Page 63 of Broken Vows

He clears his throat and looks away, his neck flushing slightly. Then he smacks the heel of his hand hard against the center of his chest. Why does he keep doing that?

“You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he mutters, still not quite meeting my eyes. “I’m fine. Just happy to be helping the community.”

I almost laugh. He is not happy to be helping the community. But he’s trying, so I give him a warm smile. He smacks his chest again. This time I pretend not to notice.

He heads back out for the last of the containers while I start setting up our table. I’m barely halfway through when the kids pour into the gymnasium, full of rambunctious energy. Within seconds, our table is surrounded.

“Wow,” one boy says, stopping dead in front of our display. “Is that a real brownie?”

“Ah…yes,” I say, smiling.

His eyes widen like he’s discovered treasure.

He stuffs two dollars into our tin, grabs a brownie, and takes a huge bite. His face lights up. Before I can blink, he’s shoving another two dollars in and running off with one in each hand.

Word spreads fast. A friend tells a friend, and suddenly our stall is swarmed.

The small cash tin fills up quickly. The entire plate of brownies disappears first, followed by the chocolate chip cookies. Kids grab two or three each, eyes shining with excitement.

Within minutes, everything we had out is gone.

I barely have time to process before three women approach me. The one in front is in a crisp white athleisure set, with a perfectly highlighted ponytail, and the kind of toned arms that suggest she does Pilates.

She gives me a bright, brittle smile. “Hi. I’m Jean. I organize the wellness committee within the PTA.”

Her gaze drops to the empty brownie container, then back to me. “Can I just check something? Those weren’t full-sugar brownies, were they?”

She gestures to the banner. I read it properly for the first time.

Alton Hills Elementary Annual Bake Sale.

Gluten-free. Egg-free. Dairy-free. Nut-free. Sugar-free. Soy-free. Artificial color-free.

Oh no.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “You won’t believe this, but my dog ate the flyer and I didn’t realize⁠—”

Jean’s smile doesn’t waver. “Your dog ate the flyer.”

“Who gives kids sugar these days?” the woman in the pink athleisure set to Jean’s left says. “It’s basically child abuse.”

“It’s poison—” the other one, in blue, chimes in.

Oh god.

“What’s going on?” Levi asks, dropping the last containers onto the table.

Jean turns to him, and for one absurd second all three women seem to recalibrate. Shoulders straighten. Smiles brighten. Voices soften. I try not to roll my eyes.

“Nothing,” Jean says, suddenly much warmer. “We’re just explaining that there are certain standards at Alton Hills Elementary.”

She gestures pointedly at the banner.

Levi looks at it. Then at the overflowing cash tin.

Without a word, he reaches into the fresh container of brownies, takes one, and bites half of it in one go.