he needs to say then get him out of here.
Biting my lip, I wait for his response, hoping he’ll find the logic of waiting and back down long enough for me to get Chris out of here.
Cash: Promise you’ll text me if you need me.
Me: I will, I promise. You should get some sleep anyway. You looked exhausted on TV.
Cash: You saw?
Me: I had the sound muted, but yeah.
Cash: I miss you already. The only thing I want right now is you in my arms.
Hell, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I do a little of both, my eyes burning as the corners of my mouth turn up. I’m texting that I miss him too when Chris breaks into my Cash bubble.
“Who are you texting?”
“None of your business.”
Chris is busy dipping pieces of bread into egg batter, but every few seconds, he sends a glance my way. “You were smiling, Jules.”
“I do that a lot these days.” Shit, I need to rein in my attitude. Chris is…Chris. He’ll always have a place in my heart, and I’d rather us move forward as friends than enemies.
“You seeing anyone?” he asks, failing to mask the nervous hitch in his voice.
With a sigh, I set my phone aside. “I’m not doing this with you.”
“Doing what?”
“Pretending everything’s okay. We broke up.”
He doesn’t slow his stride in the kitchen as he places the bread pieces onto a griddle, but the set of his broad shoulders turns rigid. “I quit drinking. Been sober for over a month now. I’m even going to meetings.”
I rise from the sofa and slide onto a barstool to watch him cook. “That’s great. I’m happy for you.”
“At first, I did it for you.” He settles his brown gaze on me. The lines of his face are determined, and too familiar. “I wanted to be good enough for you, Jules. So I got my shit together. I wasn’t about to come out here until I’d at least come that far.”
“You have to do it for yourself,” I say softly.
“I know that now. So no matter what you decide, I’m staying sober. I just need you to know that.”
“Chris,” I begin, tone heavy with objection, “It’s over—”
“Please hear me out,” he interrupts.
The toast is sizzling on the stove, and my gaze veers to the griddle. “How about you feed me while you talk?”
He jumps into motion and saves the bread from burning. After the other sides cook for a couple of minutes, we settle side by side at the bar, two plates of French toast in front of us, and I wait for him to make his case. It’s something he’s always been good at—twisting the situation and his words to suit his agenda. I arm myself against this particular talent of his with the burned image of Cash in my mind.
With the memory of him blanketing me, hands clasped together as we became one for the first time. The way he let me cry afterward, without judgment.
The intensity in his eyes when he told me he loved me.
Chris is studying me, mouth a severe line of suspicion as I bring a bite of French toast to my lips. And I know I’ve fucked up already, as my feelings for Cash are no doubt playing across my face in all their tender glory.
He recognizes the lovesick expression because I used to look at him the same way.
“You met someone, didn’t you?”
Instead of answering, I shovel another bite into my mouth. Letting out a curse under his breath, he slides off the stool, leaving his plate untouched.
“I didn’t want to do this so soon,” he says, digging into his jeans pocket, “but I need you to know how serious I am about us.” In his palm lies a black jewelry box, and as he lowers to one knee, flipping the lid open, I drop my fork.
I can’t speak, can’t breathe, can’t stop him. I can’t do anything but gape at him like an idiot.
“I should’ve done this a long time ago, Jules. I mean, hell,” he says, a derisive laugh tumbling from his lips, “I’ve had the ring for over a year now.” He takes my clammy, limp hand in his, and I’m positive I’ve never seen his gaze so bright.
As if those deep brown eyes are on the verge of overflowing.
“I was a fool for letting you go.” He pauses long enough to swallow hard. “My issues pushed you into Perry’s bed, and my damn pride pushed you halfway across the country. I’ve never regretted anything so much. I know we have a lot to talk about, but I’m lost without you. Please say yes.” His fingers tremble as he works the ring free from the black box.
The silence between us is too loud, though not loud enough to quiet the memory of my mistake; it roars through my mind like a jet, and once again, I hate myself for hurting him the way I did.
“I don’t remember it,” I say, not sure why that’s the one thing that pops out of my mouth in this moment. The crease in his forehead indicates his confusion, so I add, “Sleeping with Perry. I don’t remember it.”
“I know. It took some time for it to sink in, but I know, Jules.” Something dark passes over his face—the shadow of a memory, the cloud of shared pain, the smothering blanket of regret. He brings my left hand to his lips, brushes the softest of kisses there, then he slides the ring on.
And once again, I’m speechless.
Floating in a mosaic dream that doesn’t make sense because this is too bizarre to be real.
Except it is, and the cold weight of the solitaire diamond is proof enough. I yank my hand back as if he burned me. “Chris, I—”
“I don’t want an answer now,” he interrupts, rising to his feet. He places a kiss on the crown of my head, and I settle my hand on his chest in a defensive move, overcome by the need for personal space.
But the way his heart is beating so damn fast steals my breath. You can’t fake that kind of reaction.
“I’ll call you later.” His words are low, tinged in pain and uncertainty, and as he slips out the front door of my apartment, I’m left wondering what the hell just happened.