Page 21 of My Rockstar Ex's Broken Vows

Sienna’s Brownstone

12:46 PM

The soundof Ollie’s laughter still echoes in my ears, even though he’s been gone over an hour. I can still his sneakers disappear through Marcus’s car window and have to resist the urge to call him, to say something—anything—that would make the ache in my chest hurt less. But it’s his weekend, and I’ve promised myself I won’t cry every time Ollie leaves.

And no matter how much easier it would be to just endure the torture of living with and being married to Marcus to avoid this, I will never go back there. This is our reality and Brooke assures me it will get easier with time.

Instead, I scrub the sink harder than it needs. The sponge grates against porcelain, as if the harder I work, the cleaner the mess inside me will get.

I know it doesn’t work like that. Not when the house feels too quiet, too empty. Not when every corner of this place I’ve tried so hard to make my own still whispers of everything that has gone wrong in my life.

I never expected to find myself here.

Divorced. The word feels cold and final. It doesn’t matter that the marriage was awful—that Marcus chipped away at me with every cutting remark and every decision he made without asking. It’s still an end. A failure. A broken thing.

At the end of the day, it is Ollie who loses either way. Now he will grow up in a broken home.

And then there’s Callum.

I’ve spent almost six years telling myself I was over him, that I’d moved on. I married Marcus, didn’t I? I had a life, a son, and responsibilities. But seeing Callum again— It’s like the wound he left behind all those years ago is being ripped wide open.

First the gala—the kiss I can’t stop replaying, even though I didn’t know it was him at the time. Then the café, where he had the nerve to look at me like he didn't toss me away like a used-up paper towel.

Did he think we would just greet each other like old pals, a hug, a catch-up of years gone by?

Jesus, what an asshole.

A sharp knock at the door pulls me out of my spiraling thoughts. I wipe my hands on a towel, half-hoping it’s Marcus bringing Ollie back because he changed his mind.

But it’s Brooke, standing on my doorstep with a bag of takeout in one hand and her don’t-argue-with-me face firmly in place. She always knows just when I need a friend.

"I come bearing carbs, red wine, and no judgment," she says, brushing past me into the kitchen. "I figured you’d need all three."

"Brooke, I’m fine," I say, even though my voice betrays me with its crack.

"Uh-huh." She sets the bag down and starts unpacking pasta a la vodka and a baguette like she owns the place. "You’re fine. That’s why you’re wearing sweatpants that I’m pretty sure belonged to Marcus and look like they’ve been through a war."

I glance down at the offending pants and sigh. "They’re comfortable."

"They’re depressing," Brooke counters. "Sit. Eat. Talk."

I fold onto a stool at the counter, letting her shove a fork and knife into my hand. The smell of red sauce and olive oil hits my nose, and suddenly I’m starving. Brooke leans against the counter across from me, watching me like a hawk.

"It's Sunday. In Italy, they drink wine with lunch on the day of rest. So when pretending to be in Rome…"

I give her a questioning look, but I'm secretly excited to pretend we are far away somewhere in Italy. Who am I to try to upend tradition? I walk to the cabinet and grab two glasses.

"I know that look," she says as I sit down. "What happened?"

I hesitate, the words tangling in my throat. "It’s stupid."

"It’s not. Talk to me."

I pick at the pasta, the truth slipping out before I can stop it. "I can’t stop thinking about him."

Brooke pushes the wine aside and leans down. "Marcus?"

"No, weirdo! You know…."

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