Page 33 of Only Mine
I subtly adjust myself, grateful she’s facing away. Becauseif I had to see the way her tits move in that fitted workout top—fuck me. She’d know. There’d be no hiding it.
I’m attracted to her.
Not just some passing, inconvenient awareness.
I want my hands on her ass. On her breasts. On every goddamn part of her.
No.
Fuck.
Leaning against the doorway, I watch her assemble something on the counter between her dance moves and notice a small, worn suitcase and a duffel bag sitting by the back door, a silent testament to her intention to leave.
Good. Makes this easier.
I push off the doorframe, opening my mouth to speak, the carefully rehearsed words ready, but they catch in my throat.
On the counter, Ivy’s lunchbox lies open. Her ham and cheese sandwich is cut into the shape of a goddamn star. Carrot sticks are arranged like rays of a sun around a small container of hummus, and a cluster of grapes sits next to a tiny, folded note with what looks like a crudely drawn shark on it.
Moving next to Wrenley, I pick up the note. Inside, in neat print, it says:Have a fin-tastic day, Shark Girl!
A muscle under my eye twitches. I fold the note up and put it back.
This … this is not the work of someone just going through the motions. This is care. The kind of thoughtful detail I, in my grief-stricken haze and demanding schedule, rarely manage anymore. I can make sandwiches, obviously. But a star-shaped one with a shark note? That’s a language I’d forgotten how to speak and time I didn’t allow myself.
Wrenley turns, a half-eaten apple in her hand, and screams.
Her apple thuds to the floor, rolling under the kick plate of a cabinet. Wrenley yanks out her earbuds, one hand flying to her chest, her eyes wide and wild.
“You—you scared the shit out of me! I didn’t hear you come in. I thought you were … I don’t know, a giant bear with a vendetta.”
A giant bear. With tattoos, apparently. I look pointedly at her suitcase by the porch’s door.
“Planning a quick getaway before the bearpocolypse?”
She follows my gaze, the blush deepening. “Something like that. I figured after last night… the car…”
She worries her lower lip. The air in the kitchen, moments before filled with her quiet, pleasant singing, now crackles with an awkward tension.
I cross my arms, leaning back against the counter, the image of the star-shaped sandwich fighting with the fresh memory of Celine’s crumpled Fiat.
“The car is just metal, Wrenley. It can be fixed.”
The words sound hollow even to me. Last night, the sight of that dent had ripped open a wound I keep trying to stitch shut.
Wrenley nods, her gaze dropping to the floor. She looks like she didn’t sleep either. There are faint shadows beneath her eyes. “Well, good. Because I really am sorry about that.”
I don’t elaborate. I don’t mention my own terror, and the way the sight of it had sent me spiraling. I just look at the meticulously prepared lunch that Wrenley wasn’t obligated to prepare.
“Ivy will appreciate this,” I say.
Wrenley’s eyes light up, the darkness under them seeming to disappear instantly under her genuine hope. “You think so? She seems the type to like shapes. And notes. It’ll make the carrots less offensive.”
“Hmph.”
I need coffee. Now. I move toward the machine, turning my back on her, on the suitcase, on the fucking star-shaped sandwich that’s currently derailing my entire plan.
She bends to retrieve her apple, turning to throw it in the garbage bin, her movements subdued now that the music is gone.
