Page 135 of Only Mine
“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, emptythe 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.
