26. Wrenley
TWENTY-SIX
WRENLEY
T he risotto is perfect. Because of course it is.
I’m sitting at Saint’s counter in one of his faded, button-up plaid shirts, legs dangling, watching him move around his kitchen like he hasn’t just taken me apart one hundred different ways.
He’s wearing gray sweatpants that ride low, nothing else, and his hair is still mussed from my hands.
When I spot the marks I left on his shoulder when I bit down to keep from screaming, I look down and blush.
“More?”
He offers me a forkful.
“I’ll devour the entire bowl if you let me.”
The risotto melts on my tongue, creamy and rich, with just enough bite.
“Better than the carbonara?”
“Nothing’s better than that carbonara.” I steal the fork from him, take another bite. “But this is close.”
He leans against the opposite counter, watching me eat his food in his kitchen wearing his shirt, and his usual stone expression shifts. Softer. Dangerous .
“How does someone who can’t cook end up with two million followers?”
The question makes me snort, and I laugh over a mouthful.
Swallowing, I reply, “My channel isn’t just about cooking.”
“What’s it about?”
I take another bite, buying time to absorb the fact that Saint wants to know more about me. That a starred chef who is hot, infamous, and successful is actually interested in my life.
“I was a digital media major at UT. Spent most of college hiding in the design lab editing other people’s projects because it meant I didn’t have to present them myself.
” I hand him the fork. “My roommate Emma was obsessed with this new app where people posted short videos. I helped her edit hers sometimes.”
“But never made your own?” He takes his own bite.
“God, no. The thought of people watching me made me want to throw up.” I watch him eat, precise even now. “Then Emma bet me fifty bucks I couldn’t post one video. Just one. Said I was wasting my editing skills being behind the scenes and that I needed to embrace the future.”
Saint raises an eyebrow. “Fifty whole dollars?”
I grin at him. “Rent was due. I was desperate. I filmed myself organizing my entire desk at 3 a.m. because I couldn’t sleep. Seven takes because I kept thinking my hand was too close to the lens or my breathing was too loud. Finally posted it with no caption, no hashtags, nothing.”
“And?”
“Woke up to twenty thousand views and hundreds of comments from other insomniacs who organize things when they can’t sleep.
People asking what label maker I used, where I got my drawer dividers, if I had tips for color-coding schedules.
” I shake my head. “It was like finding out there were thousands of people whose brains worked just like mine.”
“So you kept going.”
“I posted this video of me trying to parallel park for literally twelve minutes. Just me, sweating, restarting eighteen times, with text overlays like ‘Why did I say yes to downtown dinner’ and ‘This is my villain origin story.’ I almost deleted it because who wants to watch someone fail at basic adult tasks?”
“Let me guess, it went viral?”
“Eight million views. The comments were all ‘I’ve been driving for ten years and same’ or ‘This is why I exclusively Uber.’ Suddenly, brands wanted to sponsor me because I was ‘refreshingly honest.’“ I make air quotes. “Like being bad at parking was a personality trait they could monetize.”
“Anything can make money if you market it right.” He takes the empty bowl to the sink, and I wish I were quicker because I would lick it clean. “I once worked for a chef who built his entire brand on being an asshole. Threw plates, screamed at servers. Reservations booked solid for two years.”
“Don’t you throw plates?”
“I throw knives. Much more efficient.” He glances back at me and winks. “Kidding. Mostly.”
“The weird part is how addictive it got. Every mundane disaster became content. Locked myself out? Film it. Tried to cook and set off the smoke alarm? Film it. Anxiety spiral at Target because they moved the shampoo aisle? Definitely film it.” I pause to take a sip of wine.
“Honestly, that one helped me laugh about it instead of crying in my car after.”
“Profitable therapy. ”
I laugh into my glass. “Cheaper than actual therapy. Well, in addition to actual therapy.” I watch him move around his kitchen. “My Amazon storefront alone makes more than my parents make in a year. Dad still doesn’t understand how linking products counts as a job.”
“Because you film yourself shopping?”
“Because I show people the exact label maker that helped me get my life together when I couldn’t remember which pills to take when. The drawer organizers that made it possible to find matching socks during a depressive episode. The—” I stop. “Sorry. I sound like a commercial.”
“You sound like someone who figured out how to help people while helping yourself.” He comes back to stand in front of me. “Nothing wrong with getting paid for it.”
“Tell that to the messages saying I’m making anxiety trendy. Or that I make people feel worse because my breakdowns have better lighting than theirs.”
“Fuck those people.”
His casual dismissal shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Someone’s always going to be angry that you’re succeeding.” His hands find my knees. “Trust me on that.”
There’s definitely a story there. “Speaking from experience?”
“We’re not done with you yet.” He squeezes gently. “These videos of yours. Show me.”
I pull out my phone, suddenly self-conscious. “You must’ve researched me before you had me watch Ivy and seen my videos.”
“Only enough to know you weren’t a serial killer.” He points at the phone in my hand. “Show me your favorite one. ”
I think about it, sticking my tongue in my cheek. “Okay, but you can’t judge me. This is a recent one from last week.”
The video shows me attempting a “productive morning routine,” but I’m clearly dead inside instead of fully awake.
I make coffee, miss the mug entirely, and just stand there watching it pour onto the counter. Text overlay: Morning routine but make it honest.
I don’t even clean it up, just put the mug under the stream and then drink.
Saint scrolls to the comments, reading aloud. “‘The way you didn’t even flinch when you missed the mug.’ ‘This is the most relatable thing I’ve ever seen at 6 a.m.’ ‘Finally someone who doesn’t pretend mornings are magical.’“
I grab the phone. “No, go to the good ones.”
He scrolls further. “‘Your last fuck flew away and you didn’t even wave goodbye.’“
“That one’s my favorite.” I grin.
Saint looks at me. “Two million people watched you fail at coffee?”
“Someone commented ‘This video made me feel better about eating cereal with a fork because I’m too lazy to wash spoons,’ and honestly, that’s my target audience.”
He hands my phone back. “This is what made you famous?”
“Being a disaster? Yeah, basically.” I set the phone aside.
“Your followers get you,” Saint says quietly.
He reaches out to tuck the pink strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture is so gentle it makes my eyes burn.
“What changed your mind about returning to social media after what happened in Miami?” he asks, stroking my temple.
Instead of answering right away, I study the rim of my empty wineglass, gathering courage. I’ve been waiting for this question since the bathroom panic attack. Since he picked up my phone and saw the comments that sent me spiraling.
“When I went into hiding after the attack, I got this email from a girl in Wisconsin. She’d been following me for years.
Said she recognized the signs when I disappeared because she’d gone through something similar.
” I take a deep breath. “She told me that watching me struggle with anxiety made her feel less alone. That my videos were sometimes the only thing that got her out of bed.”
Saint drops his hand from my temple, giving me the space to continue.
“At first, I thought, great, more pressure . Another person I’ll disappoint when I inevitably break down again.
” I laugh, but it’s humorless. “But then I realized, maybe that’s exactly why I should keep going.
Not to pretend everything’s perfect, but to show that it’s .
.. survivable. He took enough from me already.
My safety. My privacy. My ability to sleep through the night.
I refused to let him take my career, too. ”
I wait for Saint’s judgment and the inevitable lecture about priorities, but he does none of those things. He refills my glass without asking, and keeps listening.
“My therapist calls it reclamation,” I continue. “Taking back what was stolen. For some people, that means never going online again. For me, it meant refusing to be silenced.”
Saint drinks from his glass, standing close enough to become a pillar of strength, and I resist leaning into it.
“Your turn,” I manage. “How does someone like you end up here? You could be running kitchens in New York, Miami, anywhere. Instead, you’re in Falcon Haven feeding risotto to a girl who thought pasta water should be cold and dents your fancy cars.”
Saint steps forward, bracing his hands on either side of my hips. “Someone like me? ”
“Talented. Trained. Probably have your Michelin stars somewhere in your pocket.” I wave vaguely at his setup. “This kitchen alone costs more than most people’s houses. You’re not some small-town chef who got lucky.”
“You googled me.”
“I tried. You’re a ghost online.”
Which had driven me crazy for weeks.
“Good,” he says.
“Why is that good?”
He’s quiet for long enough that I think he won’t answer. “You’re not the only one who came here to hide, Wrenley.”
I want to ask more, but I recognize the look written all over his face. It’s the same one I get when people ask why I moved here, why I don’t do meetups anymore, why I flinch when delivery drivers knock too loud.
“Ivy’s mother?” I guess softly.
He squints at something over my shoulder. “Part of it.”