Page 137 of Only Mine
I snort. “You only liked it because it made your job easier.”
“You really think you can just hide out in this town and not let the world in?”
I glance around the bookstore, at the quiet shelves and the hand-painted signs and at Marcus behind the register who’s been wearing the same argyle sweater since September.
“I think I can try to find a balance. I owe that to myself.”
Brenda’s eyes flick over me, searching for cracks.
“You know what I don’t get?” she says. “You built this entire thing, this weird little empire of honest failure, and now you’re just going to … what? Be a person? With a ho-hum day and a coffee order and a favorite park bench?”
Brenda’s the only one who knows what I looked like at my lowest, when the only thing I could do was lie on the kitchen floor and let the tile cool my skin while I wondered if I’d ever be worth anything again. She’s seen the screenshots, the threats, the humiliations that come with being a woman who posts her life for a living. She’s been the first to call me after every disaster, even the ones she caused.
I look out the window at the town square, where the leaves are just starting to turn. It’s beautiful here. I’mhappyhere.
Even if I have to learn to find contentment without Saint and Ivy.
“I was a mess then,” I say, and it’s not even an apology. “But I’m not a mess anymore.”
Brenda stares at me for a long beat, then laughs. “You’re the weirdest success story I’ve ever managed.”
She stands, smoothing her bright blue skirt with the kind of violence that could iron out steel and slings her bag over one shoulder.
“I’m not saying you’re right, but I am saying you’re not wrong. Don’t go all withering Midwesterner on me, though. If you start saying things like ‘it is what it is,’ I’ll have to stage an intervention.”
“Duly noted,” I say, and mean it.
Brenda leaves me with a brisk hug and a business card for a lawyer who specializes in “online privacy reclamations.” I doubt I’ll ever call, but the gesture matters. She’s always beenbetter at armor piercing than damage repair, but maybe that’s why she’s the only one I ever let in.
I spend the next hour shelving books for Marcus, who claims his back is “made of antique glass.” He tells me I have a librarian’s soul and that I should apply for a permanent job once my “influencing days” are over. I thank him, but tell him I’m happy doing what I’m doing for now, then wonder if that’s too close to the phrase Brenda banned and if she’s going to show up with a canceled flight and a pitchfork.
Before heading upstairs, I decide to go for a walk, studying the glowing Halloween window displays and trying to picture what my life will look like tomorrow. It’s not a panic spiral. It’s more like a question posed by a teacher who genuinely wants you to get the answer right.
I take the long way around, up Main Street and around the square (notably away from Saint’s restaurant), past the bakery and spinning barber poles.
The town is quiet, but the air is different from last week. People glance my way, but there’s no edge to it. Not yet. Maybe they’re just used to me by now, or perhaps they see what Brenda sees: a girl who’s finally decided to take her own advice and just exist.
Back in my apartment, I open the windows to let in the crisp air, and I film a new video. Not a makeup tutorial, not a hack, not even a pretty flatlay. Just me, pouring the last glass of red from Saint’s bottle, cooking pasta for one. No music, no voice-over.
The incoming comments are gentle. Some ask if I’m okay, if I need support, or if there’s anything they can do to get me to post more. A few trolls show up, but nothing that stings.
Mostly, they just miss me.
Once finished, I turn off my phone, then set down my forkand stare at the empty chair across from me, and the ache of missing him is so sharp I can’t breathe.
THIRTY-ONE
SAINT
Iknow I’ve fucked up when the bread won’t rise. The dough sits there like a lump of regret, refusing to stretch or climb. I poke it, and it sighs back at me with disappointment.
This isn’t my job. Prepping and baking are usually reserved for our boulanger and station chefs, but I can’t sleep. I should be organizing and delegating for the Thursday dinner rush, but instead, I’m chained to someone else’s workstation, staring at a failed starter with the haunted zeal of a man seeing his own future in a glass bowl.
“You brooding or proofing?” Rome asks, coming around the prep table with a crate of apples balanced on his shoulder, cowboy hat in place, and worn jeans and boots dragging dirt across the floor.
I glare at him. “Do you see any movement?”
Rome sets the crates down, cracks his neck, and squints at the dough. “You used the right yeast?”
