29. Wrenley #2
“You think I don’t know what this is doing to me?” he goes on, still not turning around. “You think I don’t feel it, every time I look at you? Every time I have to tell myself not to touch you, not to fall in deeper?”
He shakes his head once, hard.
“You were supposed to be temporary. A blur. A soft-landing nanny gig for a kid who needed warmth.”
Saint turns now, and the look in his eyes isn’t cold.
It’s worse.
It’s heartbreak.
“You’re not temporary,” he says. “You got under my skin. Into my house. Into my child’s heart.”
His gaze drops to the wineglass he never touched. “And now you’ve made me visible again.”
I rise slowly from my chair, fighting the ringing in my ears. “I never meant to do that.”
He doesn’t answer.
“Saint.” I step toward him, but he backs up half a pace. Not much. Just enough to make it feel like a rejection.
“I’m not mad,” he says, voice hoarse. “I’m not even blaming you. I just… I can’t think around you, Wrenley. And th at used to be a good thing.” His throat bobs. “But now it’s dangerous.”
My fingers twitch at my sides, the way they always do before I scratch, and I clench them into fists.
Saint sees. Of course he sees.
And that’s what finally makes him soften. Crestfallen, he steps toward me before he can stop himself.
“Don’t,” he murmurs, gently covering my hands with his. They eclipse mine, warm despite the rain that’s soaked him through. “Don’t scratch.”
His gentle tone makes my chest ache. I wish I could collapse into him, press my face against his skin and feel his heartbeat, but I can’t move.
“I’ll take it down,” I whisper. “I’ll delete it right now.”
Saint’s thumbs trace small circles on my wrists. “It won’t matter.”
“I can make a statement. Tell them they’re wrong. That it’s not you.”
“Lying won’t help.” His voice is soft but final. “The internet is like an ant colony. Once they pick up the scent, they’ll follow it all the way home.”
I know he’s right. I’ve seen it happen countless times. The collective obsession, the thrill of the hunt, the rush of discovery. They’ll keep digging until they unearth every detail.
“I’m sorry,” I say, the words pathetically inadequate.
“I know.” His hands slide up my arms, coming to rest on my shoulders. “That’s what scares me.”
My pasta grows cold on the table. Outside, lightning flashes, illuminating the stark angles of Saint’s face.
“When Celine died, there were photographers at the funeral. They wanted grief porn. The widowed, millionaire chef, barely thirty. The tragic accident. They camped outside our apartment for weeks, following me to the grocery store, to Ivy’s daycare.
One asshole actually asked me to comment on whether I blamed myself for her death while I was buying diapers. ”
My stomach turns.
“That’s when I realized fame isn’t something you can turn on and off.
It’s a parasite. It feeds on everything you try to keep private.
” He squeezes my shoulders. “I spent three years building walls around us and making sure Ivy could grow up without cameras in her face and strangers knowing her business.”
Thunder rumbles overhead, shaking the windows.
“And now they know where we live. They know what school she goes to, what restaurant I own, probably what fucking cereal she eats for breakfast. I’ve spent three fucking years making sure Ivy could grow up without that circus following her around.”
“And I just let them back in.”
Saint’s silence is answer enough.
The weight of what I’ve done settles over me like concrete.
I think of Ivy’s bright eyes, her fierce independence, the way she trusts so selectively.
How many photos of her are already circulating in comment threads?
How many strangers are analyzing her face, looking for resemblances, building theories about her mother’s death?
“I’ll fix this,” I say desperately. “I’ll make them stop.”
Thunder rumbles overhead, closer now. The storm is moving in fast. Rain pelts the windows harder, drumming against the glass like impatient fingers.
“They’ll come,” he says matter-of-factly. “Food bloggers. Journalists. People with cameras looking for the tragic chef who vanished after his wife’s death. They’ll want the comeback story. About why I left and whether I’ve moved on with the pretty influencer who makes videos in my kitchen. ”
The room spins. I grip his forearms to steady myself. “Saint, what are you saying?”
His muscles tense underneath my palms. Saint’s still here, still solid, but that part of him I’ve been slowly earning starts to slip out of my grasp.
“I’m saying I don’t know how to protect you and Ivy at the same time.”
I blink, the words slow to land.
“I never asked you to protect me,” I say.
“No.” His voice is rough. “But you made me want to.”
His gaze drops to where I’m still holding him. Like it hurts and he needs to peel me off. Like he never wants me to let go. Like he can’t decide which it is.
“You said you felt real with me,” he murmurs. “I haven’t felt real since the day Celine died.”
I can barely breathe.
“That night, when I first met you, I forgot about all of it. The grief, the guilt, the need to stay hidden. I’m not supposed to have this. You. Any of it.”
I shake my head, confused. “You’re allowed to move on.”
“That’s not what this is,” he says, eyes flicking up to meet mine. “This isn’t moving on. This is falling. Blindly. Recklessly. Like I don’t have a child who depends on me.”
His hands lift and cup my face. Saint doesn’t pull me in. Just touches. As if it’s the last time he’ll let himself do it.
“You said I made you feel real, too,” I whisper, fighting the burn behind my eyes.
“You did,” he says, so quietly it feels sacred. “You still do.”
His brow presses against mine. His breath warms my cheek. I don’t close the gap between us. I don’t move.
I wait.
He inhales slowly. Holds it .
“I can’t stay.”
I press my lips together to keep the sob in my throat from escaping. I don’t beg, and I don’t chase.
But I don’t let go, either.
“I want to,” he says. “Fuck, Wrenley, I want to stay. I want to sit at your table and eat your overcooked pasta and hold you while it storms.”
His thumbs brush along my cheekbones, catching the tears that have started falling without my permission.
“I want to wake up next to you every morning and teach you how to make proper coffee. I want to watch you film your ridiculous videos and pretend I’m annoyed when you steal my clothes.”
The memories are torture, each one dying a small death.
“But wanting something and being able to have it are two different things.”
When he pulls back, his hands fall away from my face.
“I have to think about Ivy first. Always.”
I nod because I understand, even as it destroys me.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and his voice breaks like bone.
He reaches past me and grabs the jacket from the back of his chair. Then he walks out.
No slammed door. No harsh goodbye.
Just the soft snick of the latch.
And silence.