Of all the things I expected her to say—yes,no,I don’t know,get the fuck out—that question hadn’t even been on the list.
“What?” The word came out rough, barely audible.
“Julie.” Her voice was soft but steady, her eyes never leaving mine. “You called me Julie. That night at the pond. You said her name over and over again.” She paused, and I saw her throat work as she swallowed. “Who is she?”
My hands curled into fists on the table, my knuckles going white as I gripped the edge so hard I thought the wood might splinter beneath my fingers. I felt the familiar tightness in my chest, that suffocating pressure that made it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to do anything but feel the weight of everything pressing down on me. The one that came every time I thought about Julie, every time I said her name out loud, every time her face flashed unbidden across my mind. Every time I remembered what I had lost, what had been taken from me, what I would never get back no matter how many years passed or how hard I tried to move forward.
“Hope.”
“Please.” Her voice cracked slightly, and she leaned forward, her hands flat on the table between us. “I need to know. I need to understand why you thought I was her.”
I closed my eyes briefly, trying to steady myself. Trying to find the words that would explain the unexplainable. When I opened them again, she was still watching me, waiting. She deserved the truth. After everything I had done to her. After taking her virginity while calling her another woman’s name, after walking away, after watching her from the shadows for two weeks, she deserved to know why.
“Julie was my wife,” I said finally, my voice low and rough.
Hope’s expression didn’t change, but I saw something flicker in her eyes. Pain, maybe. Or understanding. I couldn’t tell.
“We met when we were eight years old,” I continued, my words coming slowly, like pulling nails from wood. “First day of third grade. She sat next to me in class and asked if she could borrow a pencil.” I paused, my throat tightening. “I gaveher mine. Didn’t even have a backup. Spent the rest of the day writing with a crayon because I didn’t want to ask for it back.”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Hope’s mouth, but it was sad. Fragile.
“We were inseparable after that,” I said. “Best friends all through elementary school. Started dating in high school. Got married right after graduation.” I stopped, my jaw clenching as the memories flooded back—Julie in her white dress, her hair full of wildflowers, her smile so bright it could’ve lit up the entire state of Tennessee. “She was... everything. My entire world. The only person who ever reallysawme, you know? Not the executioner. Not the club enforcer. Just... me.”
Hope’s eyes glistened, and I saw her blink rapidly, like she was trying to hold back tears.
“We tried for years to have a baby,” I continued, my voice getting rougher with every word. “Years of hoping and praying and being disappointed every single month. There were so many miscarriages, yet Julie refused to give up, even when the doctors told her it was impossible, that it would kill her. And then, finally, she got pregnant.” I stopped, my hands tightening into fists so hard my nails bit into my palms. “She was so happy. So fucking happy, and I was scared shitless. She picked out names, painted the nursery, and bought all the baby stuff. She used to talk to her belly every night, telling our daughter stories about what her life was going to be like, but I couldn’t stop worrying. Every day that baby grew, I watched the love of my life get weaker, as our daughter drained the life right out of her.”
A tear slipped down Hope’s cheek, and she quickly wiped it away with the back of her hand.
“And then...” I trailed off, my throat closing up. I couldn’t say it. Couldn’t force the words past the lump that had formed there.
“What happened?” Hope whispered.
I looked down at my hands, at the scars and calluses and ink that covered them. Hands that had killed. Hands that had built. Hands that had held Julie’s as she died.
“She went into labor early. Hemorrhaged during childbirth,” I said, my voice barely audible. “The doctors said she threw a clot, an embolism that went straight to her brain. They tried everything, but the damage was done. She was declared brain dead. I refused to believe them. Hoped and prayed for a miracle, but it wasn’t enough.” I stopped, my vision blurring. “She died three days after our daughter was born.”
The silence that followed was suffocating as I forced myself to look up, to meet Hope’s eyes. And what I saw there nearly broke me.
She was crying. Not just a few tears—reallycrying. Her face was wet, her eyes red and swollen, her shoulders shaking slightly as she tried to hold it together. But it wasn’t the kind of crying I expected. It wasn’t anger or hurt, or betrayal. It wasgrief.
She was crying forme.
“Hope.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice thick with tears. “I’m so, so sorry.”
I stared at her, completely thrown. She had just found out that I had slept with her while thinking she was my dead wife, and she wasapologizing? She was crying formyloss?
“You don’t—” I stopped, my throat tightening. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”
“Yes, I do.” She reached across the table, her hand hovering just above mine. Not touching, but close enough that I could feel the warmth of her skin. “You lost your wife. The love of your life. And I—” Her voice broke, and she pulled her hand back, pressing it against her chest. “I can’t even imagine what that feels like. What you’ve been going through.”
I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything but sit there and watch as she cried for me, for Julie, for Aurora, for the life I had lost.
“How old is your daughter?” she asked softly.
“Eight months.” My words came out automatically, even though my brain was still trying to process what was happening. “Her name is Aurora. Aurora Julianna.”
