Page 121 of Only Mine
“I tried. You’re a ghost online.”
Which had driven me crazy for weeks.
“Good,” he says.
“Why is that good?”
He’s quiet for long enough that I think he won’t answer. “You’re not the only one who came here to hide, Wrenley.”
I want to ask more, but I recognize the look written all over his face. It’s the same one I get when people ask why I moved here, why I don’t do meetups anymore, why I flinch when delivery drivers knock too loud.
“Ivy’s mother?” I guess softly.
He squints at something over my shoulder. “Part of it.”
I reach out before I can stop myself, hand finding his cheek. He turns into the touch, eyes closing briefly, and I realize I’m not the only flawed person in this kitchen.
“You don’t have to tell me,” I whisper.
“I know.” He opens his eyes. “But I want to.”
He straightens, and I think he’s about to start pacing until he pulls at the neighboring stool and sits beside me.
“Celine hated the city. She hated the hours, hated the way I smelled like grease and cigarettes even after I showered. But she tried to make it work because she thought that’s what you do when you get married.”
I stay silent, my turn to be the listener.
“After Ivy was born, it got worse. I’d leave for work before sunrise and come home after she was asleep. I could tell you the exact number of times I was home for dinner Ivy’s first year. Four. We fought about it, but I kept tellingmyself I was building something for us. For her. That the time apart would be worth it, eventually.”
His hands knot together, ink tangling.
“When she died, I stopped being able to cook. Not wouldn’t.Couldn’t. My hands would shake every time I picked up a knife. It was the longest eight months of my life. I’d stand in the kitchen at four in the morning, trying to do basic prep. Brunoise. Julienne. Things I’d been doing since I was sixteen. Nothing worked.”
My hand finds his, covering the lattice of his knuckles, the blue of his veins, and the black of his ink with all the warmth I can give. His expression doesn’t change, but the tension in his fingers gives him away, how he wants to clench and squeeze and break and pull away all at the same time.
“I thought I’d use my savings to stay home with Ivy, maybe start a fucking food truck. Something small.” He huffs a laugh, but it’s only air. “But I didn’t know how to be alone with her. I didn’t know what to do with a two-year-old who only wanted her mother. Ivy stopped talking for almost a year after Celine died. At first, I thought it was normal. Kids regress. Sometimes she’d go completely silent except for screaming at night. No words, just noise. Then I did the unthinkable.”
Saint’s expression wrenches with agony.
“I gave her to Celeste and … left her. I told myself it was temporary. Gave myself permission to fall apart completely. I’d work a dish washing shift at whatever kitchen would take me, drink until closing, find someone willing to take me home. Sometimes two someones. Started drinking at noon, stopped when I passed out. Some nights I’d wake up with no memory of where I’d been or who I’d been with.”
I trace circles on his wrist, encouraging him to continue.
“Then one morning, I woke up in Ivy’s nursery atCeleste’s apartment. Ivy was peering at me over her crib’s railing, and her eyes were just like Celine’s. Not the color, but thelove.That little girl saw me at my worst, and it was like Celine was telling me not to leave this gorgeous girl again. So I called my father, who was retiring and had a restaurant in a small town in America. He and Celeste talked, and said the one chance I had with Ivy was to clean myself up, move here, and run it.” Saint snorts, looks up at the ceiling. “I told him owning a restaurant, even in a town with a population of a thousand, wasn’t going to be easy. He said he needed my help. But I told him I wasn’t looking for a kitchen in the middle of nowhere and to just sell the place.”
“But you came, anyway.”
“I owed it to Ivy. I didn’t want to fail her, too. So I came to look. Just to humor the old man.” His mouth quirks in one corner. “Ivy was barely two and a half. Still asking for her mama every night. I was running on fumes and antidepressants.”
I can picture it so clearly. Saint, empty-eyed and weary down to the bone with a toddler who couldn’t understand why her world was upside-down.
“When we drove into town, Ivy fell asleep in her car seat. First time in weeks she’d slept without screaming.” His voice cracks slightly. “I pulled over by the lake and just sat there, watching her. It was the first time I’d felt anything close to peace since Celine died.”
The urge to pull him into my arms and bury my face in his neck is strong, but something in his posture tells me he needs to finish this without interruption.
“My father showed me the restaurant the next day. It was a disaster. Leaky roof, ancient equipment, peeling wallpaper and outdated furniture. But there was this moment when I walked into the kitchen. I picked up a knife without thinkingand started chopping onions. My hands didn’t hesitate. The skill was still there.”
“So you stayed,” I say.
