Page 67 of Broken Vows

He looks away, rubbing the spot roughly. “Nothing. Indigestion.”

“Have you been to a doctor?”

“Yeah.”

“What did they say?”

“Morons don’t know what they’re talking about,” he mutters, avoiding my gaze.

I like when he gets like this—awkward and somehow almost boyish, which should be impossible on a man his size.

I glance up and notice several women watching us from across the gymnasium. Most pretend not to, but a few are openly staring at Levi. One woman looks at me with the unmistakable expression of someone trying to figure out what I’ve done to earn that kind of attention.

“I’ve been thinking,” I say. “Maybe we could have that drink tonight. Or…homework. When Theo’s asleep.”

Levi’s eyebrows lift slightly.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that a lot.”

18

CARMEN

Nerves have been humming under my skin all evening.

I stand in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom and turn slowly, trying not to look like I’m inspecting myself for flaws, even though that’s exactly what I’m doing. I shaved my legs, under my arms, and along my bikini line. My pubic hair is neat—trimmed, but not completely bare.

My brain, unhelpfully, chooses this moment to replay something Grace said years ago. She must have been around twenty, young and brutally honest in the way only daughters can be.

“God, Mom, no one does that anymore. It’s so gross. Just get it lasered or something.”

I laughed it off then, the way mothers do when their daughters accidentally make them feel ancient. Now the memory lands differently. It curls low in my stomach, and for one awful second I see myself the way I’m afraid Levi might. Older. Out of practice. A woman from another generation trying to be wanted by a man fourteen years younger.

I turn away from the mirror before I can spiral.

I pull on my softest robe and tie it at the waist. Then I take a deep breath and force myself to look back at my reflection.

This is fine.

I don’t know why I’m so nervous. I know he wants me. And somehow, I’ve decided I want him too. I don’t need to turn this into something meaningful to justify it. He doesn’t have to be perfect. He doesn’t have to be forever. He turns me on, and he’s sweet in his own odd way. That can be enough.

The doorbell rings just before nine.

When I open the door, Levi is standing on my porch looking like the version of him I’m beginning to like far too much.

The shy one.

He lingers in the doorway like he isn’t quite sure he’s allowed inside, one hand shoved into the pocket of his jeans, shoulders tense beneath a black T-shirt. His hair is neatly combed, his beard freshly trimmed, and when the air shifts, I catch the woody scent of his cologne again.

We settle on the couch, not quite touching but close enough that I can feel his warmth. For a while we talk about safe, easy things. Theo’s school, the terrifying PTA women, and the bake sale.

Levi insists the sugar-free brownies at the next stall looked like “compressed carpet fibers,” and I laugh harder than I probably should.

The longer we sit there, the easier it feels. He listens in that quiet, focused way of his. He doesn’t fill the silence or glance at his emails or make me feel like I’m holding him hostage with my words.

Maybe that’s why I say it.

“You should know that I’m married. Technically.” I twist the edge of my robe between my fingers. “We’re separated, but…it’s okay if that changes things for you.”