Should I be worried they’re still talking?

Did lunch even happen?

I leave a voicemail, apologizing and asking Julia to call me back. Then, because I can’t help myself, I send her a text.

Many texts.

Because I can’t fucking stand being apart from her like this. Physically. Emotionally.

I hadn’t realized exactly how much I valued our connection until it wasn’t there anymore. When I’m with Julia, I feel seen. Safe. Plugged in to something greater than myself.

I’ve only ever felt that way with my family and close friends. I’m not sure if I’ve ever felt it in a romantic relationship before.

Greyson: Can we talk?

Greyson: I’m so fucking sorry baby

Greyson: I miss you

Greyson: and I feel horrible about the things I said.

Greyson: meet me? Anywhere

Greyson: I’m going to see Luke at the barn later today (its not work related I promise)

Greyson: but I’ll work my schedule around yors

Greyson: I’m sorry

Greyson: even bowie isn’t making me feel better

Greyson: how the hell do I dance without you?

Julia calls me half an hour later.

“Sweetheart,” I say. “Hi.”

“Hi, Grey,” she says. She sounds stuffed up. Quiet. Like she’s been crying.

I let out an anguished breath. “Please. Let’s talk.”

“I’d like that.”

“How about now?”

“Like right now?” I hear the smile in her voice.

“Right now. I can’t—” I swallow. “I can’t stand this, Julia. It’s killing me. Being away from you. Knowing you’re hurt.”

“Right now works. Where?”

“I’m in my car. I’ll come get you.”

“Okay,” she says. “I’m at home.”

“Be there in five. Less than that.”

She’s waiting for me in her driveway. Looks up as I approach and put the car in park.

I can’t see her eyes; she’s wearing sunglasses.

My heart feels like it’s about to burst.

It leaps to my throat when she starts walking toward me. At first I think she’s going to open the passenger side door.

Instead, she opens the door behind mine.

Slides into the backseat.

She pushes her sunglasses onto her head and meets my eyes in the rearview mirror.

My stomach dips. Hers are bloodshot, ringed with dark circles.

But there’s a spark in them. I could be imagining it. Wanting so badly for her to forgive me that my brain conjured the hopeful glint I see there.

Or maybe—just maybe—she’s willing to give me another chance.

“How are you feeling?”

She puts a hand on her belly. “Your mom just fed Charlie Brown and me. So we’re pretty content at the moment. Minus, you know, the whole heart-that’s-been-torn-to-pieces thing.”

“Jules,” I say. The word coming out as a tight growl. “I want to make this right.”

“I want to make it right too,” she says. Her throat working as she swallows.

“Can I come back there?”

Her lips twitch. “But I told you I don’t fuck assholes.”

“I’ve deserved that. Both times you’ve said it.”

“You sure as hell have. But I’m not blameless here either.” She pats the bench. “Come. Sit, I mean. No coming.”