Page 43 of Broken Vows

“I’m not.” Something flickers across his face. “Numbers just make sense.”

“Not to me.” I bite my lip, then decide to pry a little. “Theo said you left school young.”

Immediately, I regret saying it. The softness disappears so quickly it’s like watching a door slam closed.

“Kid talks too much,” he says.

I look down at my worksheet, suddenly fascinated by the numbers I still barely understand. “He said you had to take care of your mom.”

For a moment, Levi says nothing. He leans back slightly and reaches up to touch the small gold hoop in his ear. He rolls it absently between his fingers, as though the movement gives him something to do besides answer me.

“How old were you?” I ask.

“Old enough.”

“Sorry. It’s none of my business.”

Something shifts in his expression. It’s small. Almost nothing. For a second, he looks irritated.

He looks down at the worksheet, then at my hand resting beside it. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter.

“Thirteen,” he says.

That’s very young. I want to ask what happened. I want to ask who helped him, who took care of him, whether anyone ever noticed that a thirteen-year-old boy had become the adult in his own house.

But his jaw is tight, and I can feel the door closing.

So I don’t push.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

“Long time ago.” Then he taps the end of my pencil against the worksheet and points to the next line. “Question seven.”

I look at him for another moment.

“Subtle,” I say, with a small smile.

“Wasn’t aiming for subtle.”

I lean back over the worksheet.

For a few minutes, we work quietly. His shoulder brushes mine when he reaches for the pencil. His voice stays low and patient as he talks me through the next equation, and every now and then I catch myself staring at the small gold hoop in his ear, thinking about thirteen.

A boy forced to become a man far too early.

I don’t know what happened or how bad it was. But my mind is already reaching for reasons, already softening things it has no business softening.

I look back to the worksheet, annoyed with myself. This is exactly how I get into trouble—making excuses for people who don’t deserve them. Levi’s a grown man who says wildly inappropriate things, leaves switchblades where children can find them, and thinks cereal counts as a proper dinner.

Still, when he reaches over and points to the next line on the page, patient as ever, I feel something inside me shift.

Then a sharp knock rattles the front door.

I hop up quickly and open it.

“Diane,” I say, stepping aside. “This is my new neighbor, Levi.”

Diane stops dead in the doorway. Her eyes widen as they land on a very shirtless Levi still sitting at my dining table, surrounded by algebra worksheets.