The Ex Vows

by Jessica Joyce

with her arms crossed. She looks like she’s about to eat you. Then his eyes slide to the tray of cake, straight to the slice that’s been touched. He frowns. “Did you eat the van—” My hand slams down on his thigh. On instinct, I slide up to squeeze the thick, hard arch of muscle. My animal brain remembers exactly what kind of touch robs him of speech and I need him to shut. Up. But my animal brain forgot why it robs him of speech, and so my heart leaps into my throat when his pupils blow wide with shock and heat, when his palm covers the back of my hand, fingers wrapping around mine. He holds us there for an unbearable smattering of seconds, his jaw flexing. And then he moves my hand down to his knee; it’s a slow scrape until I hit the warm skin just below his gray shorts.