Page 34 of Broken Vows

The screen door creaks open. God, we never fixed that hinge. Such an annoying sound.

“Something smells amazing,” Jeremy calls out. His work boots thud against the floor as he kicks them off.

“Just attempting your mom’s chicken parm.” I dip another piece of chicken in flour, trying to sound casual. “No promises it’ll taste the same.”

“Need help?” His voice is closer now. I can smell his familiar mix of laundry detergent and that faint metallic scent that always clings to him after work.

I glance over my shoulder. He’s still in his orange work shirt, a smudge of dirt on his cheek making him look younger somehow.

“I’ve got it under control.” I wave a flour-covered hand. “How was work?”

He leans against the counter next to me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. “You’ll never believe what Caleb did today.”

Caleb. He’s been working alongside Jeremy all year.

“Oh god, what now?”

“Tried to impress the new accounting girl by showing off on the power lines.” Jeremy chuckles, the sound warming the kitchen. “Nearly shocked himself stupid.”

“Is he okay?” I toss a piece of chicken into the breadcrumbs.

“Yeah, just his pride that’s hurt.” He reaches past me for a beer from the fridge, his arm brushing mine. “Though honestly, might’ve knocked some sense into him if he had gotten zapped.”

I laugh despite myself. “Jeremy! That’s terrible.”

“You’re laughing though.” He grins, and for a moment it feels like before–just us, in our kitchen, sharing stories about our day.

“Actually,” I say, focusing on coating another piece of chicken, “I’ve been thinking about getting back into art. Maybe try some freelance work?”

“Yeah?” The genuine interest in his voice makes me look up. “Digital stuff like you used to do?”

“Mm-hmm. I love art and–”A cloud of flour poofs up from the chicken, making me cough.

“Careful there, Picasso.” Jeremy moves closer, peering over my shoulder. “Though I guess artists are supposed to be messy, right?”

“Oh really?” Without thinking, I flick the flour back at him. It lands on his shirt, white dust against orange.

His eyes crinkle at the corners–that look that always meant trouble in high school.

“Did you just…” His fingers find my sides.

“Jeremy, don’t you dare—” But I’m already laughing as he tickles me. “Stop! The chicken’s going to?—”

“Going to what?” He tickles harder, and I squeal, trying to squirm away.

“You’re impossible!” I gasp between laughs, my hands leaving flour prints on his arms.

Jeremy’s arms go around me instantly, steadying me. Suddenly, we are face to face, both breathing hard. A piece of hair falls in my face, and he reaches up to brush it away, leaving a streak of flour on my cheek.

“Lex…” His voice is soft, uncertain.

I want him back so badly, though right now it’s not the greatest idea. But then his lips are on mine, and thinking becomes impossible.

He tastes like coffee and mint gum. His hand cups my cheek, thumb stroking flour from my skin. My fingers curl into his shirt, and I feel his heart pounding against my palm.

The kiss deepens, and for a moment I’m lost in the familiar way he holds me, the scratch of his stubble against my chin.

I pull back, breath catching. “We should…”

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