Page 21 of Only Mine
“Stop squirming, sweetie.”
My voice comes out sharper than intended.
Ivy freezes, her little face falling. “Miss Nora used to yell, too.”
My heart cracks.
“I’d never yell at you, sweetheart. I’m just learning.” I soften my tone, despite the sweat now forming at my hairline. “Maybe you can help me?”
Her face brightens.
“This part goes click,” she points, “and then this part goes swoosh.”
I follow her instructions, managing to secure one side before the other releases.
“For thelove of—” I catch myself, forcing a bright smile. “For the love of learning new things.”
A woman pushing a stroller slows as she passes the gate at the end of the driveway, openly staring through the iron bars at my struggle. She lingers, clearly hoping to witness a full meltdown. I turn my back to her, focusing on Ivy.
“Let’s try one more time,” I say, wiping sweat from my brow. My fingernails itch to dig into my shoulder, the familiar comfort beckoning.
“You have to press the red button while pulling the strap,” Ivy explains, her little finger pointing at a nearly invisible button.
“Oh!” I exclaim, finally seeing what I’d missed. The secret button is practically invisible against the black fabric. “Why would they hide the most important part?”
I press the tiny red button while pulling the strap, and suddenly everything clicks into place. Literally. The harness tightens perfectly around Ivy’s small frame.
“You did it!” Ivy claps her hands.
“We did it,” I correct her with a big smile.
The woman with the stroller is still watching. She gives me a smug little smile before continuing her walk.
“Is it too tight?” I ask Ivy, ignoring my wounded pride.
“Nope! Perfect!”
She beams up at me, and I have to say, being the recipient of a five-year-old’s praise isso muchbetter than 100,000 likes.
When I close her door and circle to the driver’s side, I catch my reflection. My pink streak sticks out at odd angles, there’s a black smudge of mascara on my cheek, and my whole face is flushed. In my former life, I’d never have let anyone see me like this, with my hair frazzled, makeup smeared, and the frustration evident on my face. My followers had expected perfection, even when I was demonstrating “relatable struggles.” The old Wrenley would have recorded seventeen takes before showing herself struggling with something this basic.
Well, Old Wrenley can’t come to the phone anymore.
I stick my tongue out at my reflection, which Ivy catches. She copies me, and before I know it, we’re in a full-on raspberry-blowing war.
I slide into the driver’s seat, laughing, and nearly gasp at the dashboard that looks like a fighter jet control panel.
“Holy sh...” I catch myself. “Holy moly. Okay, now to find the ignition…”
“Voice acti-vaytion,” Ivy pipes up from the back. “Papa says ‘Start engine,’ and it listens.”
I clear my throat. “Start engine?”
Nothing happens.
“Maybe it doesn’t like me,” I say.
Ivy giggles. “You have to press the button on the steering wheel first.”
