Page 132 of Only Mine
When Saint sits across from me, I think he’s going to be the first to speak, maybe ask about the video, or the comments, or the fact that he’s been found out.
But he doesn’t. He says, “How was your day?”
The question is so unexpected, so dissonant, that I almost laugh. “Good. Brenda’s still here. She’s at the bed-and-breakfast, discovering the local wines.”
Saint stares at his steaming bowl. “She’s good at her job.”
I nod, because it’s true.
I open the wine, pouring him a glass, then me, the silence stretching out until it’s as taut as the line he drew between us.
He finally picks up his fork, twirling pasta with the same arrogant ease he gives to every task.
I take a sip of wine, and it burns all the way down.
Noticing my eyes on him, he says, “You’re making me nervous.”
I force a laugh, but it sounds like something dying. “Sorry. I’ve never cooked for you before. It’s like trying to paint for Picasso.”
Saint finishes twirling the spaghetti, chews, swallows. “It’s good.”
I almost start crying right there, because it’s not good. It’s overcooked, and the sauce is too thin, and I forgot to salt the water. But he keeps eating, forkful after forkful, like it’s his job to get through this meal.
Our mutual silence starts to grow teeth.
Saint’s face is blank. I can’t find him anywhere in there. Not the man who called mecherieand fucked me with enough care to make me believe I could withstand the worst and still be strong, not the one who made me risotto bare-chested or let me sleep with my head on his chest and his arm wrapped around me.
I feel the panic coming before it even starts. The prickling at the back of my scalp, the way my chest hollows out. I take two slow breaths, then three. All I want to do is pick at my shoulder or twirl a piece of hair around my finger and yank until it comes clean out of my scalp, yearning for that addictive sting.
My focus shifts to my fork, the wedge of Parmesan cheese, the scent of tomato and basil and the rain.
None of it helps.
I raise my eyes. “Saint.”
He doesn’t answer.
“Saint, please.” My voice is so thin I barely hear it myself.
He sets his fork down.
“I saw the comments,” he murmurs.
He meets my gaze, and it’s like staring down a sniper scope. The look on his face is so sharp, so targeted, that I flinch.
“They found me. Which means they also found Ivy.”
I want to mount a defense and tell him that he’s being paranoid, that his name isn’t even attached, that it’s not like I posted his address or Ivy’s school. But I can’t.
Because I know. I know how the internet works. I know how quickly interest turns into obsession.
“I knew it would get views,” I say quietly. “I just didn’t think it would getyou.”
Saint doesn’t speak, but the shift in his jaw is answer enough.
“I filmed you because you’re beautiful to me.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches me, and it’s worse than yelling.
