“Acer, don’t fucking sass me,” she snaps. “Go through your shit.”
Good grief. What’s crawled up her ass?I don’t dare ask the question and start halfheartedly digging through the box. My brain’s still fried from last night. I don’t even know what time I got home. I only remember seeing Julia across the room. Seeing herwith him. And feeling like I couldn’t breathe.
“I found this too. Seems important.” Mom slides a folded piece of paper across the counter toward me. It’s wrinkled and soft from time, and I recognize the handwriting before I even touch it.
Pink marker. Loopy letters. Hearts dotting every i.
I don’t have to unfold it to know what it is.
She says nothing. Just sips her coffee and watches me read it.
Ace and Julia get married at 25 years old. No matter what.
J U L I A
A C E
My throat feels tight.
I refold it slowly. Carefully. Like it’s fragile in more ways than one.
My mom doesn’t say a word. She simply turns to the fridge like she didn’t drop a memory bomb on my morning.
And my dad strolls into the kitchen, shirtless, whistling, and his favorite mug is in hand that readsI LOVE CASSIE’S TITSin big block letters. “Morning, Acer,” he says, clapping me on the back so hard I stumble a step. “How ya doing, buddy?”
“Fine,” I mutter, my skin still stinging from his big fucking meaty hand.
Dad refills his coffee mug, leans against the counter, and says, “Saw Kline yesterday. He said Jules and that guy Chad are getting pretty close. Real fluffing cozy. Know anything about that?”
My stomach twists, but I keep my face flat, and my silence only spurs him on further.
“Apparently, Julia brought him to brunch and shit several weeksago. I guess if they’re doing meet-the-parents shit, they must be getting close.” Dad takes a sip. “He also mentioned something about next year. Julia maybe moving in with the guy…”
I freeze. The paper’s still folded in my hand. My name written in pink. Hearts over the i’s.
“Really?” I ask, and it’s the first word I’ve said since he started fucking gabbing.
“Who knows.” He shrugs. “Might just be Kline being paranoid. Or maybe it’s happening. Either way, it’s feeling a lot like you’re letting the love of your life slip through your fingers. But what do I know, huh?”
“You know what? You can go through the rest of that later,” my mom says as she slides the rest of the box full of junk she demanded for me to come over here and look at down the hall behind her and away from me.
To my surprise, they don’t say anything else. At least not to me. To each other, they talk about Thanksgiving plans and bicker about who left the fancy olive oil uncapped. There are boob squeezes and nipple pinches and my dad talking about how olive oil makes his balls smooth.
But it’s nothing more than chaotic background noise as I stare down at the paper in my hands and think about the love of my life.
This may just be paper—our silly marriage decree—but what it stands for is so much more.
Even when Julia Brooks isn’t mine…it still feels like I’m hers.
Julia
I’m wearing an old hoodie and socks that definitely have a hole in the toe.
My hair is…questionable. My eyes are puffy. And I’ve been standing in front of my mirror for a full five minutes now, pretending I’m brave.
Notbravebrave. Not save-a-kid-from-a-burning-building brave. But like…walk-across-the-hall-and-talk-to-the-guy-who-used-to-be-your-best-friend-and-you’re-in-love-with-him brave.
Which feels harder, honestly. I clear my throat and try again, staring at my own reflection.
