Page 119 of Only Mine
He leans against the opposite counter, watching me eat his food in his kitchen wearing his shirt, and his usual stone expression shifts. Softer. Dangerous.
“How does someone who can’t cook end up with two million followers?”
The question makes me snort, and I laugh over a mouthful.
Swallowing, I reply, “My channel isn’t just about cooking.”
“What’s it about?”
I take another bite, buying time to absorb the fact that Saint wants to know more about me. That a starred chef who is hot, infamous, and successful is actuallyinterestedin my life.
“I was a digital media major at UT. Spent most of college hiding in the design lab editing other people’s projects because it meant I didn’t have to present them myself.” I hand him the fork. “My roommate Emma was obsessed with this new app where people posted short videos. I helped her edit hers sometimes.”
“But never made your own?” He takes his own bite.
“God, no. The thought of people watching me made me want to throw up.” I watch him eat, precise even now. “Then Emma bet me fifty bucks I couldn’t post one video. Just one. Said I was wasting my editing skills being behind the scenes and that I needed to embrace the future.”
Saint raises an eyebrow. “Fifty whole dollars?”
I grin at him. “Rent was due. I was desperate. I filmed myself organizing my entire desk at 3 a.m. because I couldn’t sleep. Seven takes because I kept thinking my hand was too close to the lens or my breathing was too loud. Finally posted it with no caption, no hashtags, nothing.”
“And?”
“Woke up to twenty thousand views and hundreds of comments from other insomniacs who organize things when they can’t sleep. People asking what label maker I used,where I got my drawer dividers, if I had tips for color-coding schedules.” I shake my head. “It was like finding out there were thousands of people whose brains worked just like mine.”
“So you kept going.”
“I posted this video of me trying to parallel park for literally twelve minutes. Just me, sweating, restarting eighteen times, with text overlays like ‘Why did I say yes to downtown dinner’ and ‘This is my villain origin story.’ I almost deleted it because who wants to watch someone fail at basic adult tasks?”
“Let me guess, it went viral?”
“Eight million views. The comments were all ‘I’ve been driving for ten years and same’ or ‘This is why I exclusively Uber.’ Suddenly, brands wanted to sponsor me because I was ‘refreshingly honest.’“ I make air quotes. “Like being bad at parking was a personality trait they could monetize.”
“Anything can make money if you market it right.” He takes the empty bowl to the sink, and I wish I were quicker because I would lick it clean. “I once worked for a chef who built his entire brand on being an asshole. Threw plates, screamed at servers. Reservations booked solid for two years.”
“Don’t you throw plates?”
“I throw knives. Much more efficient.” He glances back at me and winks. “Kidding. Mostly.”
“The weird part is how addictive it got. Every mundane disaster became content. Locked myself out? Film it. Tried to cook and set off the smoke alarm? Film it. Anxiety spiral at Target because they moved the shampoo aisle?Definitelyfilm it.” I pause to take a sip of wine. “Honestly, that one helped me laugh about it instead of crying in my car after.”
“Profitable therapy.”
I laugh into my glass. “Cheaper than actual therapy. Well, in addition to actual therapy.” I watch him move around his kitchen. “My Amazon storefront alone makes more than my parents make in a year. Dad still doesn’t understand how linking products counts as a job.”
“Because you film yourself shopping?”
“Because I show people the exact label maker that helped me get my life together when I couldn’t remember which pills to take when. The drawer organizers that made it possible to find matching socks during a depressive episode. The—” I stop. “Sorry. I sound like a commercial.”
“You sound like someone who figured out how to help people while helping yourself.” He comes back to stand in front of me. “Nothing wrong with getting paid for it.”
“Tell that to the messages saying I’m making anxiety trendy. Or that I make people feel worse because my breakdowns have better lighting than theirs.”
“Fuck those people.”
His casual dismissal shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Someone’s always going to be angry that you’re succeeding.” His hands find my knees. “Trust me on that.”
