The journalist and the crowd behind her crackled, and Jules gracefully moved on to the next interviewer. Chris leaned in to offer his own advice.
“Marry a Gemini woman,” he said, his eyes sparkling. “You’ll never get bored.”
2
JULES
Thump thump thump.
The sharp knocks pulled me out like a bucket of cold water, and I was back. The elegant celebrities, the blinding flashes of the cameras, the hum of a crowd calling my name. All gone.
I blinked, trying to make sense of where I was.
My bedroom.
The musky green walls and the quirky, mismatched decoration were unmistakable. The buzz of the dream applause still echoed in my ears for a second before it was completely gone.
Great. Now I had a major headache that wasn’t there before.
Another daydream.
My hand was tingling, and I realized I’d been holding my mascara up mid-movement for too long. Before it could finally touch my lashes, my eyes met my reflection. I wanted to focus on every feature to bring myself fully back to reality, but the woman in the vanity mirror looked… rough. My eyes looked pitch black in this lighting, rimmed with dark circles—a reminder of how fucking tired I constantly was. And my hair, in the messiest of buns, desperately needed a gloss to revive the fiery red tone to its full glory.
“Mom! We have to go!” Liam’s voice rolled from the hallway. His urgency snapped me out of my daze.
Eight-years-old. My firstborn, my little boy, was suddenly not so little anymore. If I tried hard enough, I could still feel his baby hands holding my fingers, though the memories always felt blurred around the edges. Sure, I was there, but I hadn’tbeenthere, not really. I had spent much of those early motherhood years dissociating to survive. It was like watching someone else living my life, floating outside my body while time passed.
My aunt praised me for rocking my babies to sleep for hours, admiring my patience and dedication. The reality? I was often completely lost in a daydream, like a second ago. My only consolation was that it was better than the wild 90s parenting advice she would have me follow instead.
I looked down at the desk.What a mess!
I swept all the clutter, mascara included, into one of the drawers. Tucked among the loose odds and ends was a photo—a wedding picture. The frame looked brand new, even though the image had been there for almost a decade. My ex-husband George and I stood side by side, his arms wrapped around my waist. He looked tall and wide-shouldered, his dark hair slicked back perfectly. We were smiling like we had the whole world figured out. So young and naive.
Little did we know.
Looking at those frozen smiles now was like a punch to the gut. A reminder from a past life that barely felt like mine anymore. My gaze traveled through the picture and landed on my hand, hanging by my side, holding a shot glass overflowing with tequila.
Of course, I couldn’t take a normal, boring wedding picture.
It made me chuckle.
She used to be fun, that girl. A total mess, sure. Reckless, impulsive, and always getting herself into trouble, but damn, she was fun. I didn’t necessarily miss the chaos, but I missed… her.
I ran my fingers over the frame, and an ache in my chest grew sharper. Every time I looked at this picture, it hurt. Every single time. How had we gone from that hopeful day to… now?
I was lost, not in a daydream but in a vicious cycle of hurtful thoughts. With my head, it was often one or the other.
Stop. Be human. Now.
I shut the drawer more forcefully than necessary, as if slamming it closed would lock the memories away. Then, I took a deep breath and turned to the closet, opening the doors to reveal my neatly arranged closet.
Color. Freaking. Coded.
My fingers brushed over the different fabrics, checking what level of discomfort I could endure today, and the answer wasnone. So I grabbed a cotton T-shirt and tugged it over my head, but the moment that tag scraped my neck…
Nope. Not today, Satan.
I yanked at it, trying to rip it off, but the damn thing wouldn’t budge. I tore the shirt off and tossed it onto the floor.
