Page 82 of Only Mine
My mind churns, calculating options. “What if ... what if I documented my temporary, small-town life? Nothing personal. Just scenery. No actual locations. The town square. No faces, no names. I already have a few saved videos to start with.”
Brenda sighs. “That could work for the lifestyle brand, but the cosmetics line and the athleisure contract…”
“I’ll figure something out. I can take long-range photos of myself with a timer.”
“They want close-ups,” Brenda says quietly. “Which is why you haven’t posted anything since?—”
“I know.” I cut her off sharper than intended. A woman walking by with her dog glances over, and I lower my voice. “But I also know what happens if I breach the contract.”
“Wren.” Brenda’s tone shifts, becoming the voice of the woman who’s been my advocate for three years, not just my agent. “Talk to me. Really tell me what you can do. Because what happened in that hotel room … and then when you tried to go live to let your followers know you were okay, but you couldn’t stop shaking … honey, that wasn’t just a bad day. That was trauma.”
Trauma.Such a clinical term for the way I claw at myself when I’m alone in the dark. For the way I check locks threetimes now. For the scars on my shoulder that Saint kissed so gently last night.
“I can’t talk about it on camera,” I whisper. “I can’t have millions of people watching me fall apart again.”
“Then don’t. We’ll work around it.” Her voice is firm now, back in problem-solving mode. “Okay, so small-town content. Nature shots. Oh! Maybe some cooking if you’re up for it. People love that cozy, domestic stuff. No personal details, no locations that could identify where you are.”
“And the contracts?”
“I’ll renegotiate. Tell them you’re taking a wellness break and focusing on mental health. It’s trendy now. Brands eat that authenticity up.”
I almost laugh at the irony. My authentic breakdown went viral, and now we’re going to package my recovery for consumption, too.
“Okay,” I say finally. “I’ll call you tomorrow with a content schedule.”
I end the call before she can probe further.
When I return to my seat, the chicken fried steak has gone cold, but I eat it anyway. The grease and salt feel appropriate for my current emotional state.
“Better?” Noa asks.
“Clearer, anyway.” I take a long sip of lukewarm coffee. “Thank you for listening. And for the apartment lead.”
“That’s what neighbors do.” She smiles. “And Wrenley? Whatever brought you here, whatever you’re running from, this town has a way of helping people figure things out. Give it time.”
An hour later, I’m standing in front of Cornerstone Books, a narrow three-story building with forest-green shutters and window boxes full of late-season mums after receiving the grand tour, which took all of ten minutes.
“I’ll take it,” I say to Marcus.
Marcus hands me the keys.
NINETEEN
SAINT
Monday morning arrives like a hangover I didn’t earn.
Erin shows up at six sharp, wheeling a teacher’s tote behind her and wearing a smile that’s trying too hard.
She’s everything I thought I needed. She’s Ivy’s preschool teacher, already knows Ivy’s routine, and has glowing references from every parent in town.
She’s also wearing enough perfume to choke a horse.
“Good morning, Mr. Toussaint!” Her voice hits a pitch that makes my teeth ache. “I’m so excited to start this journey with you and Ivy!”
Journey. Christ.
“It’s just Saint,” I tell her for the millionth time since we’ve met. “Ivy’s upstairs. She’s...” I pause, searching for the right word. Devastated? Betrayed? “Adjusting.”
