Only Mine, page 27
It was about sharing something beautiful. Something that made me happy after months of fear and self-sabotage.
I dump the pasta into the water with more force than necessary, then wipe my hands on a dish towel. The sauce simmers quietly, a simple marinara because I’d be too nervous to attempt something more complex on a good day, never mind an evening with him.
A knock on the door nearly sends me jumping out of my skin.
For one suspended moment, I can’t move. Then I’m rushing toward it with my heart in my throat, smoothing my hair and tugging at my dress before I swing it open.
Saint’s standing there, rain dripping from his hair onto his shoulders. I don’t know when it started to storm, but it suddenly floods my senses—the damp smell, the sound of it beating against the tin roof, the sight of his dark strands plastered against his forehead.
His jaw is set in a hard line, eyes focused somewhere over my shoulder. The collar of his black jacket is soaked, rivulets trailing down his broad shoulders.
“You came,” I breathe, relief washing through me.
His eyes finally meet mine, as cold and distant as winter lakes. No warmth. No crinkle at the corners. Nothing of the man who’d fucked me against the wall a few days ago.
Saint holds out a bottle of wine without a word.
“Thank you,” I say, reaching for it. Our fingers brush during the exchange, and I feel the familiar spark that always ignites between us when we touch.
But Saint simply lets go.
“Come in. I was worried when you didn’t answer my texts,” I say, stepping aside.
Saint’s boots leave wet ghosts on my tile. He stands in the entryway, rain dripping from his cuffs, and surveys my quaint apartment with a look I can’t read. The silence swells until the only sound is the hiss of my pasta boiling over.
I rush to the stove, cursing under my breath, and kill the heat. Saint’s behind me before I can process his movement, reaching for a clean dish towel and mopping up the starchy water spreading across the stove.
“Sorry,” I say, my voice smaller than I intend. I hate how needy I sound. “I got distracted.”
“Did you burn yourself?” Saint tosses the towel over the edge of my sink and holds up one of my hands, inspecting it.
The electricity is instant, like he brought lightning inside with him as well as the sudden storm. It flashes outside the window above my sink as if punctuating the feel of his touch.
Something in his voice is off, though. Less rasp, more empty. I want to reach for him the way I always do, but I know better than to do any sudden movements in front of an unpredictable animal.
I clear my throat, pulling out of his hold. “I’m fine. Um, I was just going to make spaghetti and salad. Ivy told me it’s one of her favorites. I hope that’s okay.”
“She’s at Noa’s again tonight,” Saint says, grabbing the pot with his bare hands and pouring the pasta into a colander in the sink. “Last-minute sleepover.”
“Oh.” I back away into the main area where I’ve set the small, circular table. “Should I reschedule?”
He just incorporates the pasta into the sauce, water flying off his hair and forearms in small arcs. “We’re good. I’m here now.”
I set the wine on the table. My hands are shaking so badly I nearly tip it over. Every motion of mine feels like performance art for an audience who won’t clap.
He scoops the spaghetti into two bowls, sprinkles cheese, and brings them to the table. Though my stomach is the size of a pebble, I sit down to eat. He watches my every movement, even when I fold my hands onto my lap and pretend I’m not vibrating out of my skin.
When Saint sits across from me, I think he’s going to be the first to speak, maybe ask about the video, or the comments, or the fact that he’s been found out.
But he doesn’t. He says, “How was your day?”
The question is so unexpected, so dissonant, that I almost laugh. “Good. Brenda’s still here. She’s at the bed-and-breakfast, discovering the local wines.”
Saint stares at his steaming bowl. “She’s good at her job.”
I nod, because it’s true.
I open the wine, pouring him a glass, then me, the silence stretching out until it’s as taut as the line he drew between us.
He finally picks up his fork, twirling pasta with the same arrogant ease he gives to every task.
I take a sip of wine, and it burns all the way down.
Noticing my eyes on him, he says, “You’re making me nervous.”
I force a laugh, but it sounds like something dying. “Sorry. I’ve never cooked for you before. It’s like trying to paint for Picasso.”
Saint finishes twirling the spaghetti, chews, swallows. “It’s good.”
I almost start crying right there, because it’s not good. It’s overcooked, and the sauce is too thin, and I forgot to salt the water. But he keeps eating, forkful after forkful, like it’s his job to get through this meal.
Our mutual silence starts to grow teeth.
Saint’s face is blank. I can’t find him anywhere in there. Not the man who called me cherie and fucked me with enough care to make me believe I could withstand the worst and still be strong, not the one who made me risotto bare-chested or let me sleep with my head on his chest and his arm wrapped around me.
I feel the panic coming before it even starts. The prickling at the back of my scalp, the way my chest hollows out. I take two slow breaths, then three. All I want to do is pick at my shoulder or twirl a piece of hair around my finger and yank until it comes clean out of my scalp, yearning for that addictive sting.
My focus shifts to my fork, the wedge of Parmesan cheese, the scent of tomato and basil and the rain.
None of it helps.
I raise my eyes. “Saint.”
He doesn’t answer.
“Saint, please.” My voice is so thin I barely hear it myself.
He sets his fork down.
“I saw the comments,” he murmurs.
He meets my gaze, and it’s like staring down a sniper scope. The look on his face is so sharp, so targeted, that I flinch.
“They found me. Which means they also found Ivy.”
I want to mount a defense and tell him that he’s being paranoid, that his name isn’t even attached, that it’s not like I posted his address or Ivy’s school. But I can’t.
Because I know. I know how the internet works. I know how quickly interest turns into obsession.
“I knew it would get views,” I say quietly. “I just didn’t think it would get you.”
Saint doesn’t speak, but the shift in his jaw is answer enough.
“I filmed you because you’re beautiful to me.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches me, and it’s worse than yelling.
My fingers tremble as I press the napkin into my lap, grounding myself.
“You didn’t know it at the time, and maybe you still don’t, but you pay attention to me like I matter, like I’m not broken or needy or some volcano about to overflow. That morning … you made me feel good. Wanted. Human again. I posted it because I wanted to hold on to that, not because I wanted people to find you.”
I look down at my hands. There’s a red crescent forming on my wrist where I’ve been digging my nails in.
“But I didn’t stop to think about what it would mean for you. Or for Ivy. I was selfish. Not for views or content, but because you’ve been the only thing that makes me feel real lately. And I didn’t want to let that go.”
He pushes back from the table.
The scrape of his chair is gentle, almost polite, but it hits my eardrums like a slammed door.
My entire body reacts in that prey-like way I thought I’d trained myself out of. Saint’s not angry, or loud, or cruel, but I feel the pressure drop.
Saint walks to the window, the one that overlooks Main Street, and drags a hand through his damp hair. His back is to me, broad and silent. Droplets cling to the curls at the base of his neck.
“I can’t afford this,” he says finally, and his voice is quiet, wrecked. “I can’t afford to want you the way I do.”
The world tilts, just slightly.
“You think I don’t know what this is doing to me?” he goes on, still not turning around. “You think I don’t feel it, every time I look at you? Every time I have to tell myself not to touch you, not to fall in deeper?”
He shakes his head once, hard.
“You were supposed to be temporary. A blur. A soft-landing nanny gig for a kid who needed warmth.”
Saint turns now, and the look in his eyes isn’t cold.
It’s worse.
It’s heartbreak.
“You’re not temporary,” he says. “You got under my skin. Into my house. Into my child’s heart.”
His gaze drops to the wineglass he never touched. “And now you’ve made me visible again.”
I rise slowly from my chair, fighting the ringing in my ears. “I never meant to do that.”
He doesn’t answer.
“Saint.” I step toward him, but he backs up half a pace. Not much. Just enough to make it feel like a rejection.
“I’m not mad,” he says, voice hoarse. “I’m not even blaming you. I just… I can’t think around you, Wrenley. And that used to be a good thing.” His throat bobs. “But now it’s dangerous.”
My fingers twitch at my sides, the way they always do before I scratch, and I clench them into fists.
Saint sees. Of course he sees.
And that’s what finally makes him soften. Crestfallen, he steps toward me before he can stop himself.
“Don’t,” he murmurs, gently covering my hands with his. They eclipse mine, warm despite the rain that’s soaked him through. “Don’t scratch.”
His gentle tone makes my chest ache. I wish I could collapse into him, press my face against his skin and feel his heartbeat, but I can’t move.
“I’ll take it down,” I whisper. “I’ll delete it right now.”
Saint’s thumbs trace small circles on my wrists. “It won’t matter.”
“I can make a statement. Tell them they’re wrong. That it’s not you.”
“Lying won’t help.” His voice is soft but final. “The internet is like an ant colony. Once they pick up the scent, they’ll follow it all the way home.”
I know he’s right. I’ve seen it happen countless times. The collective obsession, the thrill of the hunt, the rush of discovery. They’ll keep digging until they unearth every detail.
“I’m sorry,” I say, the words pathetically inadequate.
“I know.” His hands slide up my arms, coming to rest on my shoulders. “That’s what scares me.”
My pasta grows cold on the table. Outside, lightning flashes, illuminating the stark angles of Saint’s face.
“When Celine died, there were photographers at the funeral. They wanted grief porn. The widowed, millionaire chef, barely thirty. The tragic accident. They camped outside our apartment for weeks, following me to the grocery store, to Ivy’s daycare. One asshole actually asked me to comment on whether I blamed myself for her death while I was buying diapers.”
My stomach turns.
“That’s when I realized fame isn’t something you can turn on and off. It’s a parasite. It feeds on everything you try to keep private.” He squeezes my shoulders. “I spent three years building walls around us and making sure Ivy could grow up without cameras in her face and strangers knowing her business.”
Thunder rumbles overhead, shaking the windows.
“And now they know where we live. They know what school she goes to, what restaurant I own, probably what fucking cereal she eats for breakfast. I’ve spent three fucking years making sure Ivy could grow up without that circus following her around.”
“And I just let them back in.”
Saint’s silence is answer enough.
The weight of what I’ve done settles over me like concrete. I think of Ivy’s bright eyes, her fierce independence, the way she trusts so selectively. How many photos of her are already circulating in comment threads? How many strangers are analyzing her face, looking for resemblances, building theories about her mother’s death?
“I’ll fix this,” I say desperately. “I’ll make them stop.”
Thunder rumbles overhead, closer now. The storm is moving in fast. Rain pelts the windows harder, drumming against the glass like impatient fingers.
“They’ll come,” he says matter-of-factly. “Food bloggers. Journalists. People with cameras looking for the tragic chef who vanished after his wife’s death. They’ll want the comeback story. About why I left and whether I’ve moved on with the pretty influencer who makes videos in my kitchen.”
The room spins. I grip his forearms to steady myself. “Saint, what are you saying?”
His muscles tense underneath my palms. Saint’s still here, still solid, but that part of him I’ve been slowly earning starts to slip out of my grasp.
“I’m saying I don’t know how to protect you and Ivy at the same time.”
I blink, the words slow to land.
“I never asked you to protect me,” I say.
“No.” His voice is rough. “But you made me want to.”
His gaze drops to where I’m still holding him. Like it hurts and he needs to peel me off. Like he never wants me to let go. Like he can’t decide which it is.
“You said you felt real with me,” he murmurs. “I haven’t felt real since the day Celine died.”
I can barely breathe.
“That night, when I first met you, I forgot about all of it. The grief, the guilt, the need to stay hidden. I’m not supposed to have this. You. Any of it.”
I shake my head, confused. “You’re allowed to move on.”
“That’s not what this is,” he says, eyes flicking up to meet mine. “This isn’t moving on. This is falling. Blindly. Recklessly. Like I don’t have a child who depends on me.”
His hands lift and cup my face. Saint doesn’t pull me in. Just touches. As if it’s the last time he’ll let himself do it.
“You said I made you feel real, too,” I whisper, fighting the burn behind my eyes.
“You did,” he says, so quietly it feels sacred. “You still do.”
His brow presses against mine. His breath warms my cheek. I don’t close the gap between us. I don’t move.
I wait.
He inhales slowly. Holds it.
“I can’t stay.”
I press my lips together to keep the sob in my throat from escaping. I don’t beg, and I don’t chase.
But I don’t let go, either.
“I want to,” he says. “Fuck, Wrenley, I want to stay. I want to sit at your table and eat your overcooked pasta and hold you while it storms.”
His thumbs brush along my cheekbones, catching the tears that have started falling without my permission.
“I want to wake up next to you every morning and teach you how to make proper coffee. I want to watch you film your ridiculous videos and pretend I’m annoyed when you steal my clothes.”
The memories are torture, each one dying a small death.
“But wanting something and being able to have it are two different things.”
When he pulls back, his hands fall away from my face.
“I have to think about Ivy first. Always.”
I nod because I understand, even as it destroys me.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and his voice breaks like bone.
He reaches past me and grabs the jacket from the back of his chair. Then he walks out.
No slammed door. No harsh goodbye.
Just the soft snick of the latch.
And silence.
THIRTY
WRENLEY
Iread every single comment on the video before deleting it.
That’s the kind of masochist I am. I scroll and scroll, absorbing the theories, the threats, the couch sleuths. I read the ones that call me a liar, a manipulator, a social climber. Some call me a tragedy tourist, others a whore who goes after dead wives’ husbands. The worst part is how none of it surprises me. The internet is a lever that pries your ribs apart and counts every bone inside, and I have been doing this long enough to know how the machine works.
I delete the video from my profile, my phone, and my head, but the last one doesn’t take.
Brenda texts me ten times in the hour after I take down the post. She’s already in damage control mode, drafting statements and contingency plans in her head. I don’t answer. There’s nothing I can say to her that won’t make me sound like a child who’s dropped her ice cream on the sidewalk and is now blaming the cone.
Instead, I clean. I scrub the stovetop until it gleams, empty the fridge of everything that smells even faintly like leftovers, and dismantle the ring light in my kitchenette. I vacuum the living room and try not to spiral. I do all the things Brenda, Dr. Hollis, and the nicer part of the internet have suggested I do.
I put on real clothes and brush my hair and film a morning routine video even though every cell in my body wants to crawl back to bed. In the week after Saint leaves, my rented apartment looks like a Gen Z showpiece. The wine bottle he brought is the only thing gathering dust, half drunk in the corner of my counter.
Despite all this, my numbers keep climbing. My followers, my engagement, the offers in my inbox. It’s all supposed to make me feel better, but it doesn’t. I take the brand deals anyway. I film a segment for a teeth whitening pen, careful with my angles so the pink in my hair says “quirky” rather than “unraveling.” I do a #sponsored post for a weighted blanket, pretending it’s not just a shroud for adult sadness.
The more I act like everything’s fine, the more convincing I become, even to myself.
And I am fine. If this had happened to me six months ago, I wouldn’t have been okay. But I’ve done a lot of work on myself since then. I’ve ghosted my followers once, and I don’t plan on regressing. I’ve regained confidence, created a safe space, and found a town where I can be happy. I’m more careful online than I’ve ever been and still doing what I love, and it shows.
I’m not going to vanish this time, but what I need to do is show up with intention.
