Page 133 of Monochrome Without You
“Thank you for coming,” I say, stepping in to redirect the moment. I extend my hand to Flor. “I’m Jules.”
“You have a lovely home,” she replies, her smile polite and practiced.
“This is Corbin,” I say as I step aside, trying to introduce the elephant in the room as gracefully as possible. “My, uh…”
“Boyfriend,” Corbin says with calm confidence.
And Tate, in perfect comedic timing, chimes in: “They used to be married. Now they live together again.”
Trey’s eyebrows lift. “Oh, really?”
Corbin’s hand finds the small of my back—reassuring, grounding—and his voice is smooth as silk. “Would anyone like a glass of wine?”
“I’d love one,” Flor answers brightly.
“Got any beer?” Trey asks, already glancing toward the kitchen.
“We do,” Corbin replies, and the two men disappear.
I exhale as I lead Flor toward the coat rack. “You can set your things here,” I offer, still feeling the residual awkwardness tighten in my chest.
Deanna, ever the social goddess, saves me once again. “You have a lovely accent,” she tells Flor. “Where are you from?”
“Spain,” Flor says as we step into the living room. Her eyes drift immediately to the wall of paintings behind the couch, her footsteps slowing until she stops in front of a city skyline bathed in watercolor dusk. “These paintings aremaravillosas,” she breathes, her voice filled with wonder. “Who’s the artist?”
I lift my hand awkwardly. “Um… me.”
Flor turns, her eyes lighting up. “You?”
“She’s very talented,” Deanna beams, like she’s been waiting years to say it.
Flor steps closer to the painting, her gaze attentive, appreciative. “Do you take commissions?”
I shake my head. “Not really. I run a coffee shop, so painting’s kind of taken a backseat.”
Flor gives me a conspiratorial smile. “Well, if you ever get back into it, I want to be the first to know.”
I smile back. Genuinely. “You’ll be the first to know.”
“Hello?” I hear Sarge’s voice behind me.
I turn around and see my brother standing there, holding a salad bowl like it might bite him. His shoulders are stiff, his expression guarded, but he’s here. And that alone means everything.
“You look great,” I say, wrapping him in a hug that’s warmer than any we’ve shared in a long time. He’s wearing dark jeans and a hunter green sweater that brings out the kindness in his eyes.
“You too,” he murmurs, still sounding unsure.
“It’s been a while since you’ve been here,” I say.
“It’s been a while sinceyou’vebeen here,” he counters softly.
“True.” I smile. “But I’m here now. And I’m happy.”
Sarge blows out a breath, his defenses finally loosening. “I’m happy for you.”
“Really?”
He nods. Slowly. Honestly. “Yeah. I really am.”
