Page 21 of What Broke First
“Honestly,” she said, “I don’t remember the last time I wore a blouse that didn’t have some kind of snack residue on it.”
“You’re crushing it,” he said. “I didn’t even spot one Cheerio.”
She laughed, and it wasn’t a polite laugh; it was real. “You’re lucky. Last week, I found a gummy bear stuck to the inside of my bra.”
“Impressive. Most women wait until the third date to confess that kind of intimacy.”
They reached her car, the moment hovering between goodnight and maybe more.
“Thanks for tonight,” Sarah said, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “It was unexpectedly decent.”
“You have a real gift for flattery,” Carter said. “But you’re welcome. And if you ever feel like wearing real pants and risking another decent night, I’d be up for it.”
She smiled. “Just to be clear, this wasn’t a warm-up for some wild night back at your place.”
He held up his hands. “I know. No assumptions. But for the record, I wouldn’t complain.”
“You’re honest. I’ll give you that.”
“Blame the wine,” he said. “Or maybe just the fact that I like talking to you.”
She unlocked the car, then turned to him. “Goodnight, Carter.”
He took a step back, respectful.
“Night, Sarah.”
Sarah shut the car door and sat still for a beat. She stared at her reflection in the rearview mirror, her lipstick slightly faded, her expression unreadable.
“Wow,” she whispered. Carter was confident. The kind of confidence that told her if she’d leaned in just right, they’d be tangled in his sheets by now, making terrible, beautiful mistakes. She smirked to herself. “Here’s to restraint,” she muttered, thumbing through her playlist.
When she found it,I Wanna Be Your Slaveby Måneskin, she hit play and let the bass rattle through her spine.
That song was Carter. Cocky, flirtatious, just dangerous enough to make you wonder. And for a moment, she let herself enjoy the afterglow of a night that didn’t end in disaster. She wasn’t ready to fall again. But it felt good to remember that she could still want.
Meanwhile, Matt was in his new apartment, eating dinner over the sink like a single dad cliché. He’d just finished assembling Emily’s pink bookshelf for the bedroom she hadn’t slept in yet. His fingers were covered in blisters and wood glue.
The quiet was louder than the kids’ laughter, louder than even Sarah’s silences. He set his phone down and sighed, staring at the half-eaten spread from the upscale Chinese place across town. Lo mein in a black lacquered box, sesame chicken untouched, a craft beer sweating beside it.
Then, on impulse, he barked at the smart speaker, “Play something that doesn’t make me hate myself.”
The speaker responded with ABBA.
He blinked. “Okay.”
Moments later,Dancing Queenblared through the apartment. Matt, still in his boxers and an inside-out T-shirt, started moving. Awkwardly at first, then with full commitment. He twirled, finger-pointed, and shuffled across the sticky tile floor, chopsticks in one hand, beer in the other.
The neighbor banged on the wall. “For the love of GOD, NOOO!”
Matt spun toward the noise. “She was the dancing queen,” he shouted back, off-key and unrepentant.
The music blasted on. The beer sloshed. Lo mein flew.
And for thirty sweaty, ridiculous seconds, he felt, if not happy, then at least a little less alone.
He looked at his phone. No texts. No photos. Just a creeping certainty that something had shifted since the therapy session.
And it had.
