Page 136 of Only Mine
And Iamfine. If this had happened to me six months ago, I wouldn’t have been okay. But I’ve done a lot of work on myself since then. I’ve ghosted my followers once, and I don’t plan on regressing. I’ve regained confidence, created a safe space, and found a town where I can be happy. I’m more careful online than I’ve ever been and still doing what I love, and it shows.
I’m not going to vanish this time, but what I need to do is show up with intention.
Brenda’s call comes as I’m halfway through a shoot for a sponsored collagen powder. She tells me she’s downstairs waiting for me in the bookstore, which is impressive, considering she was supposed to have left town last week.
By the time I get down there, she’s sitting on a padded bench by the window aggressively untangling a string of beads hanging from her phone case, radiating the sort of energy that makes entire Starbucks lines part like the Red Sea.
“Brenda!” I put on my most chipper voice. “Good to see you.”
Brenda glances over as I slide onto the bench next to her, her red lips twisted into a tight smile. “I’ve canceled two flights and don’t plan on canceling the one this afternoon, so I came here to say that you’re numbers are great. Better than that, actually. However, the problem is that everybody else is using your content for clout because you’ve given them no alternative. You took the video down!”
She gives up on untangling and shows me her screen, scrolling through a list of notifications that contain Chef Daddy conspiracy threads, screenshots, and open calls for anyone who has eaten at C’est Trois to weigh in.
“They’re not letting it go, Wren.”
I watch a short clip of a woman doing a side-by-side breakdown of my deleted video and a grainy chef’s interview of Saint from years ago.
“People have always been ravenous,” I say.
Brenda sighs, the kind of sigh that means she’s about to say something she knows I won’t like. “They’re contacting the restaurant. Someone tried to book a table by pretending to be your cousin.”
My stomach sinks when I picture Saint having to dodge these types of calls, but I read between Brenda’s lines and say, “I’m not making a statement. That would just restart the whole thing.”
“You need to at least give your audience a reason even if it’s a lie. ‘We’re just friends,’ or ‘he’s not comfortable with social media’ or ‘I made it up for engagement.’ Anything.”
“I’m not going to throw him under the bus for content. Or Ivy. That’s nonnegotiable.”
Brenda’s knuckles blanch white as she scrolls. “You’re not seeing the play here. If you don’t control the narrative, the internet will. And it won’t be nice.”
“I’d rather be called a liar than use someone else’s pain for a redemption arc. Let them speculate.” I reach for the beads, untangling them with more patience than she could ever muster.
She stares at me for a long time, eyes narrowing. “You’re sure about that?”
I nod. “I’m sure.”
Brenda leans back, crossing her arms high and tight, like she’s physically holding back a monologue. The urge to fill the silence is strong, but I resist. She’s always been at her most dangerous when quiet.
“Fine,” she says after a minute, voice clipped. “But you know what’s going to happen, right? They won’t stop until you give them a narrative. If you don’t, they’ll write their own, and it’s never the one you want.”
I stifle the habitual reaction of panic, choosing to use the mental tools at my disposal instead. “Maybe they’ll get bored. The internet has the attention span of a toddler with a sugar IV.”
I hand her phone back and catch her gaze before she can look away. “I’m not going to fan the flames and make Ivy a trending topic.”
Brenda softens just enough that I can see the real reason she’s here. “You love him.”
It isn’t a question. Not from her. Not from me, either.
I lean my back against the cold windowpanes. I’ve never said it out loud, but it’s been obvious from the beginning. How nervous Saint made me, how I became so clumsy in hispresence that I literally fell into the bushes in front of his restaurant. Every time I was near him, the only thing that mattered was the next thing he’d say.
I think about the first time I really saw him. Not the first time we met, when he barely looked at me, or the first time he called me by my name instead of “you.” Not even the first time he touched me.
It was when I felt the weight of his palm on the back of my neck, steadying me during a panic attack I’d tried to hide, the way he didn’t say a word about it but just stood there, a tree in a hurricane, until my breathing came back. I’d let him see me at my worst: unwashed, trembling, a bundle of nerves with a brain that trips every anxiety wire in my mental house, yet he accepted every flaw of mine without question. Without judgment.
The grumpiest man in Falcon Haven, so cranky that his moods could color the entire town from the inside out, never made me feel small.
“I love them,” I correct Brenda, worrying the edge of my sleeve and thinking about the sweet, mouthy little girl who stands her artistic ground. It’s not possible for Saint to raise anything less. “That’s why I’m not going to make this worse.”
Brenda nods, but there’s a sadness in her eyes, a kind of fatigue. “You know, you used to be a lot more selfish. I kind of miss it.”
