Page 60 of Only Mine
What the fuck am I doing?
Extending this goodbye is cruel to all of us. It’s giving Ivy false hope. It’s giving an uncomfortable spice in my chest that Ireallydon’t like because I keep having to clear my damn throat.
Ivy chatters through breakfast, oblivious to the current running between Wrenley and me. Each time our eyes meet, electricity pulses through the room. When Wrenley’s fork slips from her fingers, clattering against her plate, I know she feels it too.
“These are amazing,” she says.
“They’re special pancakes,” Ivy explains seriously. “Papa puts vanilla in them. And fairy dust.”
“I can taste it,” Wrenley replies, taking another bite. Her tongue darts out to catch a drop of syrup on her lower lip, and my body responds with an immediacy that’s both inappropriate and undeniable.
I push back from the counter. “I’ll get the car ready.”
I need air. Space. Distance from the soft curves under that threadbare shirt and the way Wrenley looks at my daughter like she’s a miracle.
“I should get dressed.” Wrenley rises as well.
Ivy glances between the two new bookends on either side of her.
“Yes. Go,” I say to Wrenley harsher than intended. “We leave in twenty minutes.”
Her eyes narrow slightly at my tone, but she nods andslips out the back door. The sight of the muscles undulating under the skin of her bare legs makes my mouth go dry.
The moment she’s gone, Ivy turns to me, arms folded in front of her in a gesture so reminiscent of her mother that my breath stalls.
“You’re being mean again, Papa.”
“Eat your pancakes,” I mutter, pushing her plate closer.
“You like Miss Wrenley,” she accuses as she drowns her stack in more syrup. “But you’re scared.”
I nearly choke on my coffee. “What? I’m not scared of anything.”
Ivy rolls her eyes with the dramatic flair of someone three times her age.
Rather than remaining stunned, I arch a suspicious brow at my daughter.
“Miss Wrenley makes you have feelings,” Ivy says, methodically dismantling her pancake tower. “That’s why your face gets all scrunchy when she’s around.”
“My face does not get scrunchy,” I reply, appalled.
Ivy demonstrates what she means, furrowing her brow and pursing her lips in an expression that’s uncomfortably accurate.
“Finish your breakfast,” I say with a dismissive wave that is innoway a surrender to my daughter. “And then go brush your teeth and find shoes. Real shoes, not those sparkly monstrosities that fall off every three steps.”
Outside, the morning is crisp, autumn settling firmly into the bones of Falcon Haven. I stand by the Range Rover, keys dangling from my fingers, and try to breathe through the rigidity of my posture.
This is so fucking dumb. One last adventure before the inevitable goodbye. One more memory for Ivy to mourn when Wrenley leaves.
For me to mourn.
It’s for the best.
“I’m ready!” Ivy announces, skipping down the porch steps in her favorite purple cowboy boots.
Wrenley follows, now dressed in tight jeans and a cream sweater, her hair tamed into a loose braid, the pink streak woven through it.
She’s beautiful. Effortlessly so.
