Then David exhales. “Juliette, I know you’re upset, but?—”
“No,” I say, the word landing hard. “You don’t get tobutthis.”
I pace once, fingers digging into my palm as I look at mywatch. “Our son is at school right now. At a Father-Son Breakfast. He is sitting there thinking you are on your way.”
“What?” he says. “I thought that was next?—”
“Youknew,” I snap. “You knew, David. I’m in a meeting I can’t walk away from without consequences. I cannot get to him in time to soften this or spin it or lie my way through it.”
My voice cracks, just a little, and that somehow makes me angrier.
“Do you have any idea,” I say, “that this is the kind of thing therapists make whole careers out of? This is the stuff that sticks. The waiting. The empty chair. The wondering what he did wrong.”
“That’s dramatic,” he says weakly.
I laugh—short, sharp, incredulous. “You know what’s dramatic? Flying to Alaska without calling your kid. What I’m being right now isaccurate.”
“I said I was sorry.”
“I’m saying sorry doesn’t clean up the mess,” I snap. “You don’t get to parachute in with explanations after the fact and expect that to fix it. Sorry doesn’t walk through the door. Sorry doesn’t show up with a tray and sit down next to him. Sorry leaves him staring at the clock.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“I’ll call him,” he says. “I’ll explain.”
“No,” I say immediately. “But you will stop making promises you don’t intend to keep.”
“I’m trying?—”
“Then try where it matters,” I say. “Because I am done absorbing this for you.”
My chest is tight now, breath coming fast, but my voice stays steady. That might be the most dangerous part. It’s as if my panic buildup is, for once, not coming to fruition. That’s a first, and I’m going to make it my new superpower.
“I have to go,” I add, stronger. “I’m fighting for somethingright now, something that means a lot to me and your son, and this conversation is not going to help things.”
I end the call before he can respond.
For a moment, I stand there, phone pressed to my ear, heart pounding like I’ve run a mile without moving an inch.
Then I smooth my jacket. Lift my chin. Walk back to the table.
The woman with the clipboard looks up at me, eyes kind, unreadable.
“Everything okay?” she asks.
I sit down, place my hands flat on the table, and meet her gaze.
“No,” I say honestly. Then I breathe. “I need to reschedule. My son…”
The door opens behind me before I can finish.
Charlie steps in, phone still in his hand, eyes flicking from my face to the woman with the clipboard and back again. He doesn’t say anything—just gives me a small, steady nod. Thegokind.
I push my chair back, already gathering my bag. “My son is at school right now, waiting for a father who isn’t coming. I need to mitigate the emotional wreckage of that.”
The woman across from me smiles gently. Not surprised. Not inconvenienced.
“It’s fine,” she says. “I didn’t mean to overhear—but I did.”
