Page 26 of My Rockstar Ex's Broken Vows

"Back then. After I left. When we bumped into each other a couple of weeks ago he said he tried to reach out back then, but…" I trail off, my stomach twisting as realization begins to creep in. "Nothing."

Her fingers tighten around her glass and her knuckles turn white. "How could none of us connect? That doesn’t just… happen."

The silence stretches, heavy and loaded, and I know we’re both thinking the same thing: someone got in the way.

But who? And why?

NINE

Sienna

Years have passed, but you still feel near

Christopher Street Station

9:44 PM

The subway carrocks gently beneath me as I stare at the scratched-up map above the door. As hard as I try to make sense of what just happened, I can't. I came into the city to drop off a few mock signs and ended up having too many glasses of wine with my ex.

My tote bag is wedged between my feet and my hands grip the metal pole like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. Maybe it is.

After six years of silence, we talked, and I didn’t storm off or say something I’ll regret later. But instead of feeling relieved, I am more unsure of what I'd accepted as reality than I did before.

At least before, the narrative made sense. Selfish rockstar left to pursue his dreams, leaving the girl who loved him behind with a broken heart. His radio silence confirmed that. Or, so I thought.

Now, if what he's saying isn't a load of crap to lower my defenses, he never got my messages and he tried to reach out unbeknownst to me.

The train screeches to a stop, and a few people shuffle on, filling the empty space around me. I glance down at my phone in my lap, where his number is now saved. We exchanged them right before I left, both of us hesitant, like we weren’t sure if it was the right move. I definitely wasn’t sure if it was the right move.

The screen lights up with Ollie’s face. My lock screen is a snapshot of him mid-laugh at the park last fall. My chest tightens, and I lock the phone quickly, shoving it into my jacket pocket.

I beamed when telling Callum about my son. Callum listened, his expression softening in a way I hadn’t seen in forever, and for a moment, it felt like we were just two old friends catching up.

For a moment, it felt safe to share that part of my world with him. But I stopped short of completely opening up that part of my life to him.

They won't meet. Ollie’s too young, and Callum is my ex, after all. Even though I have very little respect for Marcus, that is a line I won't cross. He's his father, after all.

Right now, it’s about the past, about figuring out what happened back then—not dragging the present into it before I even know where we stand.

The train lurches forward again, and I close my eyes, letting the rhythm of the tracks drown out my incessant thoughts. He said he tried to reach me. Calls, emails, letters. But I didn’t get any of them. Not one.

It doesn’t make sense.

The express train speeds through the tunnels. The darkness is broken only by the stations we rush past. The lights blur into a rhythmic strobe, painting fleeting patterns across the faces of the other passengers.

He told me Jake Morrison got him a new phone and number when he moved to Nashville—a perk in his "package." That explains whymycalls and messages didn’t get through. But what about his? Letters don’t just vanish. Emails don’t delete themselves.

He admitted he didn’t try for as long as he should have. "I was mad. I thought you didn’t care anymore," he’d said, his voice low, rough around the edges. And I get it. I essentially did the same thing.

But every single attempt from both of us? Falling into the void? It doesn’t add up.

The train pulls into my stop, and I push through the crowd to the door, stepping onto the platform. The crisp March evening air greets me as I climb the stairs to the street, my thoughts still spinning.

By the time I make it to my brownstone, the silence feels heavier than usual. I drop my tote on the kitchen table and pull out my phone again, scrolling through old emails and texts I haven’t touched in years. There’s nothing from him, of course. I already know that. But still, I had to look.

I sink onto the couch, staring at the screen, willing it to give me answers. How does something like this happen? How do two people try to reach each other over and over and get nothing in return?

A thought flickers in the back of my mind, something I don’t want to consider. Did someone… interfere? Did someone make sure we didn’t connect?

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