Page 15 of My Rockstar Ex's Broken Vows

"Do you think he knew it was you when he kissed you Friday night?" Emma's voice is gentle, but I still flinch.

"Of course he did! He had to know it was me." The words taste bitter. "How could he not have recognized me?"

"Si." Emma stands, blocking my path. "The girl he knew had short hair she dyed pink and yellow and purple. She wore combat boots and torn jeans. You're..." She gestures at my blazer and my heels. "You went from Punky Brewster to Gossip Girl."

"But—"

"And you didn't recognize him either." She raises an eyebrow. "The Callum Reid you knew wouldn't be caught dead in a tux. Wouldn't have tattoos or a record deal or?—"

"Stop being logical." My pacing slows as I take in Emma's classroom. A wall of windows overlooks Division Street, where vendors are setting up for the afternoon rush. It’s one street over from where her parents' restaurant has been feeding the neighborhood for thirty years. "I'm trying to be angry here."

"You can be angry." Emma perches on one of the paint-splattered tables. "You have every right to be after he ghosted you. But you can also be honest. Did he seem like he knew it was you at the masquerade?"

I sink into a tiny chair, my knees practically at my chest. Around me, first-grade artwork tells stories of dragons and dreams. Stories that are a lot more simple than mine.

"No." The admission hurts. "You should have seen his face when he realized. But that almost makes it worse."

"How?"

"Because." I stare at my hands, remembering how they felt tracing his tattoos through his shirt. "Because I was attracted tohim. Again. Without even knowing it was him. What does that say about me? Fuck. I have the worst picker."

"That you have a type?" Emma's attempt at humor falls flat. "Or maybe that there was something real there. Before Nashville. Before everything."

Before Marcus. Before Ollie. Before he left me like discarded trash.

My stomach drops. "Oh god."

"What?"

"He's here, Em. In New York. Making music. About to be famous if thatTikTokis any indication." The reality crashes over me. "Before I could lock him away in a box far away from me. But if he is famous, on the radio, a rock superstar, I'll never be able to escape him."

"Yes, you can. You can do this. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Right now, we need to figure out what you will do if you'll do anything at all. Breathe."

Thursday,March 6

PS 321 William Penn

7th Avenue, Park Slope

6:16 PM

The industrial lightsof the elementary school auditorium hum overhead as parents shuffle into metal folding chairs. Myprogram crinkles in my hands. "Spring Music Showcase" is printed in Comic Sans across the top.

Marcus sits three rows ahead. His suit is probably worth more than my monthly rent. He's been checking his phone every thirty seconds since I walked in. Probably documenting my four-minute tardiness for his lawyer, or researching another reason why Ollie needs to transfer to that prestigious private school in TriBeCa.

"Mommy!"

Ollie's head pokes out from behind the stage curtain, his dinosaur bow tie crooked. I give him a thumbs up, but before I can fix the tie, his music teacher shuffles him back into place.

"He looks nervous." Marcus materializes beside me, making me jump. His cologne, the same one he's worn since college, fills my nostrils and makes me want to gag. "Maybe if he'd stuck with the classical lessons I recommended…"

"He's five, Marcus. Let him play what makes him happy."

"Yes, well." He smooths his tie. "Happiness doesn't build discipline."

The lights dim and Marcus returns to his seat, but not before glancing at his phone again. His shoulders are tight under his jacket, the way they get when he's about to lose a case.

Something's off. He's been wound tight since the divorce was finalized, but this is different. Whenever I try to talk about enrolling him in some extracurricular classes, he gets all huffy and shuts me down. It seems like he doesn’t want Ollie to become anything other than his own personal mini-me. Brooke says it's his way of continuing to control me.

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