Page 59 of Only Mine
Wrenley’s bare feet hesitate on my kitchen tile. Her toes curl against the cold. “I should get back. Get dressed.”
“You’re here. Eat.”
It’s not a request. It’s a clumsy attempt to rewind the clock, to erase the hurt I see etched around her mouth, even if it’s just for the duration of a stack of pancakes. She finally lifts her head, her eyes meeting mine for a fleeting second, and the openness there is a punch to the gut.
Wrenley’s fingers find the hem of her shirt, twisting the fabric. The gesture pulls the material taut across her chest, and I force my gaze to the window. To the coffee maker. To anywhere else.
“Just one, then,” Wrenley murmurs, finally. “If it’s no trouble.”
Oh, it’s fucking trouble.
Her presence is a constant, low-grade disruption. A beautiful, unwelcome sunrise in a world of gray.
I slide pancakes onto plates. Three plates. My hands move on autopilot while my brain screams at the stupidity of prolonging this while Wrenley leads Ivy to the sink to wash their hands.
“Saturdays are for pancakes and horses,” Ivy says as Wrenley holds the soap. “We’re going to Rome’s Ranch, right, Papa? You promised.”
Wrenley’s eyes clash with mine over the faucet. The question there is clear:Does she know?
I give the slightest shake of my head. No. Ivy doesn’t know Wrenley’s supposed to leave this morning. Taking Ivy to the ranch was supposed to fill the gaping hole Wrenley would leave behind and act as a distraction while I told Ivy that Wrenley would no longer be watching her.
“What? I just want to see the horses.” Ivy turns to Wrenley. “You like horses, right?”
“Ivy.” I need her to stop talking. Need to think. Need Wrenley to stop looking at me the way she is.
“Papa?” Ivy presses, her sweet voice pulling me back. “You said we could go. Wrenley should come, too.”
I should say no. Keep things clean and simple. Send Wrenley to the guesthouse to pack and stick to the plan.
The refusal sticks in my throat when I meet Ivy’s expectant face. It’s been so long since she’s lit up like this with someone who isn’t me or her mother.
Wrenley shifts her weight as she dries both their hands with a small towel.
“I can stay here,” she offers quietly. “You two should go have fun.”
“No!” Ivy protests. “Miss Wrenley has to come too. She’s never seen the horses!”
Wrenley’s eyes find mine again. Her shoulders are braced for rejection, steeling herself against another dismissal.
“You want to see horses?” I ask her on a sigh.
She blinks, surprised by the question. “I ... yes. I love horses.”
“You do?” Ivy gasps with delight. “Because some of them are secret unicorns, right?”
Wrenley’s laugh is soft and genuine. “Absolutely. The magic ones hide their horns when humans are watching.”
The cage around my heart nearly cracks open at the sight of Wrenley playing along with Ivy’s fantasy. Not dismissing or correcting her, but joining her in that sacred space of childhood, where anything is possible.
“Fine,” I concede, and it nearly chokes me to death. “You can come.”
Ivy squeals, bouncing on her toes. Wrenley’s eyes widen, her lips parting in surprise at my surrender.
“But,” I add quickly, pointing the spatula at my daughter, “you need to get dressed first.”
Ivy nods excitedly.
Wrenley settles at the island beside Ivy, her movements cautious, like she’s navigating a minefield. Which, in a way, she is. I’ve practically pushed her out, then invited her back in for breakfast and a ranch visit.
