Page 128 of Monochrome Without You
“You alright?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
She lets out a breath. “I don’t know. I just… I feel restless.”
Once we reach the bottom step, she stops and turns to face me. Her features are twisted with frustration—an emotion I’m starting to recognize as grief in disguise.
“What’s wrong?” I ask gently, cupping her cheek.
She leans into my touch for a second, then pulls back slightly. “I think it’s just all catching up to me. I lost my home twice now, Corbin. In less than two years.” Her voice shakes. “I’ve had to walk away from everything—everything—and it’s…”
“It’s what?” I urge her.
Jules swallows hard. “It’s hard not to resent thatyouhaven’t.”
The words hit me straight in the chest. But I don’t flinch.
“Ihavelost a lot, Jules,” I say quietly. “Maybe I still have this house, but I lost you. I lost our life. I know it’s not the same kind of loss, but I swear, I’d rather lose every possession I own than go through that again.”
Her expression softens, the tension in her shoulders easing just a little. “I guess you have a point.”
“Wait here,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to her forehead before slipping past her toward the garage door.
Two years ago, she left with a few boxes and nothing else.
The rest—her paintings, her art supplies, her favorite ceramic mugs she used every morning—sat untouched in the quiet corners of our house. I kept them. Not because I thought she’d come back, but because I couldn’t bring myself to let go of the pieces of her. The ones she left behind.
And the paintings. God, the paintings. They were her heart on canvas. Every stroke of color, every curve and line, those were pieces of the Jules I fell in love with. Pieces I failed. Pieces I never deserved to keep, but still did. I couldn’t hang them. I couldn’t look at them without breaking. So, I wrapped them in cloth and stored them in the garage, tucked away like a shrine to the life we lost.
Maybe that’s what this has been. Grieving in silence while she rebuilt her life without me.
I know what she went through. Sarge helped with her apartment deposit after she spent those first months couch surfing and working insane hours at that tiny café before opening the coffee shop, all while raising Tate without complaint. She didn’t take a cent from me. No alimony. No child support. Barely let me cover Tate’s health insurance. She said she didn’t want to owe me anything, but I think she just didn’t want to be hurt by me again.
She never asked for anything. Not even closure. And I let her walk away thinking I didn’t care, when the truth was, I was gutted. I just didn’t know how to show it. Not then.
But now, she needs this. Something that reminds her that not everything she built has been destroyed.
I walk into the garage, flick on the light, and stare at the stack of canvas-wrapped memories. There are over two dozen of them. I always said I parked in the driveway because the garage was too tight, but really, I couldn’t bring myself to move these. Thisspace, cluttered and dusty, still feels more alive than I’ve been in years.
I grab a few paintings, their edges worn soft from time, and head inside.
“Close your eyes,” I whisper-yell from the doorway.
“They’re closed,” Jules calls back, amusement in her voice, unaware of what’s coming.
I set them up carefully in the dining room, leaning them against chairs like a makeshift gallery. Then I guide her in, her hand in mine, her breath catching as I whisper, “Open.”
Her gasp cracks something open in me.
“My paintings,” she breathes, stepping forward like she’s seeing ghosts made of color and canvas.
“There’s more,” I say gently. “Let me grab the rest.”
I leave her there, frozen in awe, and return with more bundles. She picks them up one by one, her fingers brushing across dried paint, tracing old memories. Her eyes flicker between joy and grief, each canvas pulling something buried up to the surface.
I hate that I kept these from her for so long. I hate even more that it took a fire for her to see them again.
“We should hang them up,” I suggest softly. “Pretty sure I left the hooks in the walls.”
She turns to me, eyes wide and glassy. “But… they’re so full of color,” she says, almost laughing through the tears. “And your place is…”
