Page 15 of Broken Vows

I’ve been painting for hours, losing myself in the rhythmic strokes and the pungent smell of oil paints. The sun has long since set, and the only light in my office comes from the harsh glow of the overhead lamp. My back aches from standing so long, but I can’t bring myself to stop. Not yet.

In the distance, I hear the front door open and close. Jeremy’s home. I glance at the clock on the wall and frown. It’s past midnight. Again.

I wait for him to call out, to come find me like he used to. But the house remains quiet aside from the soft thud of his footsteps heading straight for the bathroom. The familiar sound of the door closing.

With a sigh, I turn back to my painting.

I don’t know what to do anymore. This back-and-forth god knows what bullshit between us is breaking my heart. The idea of parting ways with him sweeps through my thoughts. But I shake my head while I dip my brush in a deep blue, adding depth to the swirling chaos on the canvas. I thought we were making progress, or so I thought. But it feels like we’re right back where we started.

The sound of the toilet flushing makes me jump, the brush in my hand making a messy streak. Fuck. I pause, listening. The bathroom door opens, and I hear Jeremy’s footsteps again, this time heading towards our bedroom. No detour to me, his office, no goodnight kiss, just straight to the bedroom.

I swallow hard, fighting back the lump forming in my throat. This is becoming our new normal, and I hate it.

Setting down my brush, I wipe my paint-stained hands on my already-stained apron. It’s late, but sleep feels impossible right now. Instead, I start cleaning up my brushes.

I rinse the last brush, watching the swirl of colors disappear down the drain.

By the time I make it to our bedroom, he is already asleep, or pretending to be. His back is to my side of the bed, his breathing slow and even. I slip under the covers as quietly as I can, careful not to disturb him.

Lying there in the dark, I stare at the ceiling, my mind racing. What happened to our plans? Our promises to each other? It feels like we’re drifting further apart with each passing day, and I don’t know how to stop it.

Morning comes too soon,the harsh light of dawn filtering through the curtains. The bed beside me is empty, the sheets cool to the touch. Jeremy must have left already. Normally I get up with him but he didn’t bother to wake me.

I drag myself out of bed, my body protesting after the late night. In the kitchen, I find a hastily scribbled note on the counter:

Early meeting. Don’t wait up tonight.

No, I love you, no sweet message. I crumple the note in my fist, anger and frustration bubbling up inside me. This kind of marriage isn’t what we promised each other.

Before I can think better of it, I grab my phone and type out a text,

Me

We need to talk. Soon.

I hit send before I can lose my nerve, then toss the phone aside. A thought emerges within me as my eyes rest upon the fruit bowl placed on the counter.

That would be fun to create. I hurry to my office and take out a pencil and begin drawing in my sketchbook.

By the time I step back to survey my work, the sun is high in the sky.

I set down my pencil, flexing my cramped hand. My gaze falls on my phone, sitting silently on the nearby table. Before I can second-guess myself, I grab it and scroll to Lilly’s number.

The phone rings once, twice, three times. I’m about to hang up when Lilly’s cheerful voice breaks through.

“Lex girl! How are ya?”

I hesitate, unsure how to broach the subject. “I’m… okay. Listen, Lilly, I wanted to talk to you about the other night at Olive Garden.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. When Lilly speaks again, her tone is carefully neutral. “Oh? What about it?”

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. “Your questions… they felt a bit invasive. Jeremy and I were trying to have a quiet dinner, and it just seemed like you were pushing for information.”

Lilly’s laugh tinkles through the phone, light and dismissive. “I was just being friendly! You know me, always curious about what’s going on with my best friend.”

Her casual response makes something twist in my gut. “It didn’t feel friendly. It felt like an interrogation.”

“Girl,” Lilly says, her voice taking on a slightly patronizing tone, “I think you might be overreacting a bit. I was just makingconversation. If I crossed a line, I’m sorry, but it really wasn’t a big deal.”

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