Page 11 of Only Mine
Nora called me. Unicorns on her car?? Seriously?
Before I can respond, another message pops up:Btw, how’s it going with Wrenley? Ivy talking to her?
And then:Don’t be mad, but Wrenley used to work with kids before the influencer thing. Creative types. Like Ivy.
I stare at the messages, a creeping suspicion forming. The timing. The convenient solution to my childcare crisis appearing right as another nanny quits.
This wasn’t a coincidence.
I look back at Ivy, hugging her unicorn book to her chest, more animated tonight than she’s been in months.
It hits me then. My sister-in-law didn’t just send a random friend to my guesthouse.
She sent me a fucking nanny.
THREE
WRENLEY
The first thing I do after returning to the guesthouse is search for “Saint, the chef,”on my phone, immediately regretting how little I knew about the man whose food I hadpractically orgasmed over.
Holy. Crap.
The search results yield dozens of articles. Most feature the same photo: a younger Saint, clean-shaven, his tattoos covered by a pristine white chef’s coat. Nothing like the inked-up, scowling kitchen tyrant I’d just met.
“Michelin-starred at twenty-seven,” I whisper, scrolling further. “James Beard finalist ... revolutionizing Parisian cuisine...”
He’s smiling in one picture—actuallysmiling—standing next to a petite woman with Ivy’s dark curls, a woman who looks a lot like … no, isidenticalto…
I sit bolt upright, the springs in the couch protesting loudly.Is that Celeste?
It turns out it’s not because the headline punches me inthe gut:Chef Bernard “Saint” Toussaint Retreats from Culinary Spotlight Following Tragic Loss of Wife.
Was Saint’s wife Celeste’s twin sister? She’s never mentioned her, despite our many conversations. And Celeste is always so upbeat and positive. God, I hate when real people turn out to have actual complicated lives. It was so much easier when they were just characters on my feed.
I set my phone down, suddenly feeling like I’ve invaded something private. Which is ridiculous, considering these are public articles, but social media has made voyeurs of us all. We scroll through others’ tragedies like entertainment, consuming their pain from the safety of our screens.
It doesn’t stop my brain from scrolling, though. I met Celeste about a year ago, and the article is three years old, which would make Ivy about two when it happened…
Whyam I even thinking about this? I came here for anonymity. I should be planning my exit strategy, not mulling over Toussaint family history.
It’s just that something about the dinner has burrowed under my skin. Maybe it’s because I recognize the haunted look in Saint’s eyes like he’s survived his own personal apocalypse. Or the way he watches Ivy, like she’s both his greatest joy and deepest terror. I know that feeling. It’s the one you get when you understand that happiness is temporary and the universe always collects its debts.
Forcing my head out of the clouds, I head to the bathroom. Its pale blue tiles and old-fashioned brass finishes feel like a sanctuary as I wash my face, avoiding my own reflection.
Old habits.
My hand drifts to the pink streak in my hair, fingers gently probing underneath where my hair is finally growing back,soft and fragile as a baby bird. Three months since I last pulled there. A personal record. At first, my followers thought it was just a quirky style change rather than a deliberate choice that started as a desperate cover-up.#PinkHairDontCare.
“Not tonight,” I whisper to myself, forcing my hand away and reaching for my moisturizer instead.
My therapist would be proud.Recognize the urge, redirect the energy. Easy to say when you’re not the one whose scalp tingles with the need to pull until it hurts, until the pressure inside your head finally releases.
I tug off my sweater, wincing as the fabric catches on the raw patches of skin across my left shoulder. The scratches aren’t deep, but they’re angry. In the bathroom’s unforgiving light, they look worse than they feel. Some healing, while others are fresh from this afternoon’s drive. Shirts with wide collars are my armor lately. Another calculated misdirection: one flawless shoulder revealed, while the other hides its hurt under fabric.
After I pull on a soft T-shirt, I slip into a four-poster bed with layers of sheets, comforters, and blankets, all a calming blue. I’m about to turn off the lamp when my phone buzzes, and I flinch reflexively before remembering I’d deleted all social apps a week ago. The memory of my last live stream still makes my stomach clench. I have to force myself out of the memory by checking the notification, and notice it’s from Celeste.
How’s the hideaway? Peaceful as promised?
