29. Wrenley
TWENTY-NINE
WRENLEY
I ’m setting the table for a dinner that might not happen, arranging silverware with the attentiveness of someone who’s lost her mind.
Fork on the left. Knife on the right. Blade facing inward because that’s what civilized people do, even when their world is imploding in real time.
My phone sits face down on the small kitchenette counter of my apartment, silent since I texted Saint this morning. The one when I said I was looking forward to tonight. Before the comments started rolling in. Before his anonymity became a group project for millions of strangers.
I smooth the napkin for the third time, then catch myself rubbing the front of my shoulder raw. The skin is already pink from my nervous scratching. I pull my hand away, tucking it under my arm before I do more damage.
The pasta water bubbles on the stove, ready for the spaghetti I bought because Saint mentioned it was Ivy’s favorite. I’d planned to make something simple. Something that wouldn’t require his help, so he could just relax, and I could cook for him for once.
Now I’m not sure if he’s coming at all.
I flip my phone over. Still nothing.
The comments are probably worse now. They always get worse as the day progresses, as more people discover the video, and as the algorithm pushes it to a broader audience. I haven’t looked since this morning, but I can feel them multiplying like bacteria in a petri dish.
I meant to delete it. After Brenda left, after I saw how far the speculation had gone, I meant to take it down.
But every time I clicked on my account, I found myself watching it instead.
Watching Saint’s hands move with that impossible grace, remembering how those same hands felt on my skin just minutes before I filmed him.
I love the way he cooks, and the respect and care he takes, like he’s coaxing a miracle into fruition. That’s all I meant to show.
It was about sharing something beautiful. Something that made me happy after months of fear and self-sabotage.
I dump the pasta into the water with more force than necessary, then wipe my hands on a dish towel. The sauce simmers quietly, a simple marinara because I’d be too nervous to attempt something more complex on a good day, never mind an evening with him.
A knock on the door nearly sends me jumping out of my skin.
For one suspended moment, I can’t move. Then I’m rushing toward it with my heart in my throat, smoothing my hair and tugging at my dress before I swing it open.
Saint’s standing there, rain dripping from his hair onto his shoulders. I don’t know when it started to storm, but it suddenly floods my senses—the damp smell, the sound of it beating against the tin roof, the sight of his dark strands plastered against his forehead.
His jaw is set in a hard line, eyes focused somewhere over my shoulder. The collar of his black jacket is soaked, rivulets trailing down his broad shoulders.
“You came,” I breathe, relief washing through me.
His eyes finally meet mine, as cold and distant as winter lakes. No warmth. No crinkle at the corners. Nothing of the man who’d fucked me against the wall a few days ago.
Saint holds out a bottle of wine without a word.
“Thank you,” I say, reaching for it. Our fingers brush during the exchange, and I feel the familiar spark that always ignites between us when we touch.
But Saint simply lets go.
“Come in. I was worried when you didn’t answer my texts,” I say, stepping aside.
Saint’s boots leave wet ghosts on my tile. He stands in the entryway, rain dripping from his cuffs, and surveys my quaint apartment with a look I can’t read. The silence swells until the only sound is the hiss of my pasta boiling over.
I rush to the stove, cursing under my breath, and kill the heat. Saint’s behind me before I can process his movement, reaching for a clean dish towel and mopping up the starchy water spreading across the stove.
“Sorry,” I say, my voice smaller than I intend. I hate how needy I sound. “I got distracted.”
“Did you burn yourself?” Saint tosses the towel over the edge of my sink and holds up one of my hands, inspecting it.
The electricity is instant, like he brought lightning inside with him as well as the sudden storm. It flashes outside the window above my sink as if punctuating the feel of his touch.
Something in his voice is off, though. Less rasp, more empty. I want to reach for him the way I always do, but I know better than to do any sudden movements in front of an unpredictable animal.
I clear my throat, pulling out of his hold. “I’m fine. Um, I was just going to make spaghetti and salad. Ivy told me it’s one of her favorites. I hope that’s okay.”
“She’s at Noa’s again tonight,” Saint says, grabbing the pot with his bare hands and pouring the pasta into a colander in the sink. “Last-minute sleepover.”
“Oh.” I back away into the main area where I’ve set the small, circular table. “Should I reschedule?”
He just incorporates the pasta into the sauce, water flying off his hair and forearms in small arcs. “We’re good. I’m here now.”
I set the wine on the table. My hands are shaking so badly I nearly tip it over. Every motion of mine feels like performance art for an audience who won’t clap.
He scoops the spaghetti into two bowls, sprinkles cheese, and brings them to the table. Though my stomach is the size of a pebble, I sit down to eat. He watches my every movement, even when I fold my hands onto my lap and pretend I’m not vibrating out of my skin.
When Saint sits across from me, I think he’s going to be the first to speak, maybe ask about the video, or the comments, or the fact that he’s been found out.
But he doesn’t. He says, “How was your day?”
The question is so unexpected, so dissonant, that I almost laugh. “Good. Brenda’s still here. She’s at the bed-and-breakfast, discovering the local wines.”
Saint stares at his steaming bowl. “She’s good at her job.”
I nod, because it’s true.
I open the wine, pouring him a glass, then me, the silence stretching out until it’s as taut as the line he drew between us .
He finally picks up his fork, twirling pasta with the same arrogant ease he gives to every task.
I take a sip of wine, and it burns all the way down.
Noticing my eyes on him, he says, “You’re making me nervous.”
I force a laugh, but it sounds like something dying. “Sorry. I’ve never cooked for you before. It’s like trying to paint for Picasso.”
Saint finishes twirling the spaghetti, chews, swallows. “It’s good.”
I almost start crying right there, because it’s not good. It’s overcooked, and the sauce is too thin, and I forgot to salt the water. But he keeps eating, forkful after forkful, like it’s his job to get through this meal.
Our mutual silence starts to grow teeth.
Saint’s face is blank. I can’t find him anywhere in there.
Not the man who called me cherie and fucked me with enough care to make me believe I could withstand the worst and still be strong, not the one who made me risotto bare-chested or let me sleep with my head on his chest and his arm wrapped around me.
I feel the panic coming before it even starts.
The prickling at the back of my scalp, the way my chest hollows out.
I take two slow breaths, then three. All I want to do is pick at my shoulder or twirl a piece of hair around my finger and yank until it comes clean out of my scalp, yearning for that addictive sting.
My focus shifts to my fork, the wedge of Parmesan cheese, the scent of tomato and basil and the rain.
None of it helps.
I raise my eyes. “Saint.”
He doesn’t answer.
“Saint, please.” My voice is so thin I barely hear it myself .
He sets his fork down.
“I saw the comments,” he murmurs.
He meets my gaze, and it’s like staring down a sniper scope. The look on his face is so sharp, so targeted, that I flinch.
“They found me. Which means they also found Ivy.”
I want to mount a defense and tell him that he’s being paranoid, that his name isn’t even attached, that it’s not like I posted his address or Ivy’s school. But I can’t.
Because I know. I know how the internet works. I know how quickly interest turns into obsession.
“I knew it would get views,” I say quietly. “I just didn’t think it would get you .”
Saint doesn’t speak, but the shift in his jaw is answer enough.
“I filmed you because you’re beautiful to me.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches me, and it’s worse than yelling.
My fingers tremble as I press the napkin into my lap, grounding myself.
“You didn’t know it at the time, and maybe you still don’t, but you pay attention to me like I matter, like I’m not broken or needy or some volcano about to overflow.
That morning … you made me feel good. Wanted.
Human again. I posted it because I wanted to hold on to that, not because I wanted people to find you. ”
I look down at my hands. There’s a red crescent forming on my wrist where I’ve been digging my nails in.
“But I didn’t stop to think about what it would mean for you. Or for Ivy. I was selfish. Not for views or content, but because you’ve been the only thing that makes me feel real lately. And I didn’t want to let that go.”
He pushes back from the table .
The scrape of his chair is gentle, almost polite, but it hits my eardrums like a slammed door.
My entire body reacts in that prey-like way I thought I’d trained myself out of. Saint’s not angry, or loud, or cruel, but I feel the pressure drop.
Saint walks to the window, the one that overlooks Main Street, and drags a hand through his damp hair. His back is to me, broad and silent. Droplets cling to the curls at the base of his neck.
“I can’t afford this,” he says finally, and his voice is quiet, wrecked. “I can’t afford to want you the way I do.”
The world tilts, just slightly.