Page 37 of Only Mine
Still, the urge to capture it—to bottle this feeling of peace and simple beauty—is strong. What if I forget? What if the sharp edges of this memory dull over time?
As if it knows I’m thinking of it, my phone buzzes in my purse. Pulling it out on a sigh, I read the notification. It’s an email from my agent.
Subject: Still alive?
Wren,
Heard you’d gone off-grid. Hope you’re not holed up in a cabin somewhere writing a manifesto. Or worse, knitting. Listen, funny thing. Was chatting with a contact, and guess whose name popped up, practically vibrating with untapped potential? Bernard Toussaint. Apparently, yournew neck of the woods is his reclusive kingdom. The man’s a culinary unicorn, darling. Brooding, brilliant, and tragically widowed. Basically, catnip for the masses. Just a thought, but if you were ever considering a gentle re-entry like a ‘finding myself in a small town with a hot, emotionally unavailable chef’ arc could be gold. Pure, unadulterated, monetizable gold. People are starving for authenticity, and what’s more authentic than a fallen influencer finding solace (and maybe love?) among the heirloom tomatoes? Unless, of course, you’re still not feeling up to… well, you know. Facing the world. After everything. No pressure, obviously. But the algorithm waits for no one, kiddo. Let me know if you’re ready to rise from the ashes, phoenix-style.
Just marinate on it for me. It’s all I ask.
XOXO, Brenda
My stomach plummets. Brenda Chu. Of course. She has a bloodhound’s nose for opportunity and the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
The casual mention of Saint and the way she framed him as a potential “arc” makes my skin crawl. She doesn’t know I’m nannying for him. My agent just sees an angle, a story to spin, another chance to package a life for consumption.
Not to mention the casual, dismissive “after everything,” she added, as if that encompasses the complete meltdown my millions of followers witnessed.
As if the public implosion—the weeks I couldn’t leave my apartment, the feeling of a million eyes dissecting my everymistake—was just a minor hiccup, a temporary setback in the content creation game.
The phone feels slick in my hand.
I shove it back into my purse, the screen dark, but Brenda’s words resonate, bright and intrusive, in the quiet car.
Marinate on it.
I’d rather marinate in a vat of actual acid.
A loud, prolonged honk sounds out behind me, making me jump out of my skin. I’m about to apologize profusely and drive off when a shadow falls over my open window.
“You’re holding up the car line. Wrenley, was it?”
“Miss Erin.” I give her a close-lipped smile.
Her floral dress today is a symphony in muted pinks and greens, and her voice is as crisp as her ironed collar. Her gaze flicks over the Range Rover, lingering for a moment on the front bumper, though the new dent isn’t visible from this angle.
Erin says, “Mr. Toussaint asked me to keep an extra eye on Ivy today. He was concerned over yesterday’s incident.”
The way she says “incident” makes it sound like I’d driven the SUV into a fireworks factory. My knuckles whiten on the steering wheel.
Brenda’s email, Erin’s condescending tone … it’s a one-two punch to my already frayed nerves.
“Saint was concerned about Ivy, yes,” I say, keeping my voice even. “As he should be. She’s his daughter.”
“He and I had a long chat this morning about ensuring her environment remains stable. He values my input, especially when it comes to new influences.”
Her gaze flicks to my pink streak, then back to my face.
The implication isn’t lost on me:You, flighty girl with your pink hair and dented cars, are not what Ivy, or Saint, needs.
“Well, I’m glad Saint has such a dedicated professional he can confide in,” I reply, my own smile just as saccharine. “Accidents happen. Luckily, it’s just metal and easily fixed. Unlike, say, a chronically judgmental attitude. That’s much harder to buff out.”
Erin’s smile falters for a millisecond before snapping back into place. “Mr. Toussaint relies on those of us who provide a more consistent, grounded influence in Ivy’s life. He and I have been discussing potential long-term solutions for Ivy’s care. Someone with the right qualifications.”
“How proactive,” I say, offering her my own version of a bright, meaningless smile. “It’s always good to have a plan B. Or C. Or, in some cases, all the way to Z. Have a wonderful day, Miss Erin.”
As I drive off, I offer a cheerful little wave that I hope conveys utter indifference to her territorial display. But the image of Saint calling her personal cell, saying her name, confiding in her, stings more than I want to admit.
