Yes, he knew I had a tendency to daydream and knew that Chris had been my celebrity crush. But he didn’t know the whole complex world I’d built in my head. He didn’t know that Chris had existed in my daydreams long before he had entered my life.
I cleared my throat, trying to maintain a steady voice, and asked, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, of course,” he said, way too fast. “I’m… happy for you.”
“Thanks…” I forced out. My big mouth had already messed everything up, so I left it at that.
He quickly steered the conversation.
“So, is Carol staying with the kids?”
“She is.”
“Good, good,” he mumbled, rushing his words like he couldn’t get out of the conversation fast enough. “I’ll be home Monday. I’ll pick them up then.”
“George—” I started, but he cut me off.
“Hey, I’ve got to go, Jules. Don’t want to be late for this meeting.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Okay. Bye.” He abruptly ended the call.
I stood there, the phone still clutched in my hand. I hit it against my forehead three times, muttering,
“Fuck, fuck, fuck…”
I yanked open the vanity drawer, and of course, my eyes landed right on our wedding photo. There we were, smiling, looking every bit like the perfect couple everyone thought we were. And then, eventually, the perfect family. The kind people envied. We had the whole act down. The park picnics, loud cheers at school plays, and showing up to every family gathering hand in hand.
That was all anyone ever saw—the flawless, outside version of us. No one saw the cracks beneath it all. No onenoticed the autopilot I’d been running on for years, like a robot that knew how to play perfect wife and mom when the inside of me was in shambles. My mind would drift away at the worst moments, no matter how much I wanted it to stay. I was constantly at war with myself, trying to be present, trying to…feel.
I was bleeding inside, and nobody even knew. Not even George. He might have gotten closer than anyone else to the other side of the wall, but he was still on the outside. And eventually, being married to someone who wasn’t fully there probably wore him down.
He’d never admit it or be the one to walk away. No. He was too proud of the TV-worthy family he’d constructed for the world to see. But behind closed doors—when it was just him and me— there was no spark left. No real effort from either of us to be what the other needed anymore.
That’s the hardest, isn’t it? When no one’s done anything particularly terrible, nothing you can point to and say, “This is why.” But you were still so unhappy that, at some point, you had to say something. You had to leave.
I stared at the photo, my chest tightening with that familiar pain it always brought. Part of me wanted to grab it and toss it out, but I couldn’t. I wasn’t even ready to touch it, let alone part with it. Instead, I shoved the box with my accessories back into the drawer on top of the frame, hoping that hiding it would somehow quiet the ache.
Spoiler: It didn't.
8
JULES
It was past eight, and there I was, standing in front of the mirror in a simple black dress, barely any makeup (I wouldn’t know how to apply more than that anyway!), and my anxiety at an all-time high.
How did he know my name? Why did he kiss me like that? Andwhydid I kiss him back? My brain was fried, running circles around questions I had no answers to.
I squinted at my reflection while every awkward thing I’d ever said replayed in my head. Like the time I asked my neighbor if his dog was single, and then he took offense when I didn’t want to go on a date with him. Or when I explained to a stranger why blueberries are the superior berries. Or the million times I was apparently too rude when I was just trying to make conversation. I wasn’t a charming, quirky, manic pixie dream girl. I was full-on Crazy with a capital C.
And you know what? It had taken me years to embrace my brand of weirdness. Seeing those same quirks in my kids had been the final proof that: screw what people think, there was magic in being different.
Still, knowing you are lovable and feeling lovable are twoverydifferent beasts. Most people didn’t get me, and that was fine. But would it be fine if Chris Jones found me too eccentric to bear?
I was halfway through an internal panic attack when my reflection blurred, and the lights dimmed. That’s when she appeared—dream Jules. She was a vision in a long emerald-green dress that hugged her curves and made her hair pop, looking like a fiery crown of confidence. Her makeup was mostly soft, except for her dark, smoky eyes that made the color of her irises sparkle. Her smile was comforting yet a little bit cocky, like she had it all together.
I wanted to be herso bad.
