Page 147 of Only Mine
My chest tightens. “I took the video down.”
“We know, honey.” Maisy’s expression softens. “But it looks like you took his heart at the same time.”
I scoff, but my cheeks are starting to match my Blushing Falcon.
“Question is,” Tank says, “what are you gonna do about it?”
“There’s nothing to do,” I reply. “He made it clear we’re not compatible.”
“Did he now?” Maisy’s eyebrows shoot up toward her white hair.
I shift the wine bottle, suddenly feeling like I’m being judged by the world’s most unlikely jury. “It’s complicated.”
“Love usually is,” Maisy says, ringing up the bikers’ purchases. “But that doesn’t mean you give up on it.”
“Who said anything about love?”
The question comes out more panicked than I intended.
All four of them exchange glances, and I realize I’ve just confirmed everything they suspected.
“Sweetheart,” Maisy says, leaning across the counter again, “I’ve been watching people fall in love in this town for fifty years. I know the signs.”
The bell jingles again as another customer enters. I take that as my sign to find an escape hatch.
“We’re rooting for you!” Tank shouts. His two other friends pump the air and heartily agree.
Cheeks burning, I scamper away after giving an awkward wave.
Outside the Merc, I clutch my wine bottle and take a steadying breath. The whole town knows. Of course they do. Small towns often have information systems in place that are more efficient than those of the Pentagon.
I start walking back toward my apartment, trying to ignore the flutter in my chest at Tank’s words. Saint, whistling in the kitchen? It doesn’t sound like the grumpy chef I know, yet I want it to be true so badly it hurts.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I figure it’s Brenda with another brand deal, but check it anyway as I walk under a canopy of red, yellow, and orange leaves, my boots crunching on the ones that have fallen.
But when I pull it out, the notification halts me mid-step.
@SaltySaint has posted for the first time in 1,325 days.
My thumb hovers over the screen, ready to swipe but alsonot.It has to be the sun’s rays dappling through the spaces between the leaves, obscuring my screen to the point that I’m not reading it correctly. There’s no way Saint would post. Saint only uses his phone to keep tabs on Ivy. I don’t think I’ve ever received a text from him, but because I am who I am and have a whole life on social media, of course I found him and followed him, no matter how dead his account was.
It’s not dead, anymore.
I swipe, opening to the post.
When his post loads, there’s no music, no caption, just a shaky, poorly lit shot of the weathered garden bench under an oak tree where Ivy and I used to sit for hours. The camerajerks as whoever’s filming—Saint, it has to be Saint—struggles to keep it steady. A thumb briefly obscures the corner of the frame, prompting a smile from me, before disappearing.
The focus shifts to a small, dented tin bucket on the bench, the one where Ivy keeps her painted rocks, and a single new rock is placed prominently at the top.
My breathing hitches when I see it: a child’s rendering of a red heart with a heavy black outline and a jagged lightning bolt cutting through the center.
A broken heart.
His video lasts only twelve seconds, ending with what sounds like a curse, then a frustrated exhale as the camera cuts off abruptly.
I replay it three times.
My legs feel unsteady, so I sit down on the curb right there on Main Street, clutching my phone and the wine bottle like anchors. The broken heart rock is Ivy’s work, obviously. Saint’s not one to paint rocks. But the message is unmistakably his.
