33. Wrenley
THIRTY-THREE
WRENLEY
W ine is the first to go into my cart because it’s the only item on my to-do list that makes sense.
The Merc on Main Street has six aisles and a few shelves of local wine, most of them with hand-drawn labels and names like “Blushing Falcon.” I pick that bottle and head to the counter. An elderly lady with bright purple nails, a puff of white hair, and neon pink lipstick rings me up.
“That’ll be sixteen dollars,” the woman says, her voice so surprisingly booming that I nearly drop the bottle. “Blushing Falcon’s our best seller. Though I’d have gone with the Midnight Wing whiskey myself. Has a kick that’ll knock your socks clean off.”
“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” I say with a smile, digging through my purse.
“You’re that internet girl, aren’t you?” She leans over the counter, squinting at me through rhinestone-studded reading glasses that hang from a beaded chain. “The one staying above Cornerstone? ”
“That’s me. Wrenley Morgan.” I extend my hand, which she shakes with surprising strength.
“Maisy. Been running this merc since Nixon was president.” She eyes me up and down. “You’re prettier in person than on that phone screen. Less shiny.”
“Um, thank you?”
The bell above the door jingles as three leather-clad men enter, their motorcycles rumbling to silence outside. They’re massive, bearded, and covered in tattoos, the kind of men who’d make most people nervous.
Maisy doesn’t even glance their way. “You boys better have wiped those boots. I just mopped. Last time you were in here, you left mud all over my clean floor and scared Mrs. Hemsworth so badly she dropped a dozen eggs.”
The largest one, easily six-foot-five with a wild gray beard, looks sheepishly at his feet. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You filmed our Saint’s hands.”
Maisy jarring subject change almost makes me do a double take. I freeze, my credit card hovering between us. “Yes. That was me.”
“You’ve caused quite the stir around here. Not that I mind. It’s been a while since we’ve had a decent scandal. I was starting to get bored.”
One of the bikers chuckles, approaching the counter with a bag of beef jerky. “Miss Maisy loves her gossip more than her morning coffee.”
“Hush, Tank.” Maisy waves him off without looking away from me. “Saint’s been moping around town like a kicked dog for well over a week. Haven’t seen him this worked up since he first moved here.”
My stomach drops. “He’s moping?”
“Honey, that man’s been ordering his groceries for pickup instead of coming in here himself. That’s not normal behavior for someone who used to argue with me about the ripeness of my tomatoes twice a week.”
“I didn’t mean to cause any trouble,” I say.
Macy accepts my card and swipes it. “Trouble? That man’s been walking around like a storm cloud for three years. First time I’ve seen him smile was when you came into town.”
Another one of the bikers steps forward, his leather vest creaking. “You’re the one who made the pasta video?”
I nod cautiously.
“My old lady made me watch it six times.” He grins, revealing very white teeth. “Name’s Diesel. You’ve met Tank, and this here’s Crow.”
The third one nods, all three suddenly seeming less intimidating and more like overgrown teddy bears in leather.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
“Saint’s good people,” Tank continues, grabbing another bag of beef jerky from the counter display. “Helped my nephew get a job at the restaurant when he was going through a rough patch. Kid’s doing real good now.”
Maisy hands me my receipt. “What Tank’s trying to say, in his roundabout way, is that Saint’s been alone too long. The man needs someone to ruffle his feathers.”
“I don’t think I’m the right person to ruffle anyone’s feathers,” I say, tucking the wine bottle under my arm. “I seem to cause more problems than I solve.”
Diesel snorts. “Lady, you got that man cooking again. Actually cooking, not just going through the motions. My buddy works the line at C’est Trois. Says Saint’s been whistling while he preps. Whistling.”
I have trouble picturing a Saint humming out a tune while using his sharp knives.
“Saint doesn’t whistle,” all four of them confirm in unison, Maisy included .
Tank leans against the counter, his massive frame making the wooden structure creak. “You know what he did last week? Sent the whole kitchen staff home early because they’d had a good service. Gave them all a bonus.”
“Again, not normal,” Crow adds, speaking for the first time. His voice is surprisingly soft for someone who looks like he could bench press a motorcycle.
Maisy adjusts her rhinestone glasses. “Then you posted that video, and poof. Back to grocery pickup and scowling at anyone who looks at him sideways.”
My chest tightens. “I took the video down.”
“We know, honey.” Maisy’s expression softens. “But it looks like you took his heart at the same time.”
I scoff, but my cheeks are starting to match my Blushing Falcon.
“Question is,” Tank says, “what are you gonna do about it?”
“There’s nothing to do,” I reply. “He made it clear we’re not compatible.”
“Did he now?” Maisy’s eyebrows shoot up toward her white hair.
I shift the wine bottle, suddenly feeling like I’m being judged by the world’s most unlikely jury. “It’s complicated.”
“Love usually is,” Maisy says, ringing up the bikers’ purchases. “But that doesn’t mean you give up on it.”
“Who said anything about love?”
The question comes out more panicked than I intended.
All four of them exchange glances, and I realize I’ve just confirmed everything they suspected.
“Sweetheart,” Maisy says, leaning across the counter again, “I’ve been watching people fall in love in this town for fifty years. I know the signs. ”
The bell jingles again as another customer enters. I take that as my sign to find an escape hatch.
“We’re rooting for you!” Tank shouts. His two other friends pump the air and heartily agree.
Cheeks burning, I scamper away after giving an awkward wave.
Outside the Merc, I clutch my wine bottle and take a steadying breath. The whole town knows. Of course they do. Small towns often have information systems in place that are more efficient than those of the Pentagon.
I start walking back toward my apartment, trying to ignore the flutter in my chest at Tank’s words. Saint, whistling in the kitchen? It doesn’t sound like the grumpy chef I know, yet I want it to be true so badly it hurts.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I figure it’s Brenda with another brand deal, but check it anyway as I walk under a canopy of red, yellow, and orange leaves, my boots crunching on the ones that have fallen.
But when I pull it out, the notification halts me mid-step.
@SaltySaint has posted for the first time in 1,325 days.
My thumb hovers over the screen, ready to swipe but also not.
It has to be the sun’s rays dappling through the spaces between the leaves, obscuring my screen to the point that I’m not reading it correctly.
There’s no way Saint would post. Saint only uses his phone to keep tabs on Ivy.
I don’t think I’ve ever received a text from him, but because I am who I am and have a whole life on social media, of course I found him and followed him, no matter how dead his account was.
It’s not dead, anymore.
I swipe, opening to the post.
When his post loads, there’s no music, no caption, just a shaky, poorly lit shot of the weathered garden bench under an oak tree where Ivy and I used to sit for hours.
The camera jerks as whoever’s filming—Saint, it has to be Saint—struggles to keep it steady.
A thumb briefly obscures the corner of the frame, prompting a smile from me, before disappearing.
The focus shifts to a small, dented tin bucket on the bench, the one where Ivy keeps her painted rocks, and a single new rock is placed prominently at the top.
My breathing hitches when I see it: a child’s rendering of a red heart with a heavy black outline and a jagged lightning bolt cutting through the center.
A broken heart.
His video lasts only twelve seconds, ending with what sounds like a curse, then a frustrated exhale as the camera cuts off abruptly.
I replay it three times.
My legs feel unsteady, so I sit down on the curb right there on Main Street, clutching my phone and the wine bottle like anchors. The broken heart rock is Ivy’s work, obviously. Saint’s not one to paint rocks. But the message is unmistakably his.
I notice one comment below the video and tap it open. It’s Saint, who’s instead of making a caption, accidentally turned it into a comment. Typical, and another smile pulls at my lips until I read it.
Yours if you want it.
Four words that make my chest cavity feel like it’s expanding and contracting at the same time. I screenshot the comment before I can think about why, then stare at the image until my eyes water.
No explanation, no context for anyone who doesn’t know about Ivy’s rock collection. But I know.
I know that Ivy painted this after Saint told her we couldn’t see each other anymore.
I know she’s been asking for me, according to what I’ve heard around town.
And I know that Saint, who hasn’t posted on social media in over three years, just put himself out there in the most vulnerable way possible.
For me, after ripping my heart out and stomping on it.
I don’t even remember standing up and walking back to my apartment, but suddenly I’m there, setting the wine on my counter. My reflection in the wall mirror shows wild hair and flushed cheeks, like I’ve been running instead of having an existential crisis on a public street.
I don’t overthink it. I can’t. If I stop to analyze, I’ll talk myself out of going.
The wine stays unopened. My phone gets tossed onto the couch. I grab my keys from the hook by the door and rush out, not bothering with a jacket despite the autumn chill.