Page 127 of Only Mine
“I’m so full,” she groans, then unspools off the stool and toward the cushioned bench in the breakfast nook.
“Almost like I warned you,” I say, handing her the small blanket she always insists she’s too old for until she’s tired.
She mumbles something about needing lots of stomachs like cows, then curls up without further complaint.
I refresh my coffee and lean against the counter, staring out of the bay windows above Ivy and into our wooded backyard. There’s no rush to do anything today. It’s one of the rare mornings when the house doesn’t need anything from me. No prep list. No kid meltdown. No mess in the sink.
But my phone’s in my hand, anyway.
I tell myself it’s out of habit. Emails. Schedules. Maybe a shipment delay. That’s the excuse I’ve been using every morning for the past three weeks, ever since Wrenley started posting again. It’s not a habit I’m proud of. Not something I admit. At first, it was curiosity. Then concern after becoming aware that she had a seriously unhinged, dangerous fan and someone needed to be on her page to protect her. Now it’s something I can’t name.
I tell myself it’s just to make sure she’s safe. That after what happened in my restaurant bathroom, I have a responsibility to check on her. That it’s not pathetic at all to be thirty-four years old and watching a woman talk about her morning routine.
I open Instagram. The handle my agent chose—@SaltySaint—flashes across the top. It’s absurd. I didn’t pick it. My former agent grabbed a handle for me on all social media accounts despite my severe hatred of all things online. I’ll never thank her, but it did make it a lot easier to find Wrenley by having an existing account.
Her latest video appeared twenty minutes ago. I haven’t watched it yet, which feels like a personal failure.
Wrenley stands in her tiny kitchen, explaining how to make a smoothie recipe I taught her that she swears doesn’t taste like “lawn clippings and regret.”
I’ll take that as a compliment, I suppose.
Her hair is piled on top of her head, that pink streak escaping to brush her cheek. She’s wearing a sweater that’stoo big for her frame, one I recognize because it’s mine. She stole it last week. And I didn’t ask for it back.
My breathing slows at the sight of her smile. This is a genuine one, not the polished, closed-mouthed tilt she started off using when she recorded herself again. I’ve cataloged her smiles. I know which ones reach her eyes.
I scroll to her previous post from a few days ago with her at the lake, wind ruffling her hair, explaining why she’s been quieter than usual online. I’ve watched it multiple times, noting how her voice changed when she mentioned finding peace in unexpected places.
Am I that peace?
Do I even want to be her happy place?
Ivy snores softly, the blanket pulled to her chin despite her insistence that she’s “practically a teenager.” I lower the volume and tap on Wrenley’s profile, scrolling back through the last week of content. Each thumbnail is a moment I wasn’t with her, a glimpse into the parts of her life that exist outside of what she shares with me because I’ve asked that Ivy and I not be included in her content, and she’s respected that.
I can’t name this restlessness, this need to see what she’s doing when she’s not with me. It’s not surveillance. It’s not obsession. It’s just ... checking.
She’s fine. She’s happy. She’s wearing my clothes like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and I’m watching her like some kid with his first crush.
So, like the glutton for punishment that I am, I read the comments.
GIRL, you are THRIVING lately!
ma’am that is a MAN’s sweater and we see you
who else is zooming in on the background for clues about chef daddy?
Chef Daddy?My brows furrow.
The nickname hits like a slap of cold water.
The comments on her videos used to be about her. Wrenley’s smile, what products she uses, her progress. Now they’re filled with questions about someone else.
Holy fuck. About me.
I click on a comment that’s gathered hundreds of replies.
Okay but we need to talk about those sex hands in the pasta video. Criminal that we don’t have a face to match.
The pasta video. My mind stutters over the phrase. The one I let her film of just my hands and the counter because she asked so sweetly, and we’d both just finished a thorough fuck.
