Page 7 of What Broke First (The Cheating A$$hole #1)
Two weeks had crawled by since the market square showdown, and Sarah had made silence her weapon of choice. She and Matt still traded the necessary words about drop-offs, bedtimes, and sports events, but nothing beyond that. No late-night texts, no check-ins. Just the bare minimum a co-parenting treaty required.
She sat in the school pick-up line, her sunglasses shielding her eyes from the sun and from the possibility of making small talk with any of the other moms. Most of them were perfectly lovely, well-meaning women. But none of them had the range for what she was currently going through. Infidelity, existential rage, and an emotionally weaponized eight-year-old? Yeah, Karen, your gluten-free apple crisp isn’t going to cut it today.
A minivan door slammed somewhere, and the swarm of children burst onto the sidewalk like released zoo animals.
Tommy’s voice rose above the chaos.
“MOM! MOM!”
He sprinted toward her, dragging a backpack that sounded like it was full of bricks and secrets. Emily followed at a more civilized pace, adjusting Mr. Buttons’ seatbelt in her backpack. Sarah caught both of them in a practiced mom-hug, trying not to cry from the sheer intensity of their existence.
“Guess what?”
Tommy grinned.
“We’re having Dad come to career day!”Sarah blinked.
“You... what?”
Emily nodded solemnly.
“We signed him up. Ms. Johansen said it’s okay. He’s bringing donut holes.”
Sarah’s internal organs folded in on themselves like a dying star.
“That’s... great.”
Tommy beamed.
“He’s gonna talk about marketing or something! I said he used to be a boss, and sometimes he wore suits. And once he said synergy really loud on a call.”
“Oh,”
Sarah said, voice dry.
“A classic tale of heroism.”
Matt was already texting before she buckled her seatbelt.
Matt: Career Day? Didn’t know I was invited, but I’m honored. What’s the dress code: emotional wreck chic or something more dad-friendly?"
She didn’t reply. She wasn't angry. But she could already see him practicing his dumb speech in the mirror, trying to figure out how to explain ROI and broken trust in the same sentence.
Thursday arrived like a freight train driven by guilt and topped with frosting. Matt showed up twenty minutes early with a box of donut holes and a fresh haircut, as if that somehow fixed the part where he emotionally imploded their family and installed a chaos gremlin in his life.
Sarah met him outside the classroom.“You look...”
she started, then aborted.
“Donut holes?"
“Twenty-four. No sprinkles. I figured we’ve all had enough lies dressed as celebration."
She stared at him for a beat too long. He added.
“And I wore a tie."
“You’re not giving a TED Talk, Matt."
“It’s a clip-on,”
he confessed.
“Of course it is.”
The classroom smelled like crayons and the lingering essence of Clorox wipes.
The setting was tiny chairs and cartoon posters about conflict resolution. Sarah slid into a back row seat, pretending she wasn’t in emotional free fall.
Matt stood at the front of the room while dozens of elementary school students stared up at him like he might transform into a superhero. Or a clown. Honestly, the line was thin.
“So, I work in marketing,”
he began.
“Which means I help companies tell stories about why you should like their stuff.”
A little girl in the front row raised her hand.
“Like commercials?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“My dad says commercials are lies for money.”
Matt blinked.
“Well, sometimes... that’s not untrue.”
Sarah bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.
Matt powered through.
“I try to make sure they tell the truth. Or at least the good parts. Kind of like how you’d tell your mom about the cookie you ate, but not how you stepped on your sister’s hamster to get it.”
Half the class gasped. A boy in the back whispered.
“Hamster’s name was Winston.”
“I’m just saying,”
Matt added.
“we all decide what story to tell.”
His eyes flicked to Sarah, just for a second.
“Sometimes, we choose the wrong story.”
Sarah crossed her arms. The nerve. The absolute theatrics.
“But the good thing about stories,”
Matt finished.
“is you can write a better one next time.”
The class clapped. Donut holes were distributed. Children screamed. Sarah left early, not because she was mad, but because she wasn’t. And that was worse. That night, she opened her journal. He’s trying.
She stared at the sentence. Then she added: But trying isn’t trust. And donut holes don’t erase betrayal. She paused again. Then underlined the last part twice. Hard.