Page 133 of Only Mine
My fingers tremble as I press the napkin into my lap, grounding myself.
“You didn’t know it at the time, and maybe you still don’t, but you pay attention to me like I matter, like I’m not broken or needy or some volcano about to overflow. That morning … you made me feel good. Wanted. Human again. I posted it because I wanted to hold on to that, not because I wanted people to find you.”
I look down at my hands. There’s a red crescent forming on my wrist where I’ve been digging my nails in.
“But I didn’t stop to think about what it would mean for you. Or for Ivy. I was selfish. Not for views or content, but because you’ve been the only thing that makes me feel real lately. And I didn’t want to let that go.”
He pushes back from the table.
The scrape of his chair is gentle, almost polite, but it hits my eardrums like a slammed door.
My entire body reacts in that prey-like way I thought I’d trained myself out of. Saint’s not angry, or loud, or cruel, but I feel the pressure drop.
Saint walks to the window, the one that overlooks Main Street, and drags a hand through his damp hair. His back is to me, broad and silent. Droplets cling to the curls at the base of his neck.
“I can’t afford this,” he says finally, and his voice is quiet, wrecked. “I can’t afford to want you the way I do.”
The world tilts, just slightly.
“You think I don’t know what this is doing to me?” he goes on, still not turning around. “You think I don’t feel it, every time I look at you? Every time I have to tell myself not to touch you, not to fall in deeper?”
He shakes his head once, hard.
“You were supposed to be temporary. A blur. A soft-landing nanny gig for a kid who needed warmth.”
Saint turns now, and the look in his eyes isn’t cold.
It’s worse.
It’s heartbreak.
“You’re not temporary,” he says. “You got under my skin. Into my house. Into my child’s heart.”
His gaze drops to the wineglass he never touched. “And now you’ve made me visible again.”
I rise slowly from my chair, fighting the ringing in my ears. “I never meant to do that.”
He doesn’t answer.
“Saint.” I step toward him, but he backs up half a pace. Not much. Just enough to make it feel like a rejection.
“I’m not mad,” he says, voice hoarse. “I’m not even blaming you. I just… I can’t think around you, Wrenley. And that used to be a good thing.” His throat bobs. “But now it’s dangerous.”
My fingers twitch at my sides, the way they always do before I scratch, and I clench them into fists.
Saint sees. Of course he sees.
And that’s what finally makes him soften. Crestfallen, he steps toward me before he can stop himself.
“Don’t,” he murmurs, gently covering my hands with his. They eclipse mine, warm despite the rain that’s soaked him through. “Don’t scratch.”
His gentle tone makes my chest ache. I wish I could collapse into him, press my face against his skin and feel his heartbeat, but I can’t move.
“I’ll take it down,” I whisper. “I’ll delete it right now.”
Saint’s thumbs trace small circles on my wrists. “It won’t matter.”
“I can make a statement. Tell them they’re wrong. That it’s not you.”
