Page 86 of Only Mine
The word tears from my throat as I grab the entire cutting board and send it flying. It hits the dish pit with a spectacular crash.
Eddie appears in the doorway, takes one look at my face,and backs away slowly, hands raised. “Was it the wrong time for me to take a ciggie break?”
“I’m closing lunch service,” I tell him.
“I can see that.”
“Anyone who has a problem with that can find another job.”
Eddie doesn’t move from the doorway. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
“No.”
He surveys the destruction. “I’ll call the Henderson party. Tell them we had an equipment failure.”
I start to untie my apron, but I force myself to stop. To think.
Every instinct screams to go to Wrenley. To fix this. To prove she’s safe here.
But that’s what I want. Not what she needs.
She came here to disappear. To heal without an audience. And what would I be doing if I showed up at her door right now? Adding to the list of people who won’t leave her alone.
“I need to pick up Ivy,” I say instead.
“It’s barely noon.”
“I need my daughter.”
Eddie nods slowly. “What about the kitchen?”
I look around. Shattered plates. Overturned prep. My blood on the cutting board. “Clean it up. We’ll open for dinner.”
I leave through the back, stepping into an alley that suddenly feels too bright. Too normal. Like the world should have shifted after what I just heard.
My phone buzzes, and it’s a text from Erin.Ivy had a rough morning, but she’s doing better now! We’re working on letters!
Attached is a photo of my daughter at her desk, face turned away from the camera.
Ivy’s not doing better. She’s just stopped fighting.
I pocket the phone and start walking.
TWENTY
WRENLEY
I’ve spent the morning arranging my three pieces of furniture: bed, chair, questionable desk from a yard sale, and pretending this new apartment feels like home.
My phone’s propped against the window while I film the rearranging (my second one this week), narrating something about “small-town rhythms” that sounds peaceful enough.
It took twenty-seven takes to get my voice steady enough to record a voice-over. Hopefully, my followers won’t be able to tell. I’m confident that the nicer, loyal ones will heart the post and comment about how happy I look and how brave I am for starting over. No one needs to know that I’ve been walking the long way around town to avoid a certain restaurant, or that I tested my ring light at 3 a.m. when sleep wouldn’t come.
The bookstore’s cat, Ralph, wandered up earlier and made himself at home on my unmade bed. I captured a pic of that, too, to post in addition to the video content.
Ralph’s orange fur looks like a sunrise against my pale blue sheets. He’s become my first friend in this apartment,appearing each morning to weave through my legs and demand attention before slinking back downstairs to his official bookstore duties.
“You’re not supposed to be up here,” I tell him, scratching under his chin. “But I won’t tell if you don’t.”
