Page 148 of Only Mine
I notice one comment below the video and tap it open. It’s Saint, who’s instead of making a caption, accidentally turned it into a comment. Typical, and another smile pulls at my lips until I read it.
Yours if you want it.
Four words that make my chest cavity feel like it’s expanding and contracting at the same time. I screenshot the comment before I can think about why, then stare at the image until my eyes water.
No explanation, no context for anyone who doesn’t know about Ivy’s rock collection. But I know.
I know that Ivy painted this after Saint told her we couldn’t see each other anymore. I know she’s been asking for me, according to what I’ve heard around town. And I knowthat Saint, who hasn’t posted on social media in over three years, just put himself out there in the most vulnerable way possible.
For me, after ripping my heart out and stomping on it.
I don’t even remember standing up and walking back to my apartment, but suddenly I’m there, setting the wine on my counter. My reflection in the wall mirror shows wild hair and flushed cheeks, like I’ve been running instead of having an existential crisis on a public street.
I don’t overthink it. I can’t. If I stop to analyze, I’ll talk myself out of going.
The wine stays unopened. My phone gets tossed onto the couch. I grab my keys from the hook by the door and rush out, not bothering with a jacket despite the autumn chill.
My car starts with a reluctant whine, and I’m backing out of my spot before I can second-guess myself. The fifteen-minute drive to Saint’s property stretches like pulled taffy, each familiar turn both too slow and too fast. My heartbeat matches the rhythm of the windshield wipers as they sweep away the light mist that’s started to fall.
When I pull into his gravel driveway, I don’t head toward the main house. Instead, I follow the stone path around the side, past the kitchen garden with its neat rows of herbs and through the small wooden gate that always sticks unless you lift it slightly while pushing.
And there he is.
Saint sits on the same bench I did when I first got here, elbows on his knees and head bowed. He’s wearing a black, long-sleeved shirt that stretches across his shoulders, jeans worn down at the knees, and his favorite scuffed boots.
“That was a dirty move.”
My voice shakes as I say it, betraying the whirlwind inside me.
Saint’s head snaps up. His eyes find mine, blue and bottomless as Falcon Haven’s lake in winter. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t stand or reach for me. He just watches me like one of Rome’s horses, like I might spook if he moves too quickly.
“I know,” he finally says.
I take three steps closer, leaves crunching under my boots. “Using social media? You hate that place.”
“Turns out I’m an expert at that. Hating on things that could be good for me.”
Ivy’s bucket of rocks sits beside him, the pile inside askew. I itch to reach inside and find the broken heart Ivy painted, but I stay rooted in place.
“Where’s Ivy?” I ask, well aware of how quiet the garden is without her presence.
“School.” He shifts on the bench, making room beside him. “She doesn’t know you’re here.”
I don’t take the offered seat. Not yet. “And if I hadn’t come?”
“I would’ve waited.”
The mist is heavier now, darkening the shoulders of his shirt and catching in his eyelashes.
“How long would you have waited?” I ask, aware that I’m pushing it, but unable to stop. I’ve been miserable these last few weeks.Miserable.
Saint leans back against the bench, moisture collecting in the hollow of his throat. “As long as it took.”
His sincerity sinks into me like a nutrient I’ve been denying my body for much too long. I take another step, close enough now that I could drag my finger along his jawline if I dared.
Saint doesn’t rise. He stays exactly where he is, allowing me the rare vantage point of looking down at such a tall, commanding man.
“You pushed me away,” I say. “You said we couldn’t do this without putting Ivy in harm’s way.”
