30. Wrenley
THIRTY
WRENLEY
I read every single comment on the video before deleting it.
That’s the kind of masochist I am. I scroll and scroll, absorbing the theories, the threats, the couch sleuths.
I read the ones that call me a liar, a manipulator, a social climber.
Some call me a tragedy tourist, others a whore who goes after dead wives’ husbands.
The worst part is how none of it surprises me.
The internet is a lever that pries your ribs apart and counts every bone inside, and I have been doing this long enough to know how the machine works.
I delete the video from my profile, my phone, and my head, but the last one doesn’t take.
Brenda texts me ten times in the hour after I take down the post. She’s already in damage control mode, drafting statements and contingency plans in her head.
I don’t answer. There’s nothing I can say to her that won’t make me sound like a child who’s dropped her ice cream on the sidewalk and is now blaming the cone.
Instead, I clean. I scrub the stovetop until it gleams, empty the fridge of everything that smells even faintly like leftovers, and dismantle the ring light in my kitchenette.
I vacuum the living room and try not to spiral.
I do all the things Brenda, Dr. Hollis, and the nicer part of the internet have suggested I do.
I put on real clothes and brush my hair and film a morning routine video even though every cell in my body wants to crawl back to bed.
In the week after Saint leaves, my rented apartment looks like a Gen Z showpiece.
The wine bottle he brought is the only thing gathering dust, half drunk in the corner of my counter.
Despite all this, my numbers keep climbing.
My followers, my engagement, the offers in my inbox.
It’s all supposed to make me feel better, but it doesn’t.
I take the brand deals anyway. I film a segment for a teeth whitening pen, careful with my angles so the pink in my hair says “quirky” rather than “unraveling.” I do a #sponsored post for a weighted blanket, pretending it’s not just a shroud for adult sadness.
The more I act like everything’s fine, the more convincing I become, even to myself.
And I am fine. 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 his presence 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.”
I snort. “You only liked it because it made your job easier.”
“You really think you can just hide out in this town and not let the world in?”
I glance around the bookstore, at the quiet shelves and the hand-painted signs and at Marcus behind the register who’s been wearing the same argyle sweater since September.
“I think I can try to find a balance. I owe that to myself. ”
Brenda’s eyes flick over me, searching for cracks.
“You know what I don’t get?” she says. “You built this entire thing, this weird little empire of honest failure, and now you’re just going to … what? Be a person? With a ho-hum day and a coffee order and a favorite park bench?”
Brenda’s the only one who knows what I looked like at my lowest, when the only thing I could do was lie on the kitchen floor and let the tile cool my skin while I wondered if I’d ever be worth anything again.
She’s seen the screenshots, the threats, the humiliations that come with being a woman who posts her life for a living.
She’s been the first to call me after every disaster, even the ones she caused.
I look out the window at the town square, where the leaves are just starting to turn. It’s beautiful here. I’m happy here.
Even if I have to learn to find contentment without Saint and Ivy.
“I was a mess then,” I say, and it’s not even an apology. “But I’m not a mess anymore.”
Brenda stares at me for a long beat, then laughs. “You’re the weirdest success story I’ve ever managed.”
She stands, smoothing her bright blue skirt with the kind of violence that could iron out steel and slings her bag over one shoulder.
“I’m not saying you’re right, but I am saying you’re not wrong. Don’t go all withering Midwesterner on me, though. If you start saying things like ‘it is what it is,’ I’ll have to stage an intervention.”
“Duly noted,” I say, and mean it.
Brenda leaves me with a brisk hug and a business card for a lawyer who specializes in “online privacy reclamations.” I doubt I’ll ever call, but the gesture matters. She’s always been better at armor piercing than damage repair, but maybe that’s why she’s the only one I ever let in.
I spend the next hour shelving books for Marcus, who claims his back is “made of antique glass.” He tells me I have a librarian’s soul and that I should apply for a permanent job once my “influencing days” are over.
I thank him, but tell him I’m happy doing what I’m doing for now, then wonder if that’s too close to the phrase Brenda banned and if she’s going to show up with a canceled flight and a pitchfork.
Before heading upstairs, I decide to go for a walk, studying the glowing Halloween window displays and trying to picture what my life will look like tomorrow. It’s not a panic spiral. It’s more like a question posed by a teacher who genuinely wants you to get the answer right.
I take the long way around, up Main Street and around the square (notably away from Saint’s restaurant), past the bakery and spinning barber poles.
The town is quiet, but the air is different from last week. People glance my way, but there’s no edge to it. Not yet. Maybe they’re just used to me by now, or perhaps they see what Brenda sees: a girl who’s finally decided to take her own advice and just exist.
Back in my apartment, I open the windows to let in the crisp air, and I film a new video. Not a makeup tutorial, not a hack, not even a pretty flatlay. Just me, pouring the last glass of red from Saint’s bottle, cooking pasta for one. No music, no voice-over.
The incoming comments are gentle. Some ask if I’m okay, if I need support, or if there’s anything they can do to get me to post more. A few trolls show up, but nothing that stings.
Mostly, they just miss me.
Once finished, I turn off my phone, then set down my fork and stare at the empty chair across from me, and the ache of missing him is so sharp I can’t breathe.