Page 8 of Forbidden Vows

She adds, “My mom’s face always gets scrunchy like yours when he sends the card.”

Despite my better judgment, I say, “It’s from my dad. I’m worried he’s getting married again.”

Her eyes light up. “You get to be the flower girl!”

“If I’m too old for sleepovers, I’m too old to be a flower girl.” I shake my head, smiling at her.

She gives a curt nod of agreement. “Good point.”

The rest of the day goes by in a haze. I avoid the teacher lounge as if stomach bug germs are covering every surface in that room. I might have taken a personal day if my kids didn’t have a sight word test today.

Let’s be honest, though… I can’t imagine giving up control of my classroom to a substitute teacher.

Ever.

After school, my stomach twists in knots as I walk to Keith’s place, a shoebox of an apartment in a creaky old 1900s building that I’ve grown to love, minus the scent of cooking lamb that wafts up from the first floor.

When he sees it’s me, will he close the door in my face?

Worse yet…

Will seeing his face make me sink into that dark place of rejection, self-hatred, and the sheer agony of a broken heart?

I’m suddenly standing in front of the door, our door, its black paint peeling, yet unable to recall climbing the stairs to get here. The aroma of roasting lamb wafts from the kabab shop, aggravating my already queasy stomach. I lift my hand, slowly curling it into a fist to knock.

I’m terrified.

There’s been no time to process. I haven’t even cried. It’s all been so sudden.

I didn’t even want to break up.

Even after being humiliated.

Cheated on.

My trust broken.

My world rocked.

What I believed to be the solid foundation of my future crumbles beneath me, and tears well up at the corners of my eyes as I stand here, my hand poised in the air. My stomach goes queasy, thinking of how I must demand that he remove the video.

Bravery was never one of my qualities.

Bile rises in the back of my throat. I think I’m going to be sick. My hand falls to my side without knocking. I stand there, drumming up the courage to confront Keith.

Then the door opens. I want to turn and run, but instead, I stay, taking a deep breath and reminding myself to breathe.

“What the heck happened to you?” I exclaim, taking in the state of Keith’s mangled face.

He breaks my gaze, glancing down the corridor like he’s looking for someone. “Nothing.”

Instantly, I switch into nurse mode. I grab his shoulder and lead him to the sink. I begin unrolling paper towels from the roll and running them under cool water. “This looks deep. What happened?”

He won’t meet my eye. “It’s fine.”

There’s a cut, a deep gash near his right eye. His nose is swollen and bloodied, and his lip is also split. I dab at the blood by his right eye with the cool, damp paper towels. “We need a doctor to check you out. You might need stitches?—”

“We?” He gives me a curt look. “There is no, we.”

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