Page 12 of Monochrome Without You
Sarge chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “My baby sister wouldn’t be dumb enough to sleep with the man who broke her heart, would she?”
My back stiffens.I would never. The words almost leave my mouth. But my throat tightens because that’s a lie.
Sarge watches me closely. Then he exhales. “You did, didn’t you?”
I turn, placing the fig on the window shelf. “It was an accident.”
“An accident.” He repeats it flatly. “Right. Like you tripped and fell into his bed?”
I whip around. “You don’t understand.”
“Then help me understand.”
I exhale, rubbing my temples. “Before Corbin was my husband, he was my fiancé. And before that, he was my boyfriend. And before that…” My voice drops. “He was the person I was madly in love with.”
Sarge’s jaw ticks. “Key word: was.”
I swallow hard. “He’s a lot of things to me, Sarge. Sometimes, I have a hard time sorting through what he is and isn’t.”
He leans in, his tone quiet but firm. “Jules. He’s not any of those things to you anymore.”
I cross my arms. “He’s Tate’s dad.”
“And other than raising a child together, he’s nothing.”
“I know that.” I tug at the ribbon on my flower crown, suddenly restless.
Sarge doesn’t look convinced. He shakes his head. “You have to put yourself out there. Go on a date. Meet new people. There’s more to life than Corbin Banks.”
More to life than Corbin Banks.
I chew on the inside of my cheek. Maybe. But what if no one else ever feels like home?
“I will,” I lie. “When I’m ready.”
Sarge sighs. “It’s been two years, Jules. There are other men in the world. Men you actually have things in common with.”
My throat burns.
“I’m just not ready,” I admit. “And I don’t think I ever will be. I don’t think I’ll ever feel the way I feel about Corbin for anyone else.”
Sarge watches me, reading me like a book. “What’s so special about him, Jules?”
I shake my head, smiling softly. “It’s hard to explain.”
“Try me.”
“It’s like he’s…” I pause, thinking. “He’s a blank canvas.”
Sarge lifts an eyebrow.
“And I’m watercolors and molding clay and worn paintbrushes,” I continue. “And he let me create over and over again on his blank canvas.”
A memory flickers in my mind. Corbin lying in bed, tracing his fingers over my paint-stained hands.
Sarge leans against the counter. “Until he was done with your creations and dumped your ass.”
The words punch the air from my lungs. I blink hard. “I know Corbin and I don’t work.” I glance toward my office, checking to make sure Tate isn’t listening. “It was one night, Sarge. Let it go.”
