Page 134 of Holy Hearts
It feels domestic.
And it feels entirely out of grasp, somehow.
Despite waking up with her and Julian two days ago, it feels like a lifetime ago. Especially since aside from our group chat, I haven’t seen them until I showed up this morning to help Sophie with the shop.
It’s still a matter ofthemversusme.
“Julian’s going to love the new floors,” Sophie says suddenly, her voice full of warmth. She talks about Julian with the kind of ease that only comes from years of knowing someone inside and out. I wonder if she could ever talk about me like that. “He’s already talking about claiming the little corner near the register for a coffee bar. I told him he’s not allowed unless he actually sticks with it this time,” she adds, her tone light and affectionate.
“Sticks with it?” I ask, keeping my eyes on the sander. The repetitive motion is distracting enough to keep my eyes focused on the floor rather than the woman next to me. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, you know Julian.” Her voice is breezy. Toobreezy. Yanking another nail out, she tosses it into the growing pile next to her. “He’s always had his phases. Things he hyperfixates on until something shiny catches his attention.”
I should laugh, but instead my chest tightens. “Hmm.”
“You know him. It’s just a part of who he is. He’s lucky I find it sweet most of the time.”
Forcing a chuckle, I ignore the feel of a knife twisting in my gut. I remember the fixations all too well.
“You mean he’s never dragged you to a hip-hop dance class? Becausethatwas interesting.”
Julian had a lot of interests when we were teenagers—the world fascinated him. He was curious, interested, with a zest for life.
“Oh God, where do I even start?” She sits back on her heels, smudging dirt across her cheek with the back of her hand. I almost laugh because it’s adorable. “There was the cycling phase—that one lasted three months, and we still have all the fancy cycling gear to show for it. Then there was pottery. Woodworking. He even tried to teach himself Japanese because he thought it would be fun.” She smiles, lost in memory.
She continues. “That’s just Julian, though. He gets so passionate about something, throws himself into it completely, and then one day…” She snaps her fingers. “Poof. It’s gone, never to return. And he’s on to the next thing.”
I pause, the sander humming in my hands.
On to the next thing.
Is that what I am?The next thing?How long until he moves on? Cycling lasted three months… is that my expiration date, too? I recall the hip-hop dancing fading pretty quickly, too… and the bookbinding, and everything else that seemed to excite him at one time or another. How long until he convinces Sophie to continue being a hotwife with a different guy because he can’t get that same dopamine hit with me? After all, I’m not a new, shiny thing.
And I do remember how excited he used to get over shiny, new things.
“It must be nice to have that freedom,” I blurt. “To just move on when something doesn’t hold your attention anymore.”
I can’t help how bitter my words sound, and I almost wince.
Sophie’s expression softens, but it only makes everything worse. It feels like she’spityingme.
“You know him as well as I do, Kai. You know he loves experiencing things fully. He’s always been like that. But when it comes to things that matter…” She trails off. “He’s never walked away from the people he loves.”
I can’t respond. The sander hums angrily beneath my hand, scraping deeper into the wood than I meant to. I ease off the pressure, but the small gouge left behind feels like evidence of the thoughts I can’t quite shake.
Because I can’t bring myself to ask the question that’s bothering me: am I one of those things he loves, or am I just a passing phase?
I could text him, ask him how his day’s going. But what would I even say? I already feel like I’m standing in someone else’s house, trying to act like I belong.
Sophie seems to sense the shift in me. She stands and brushes her hands on her jeans, frowning.
“Hey, you okay?”
Setting the sander down, I look up and force a smile. “Yeah, fine. Just tired.”
What I want to say—what Ican’tsay—is that she talks about him like he’s some untouchable sun. I can see it in the way her face lights up. And I’m… jealous. I want her to talk about me like that, too.
Sophie and Julian Ashford are their own universe, and I still feel like an outsider. They fit together so perfectly, leaving no room for me unless I wedge myself into the cracks.
