Page 61 of Monochrome Without You
“Go right ahead,” I lament, taking a bite of my sandwich. Because for the first time, I think I might actually mean it.
He points a finger at me. “You’re on thin ice, Corbin. Pull your shit together.”
I watch him leave and wonder what the hell’s gotten into me. I’ve never talked to him that way before.
Then again, maybe it was long overdue.
Chapter Fifteen
Jules
Corbin stares at me from across the table as Tate regales us with stories about first grade. I know he’s talking—I know I should be listening—but I can’t seem to take my eyes off Corbin.
I told him I was still attracted to him. Sexually. And he didn’t brush it off. He didn’t deflect. Instead, he said,I’m not sure I’ve moved on.
I thought I could show up with a peace offering—lunch—and tell him I was still processing everything. And I am. I want to. People don’t just sleep with their ex-husbands. That’s not a thing. At least, I don’t think it is.
“Mom?” Tate’s voice cuts through my haze, snapping me out of whatever trance Corbin’s icy blue eyes have me locked in.
I blink, turning to my son. “Yes?”
Tate frowns, his little shoulders slumping as he rubs his stomach. “My tummy hurts.”
Corbin’s gaze sharpens with concern. “Why don’t you try going to the bathroom, bud?”
Tate shakes his head, his face crumpling. “It hurts really bad.”
I immediately push back from the table and kneel beside him, brushing his blond hair back from his forehead. “Come on, let’s go to the bathroom. Maybe—”
“I don’t feel so good,” Tate groans, his face turning an alarming shade of green.
Oh, no.
“Trash can!” I shout at Corbin, my voice all urgency.
Corbin’s out of his chair in an instant, sprinting toward the kitchen. He returns just in time, shoving the bin into Tate’s arms as he heaves violently into it.
His tiny body shakes with each retch, and my heart clenches as I rub soothing circles on his back. Corbin kneels beside us, murmuring soft reassurances.
“You’re okay, bud,” Corbin tells him, his voice gentle. “It’ll be over soon.”
Tate wipes his teary eyes with the back of his hand. “I don’t wanna throw up,” he whimpers.
Corbin’s jaw tightens, his expression pained. “I know, bud. But it’s over now, okay? You’re okay.”
Tate sniffles, pushing the trash can away as exhaustion washes over him.
Corbin stands, then crouches to Tate’s level. “Come on. Let’s get you in your pajamas. It’s gonna be a long night.”
Tate reaches for him without hesitation, and Corbin scoops him up effortlessly, cradling him close as he carries him down the hall.
I stay frozen for a moment, watching them disappear into Tate’s bedroom, something heavy settling in my chest.
Corbin’s always been a good dad. Even when we weren’t good together. Even when everything else fell apart.
And somehow, I think that’s what makes this all so much harder.
I clean up dinner—tacos—while Corbin gets Tate settled in bed. The house feels eerily quiet except for the occasional groan from down the hall. I hate when Tate’s sick. I hate feeling helpless.
