Chapter Eleven #2
Iris smiled weakly. She’d heard that a lot since breaking up with Natasha, and she’d realized just how much the opinion of the person you were dating sunk below your skin and took root in your sense of self.
In a good relationship, she could see that being okay, but, when someone was telling you they loved you while slowly convincing you that everything you did was bad, that you were evil, that was hard to deal with.
And, if Natasha actually had been the problem, why would all her friends be so happy to see her? Why would one of them date her?
No. She couldn’t go there.
These things were complicated, and what she was feeling was normal. She wasn’t going to work the whole thing out on her front stoop with Barrett Campbell.
“Anyway,” Iris said, plastering over the cracks in her voice and composure as best she could, “when we broke up, hippo went away, but then we met and you called me princess.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It startled me initially, but it was hardly the worst thing I’d been called.
And, well, there was this pathetic part of me that was so aware of all the cute pet names other people got and I…
wanted that, I guess.” She looked away, her face hot, skin itchy.
Her insides battled between needing to explain and wishing she’d never said anything, never agreed to let Barrett ask the question.
But… if she hadn’t explained, Barrett would have picked up on all these things about her, put the pieces together, and come to her own conclusions. Probably ones that were romantic and incorrect and impossible. Iris had to explain.
She cleared her throat. “It wasn’t anything… romantic, or whatever. It was just… important, I suppose. Special.” Her heart ached. It really wasn’t romantic, but being someone’s princess… made her seem wanted. Just by one person.
Nobody wanted to be someone’s hippo, but they might want to be their princess.
“I get it,” Barrett said, and Iris almost believed her. “It’s entirely normal to want to be seen. To want to be respected.”
An invisible band was wrapping around Iris’ chest and constricting.
People talked a big game about what they’d do if they were in an abusive relationship—Iris had been one of them.
She’d thought it would be so clear-cut and easy.
Someone you’re dating disrespects you, hurts you, and you walk away.
But it was never that easy. The way they’d worn you down, snaked into your life and your sense of self by the time they pulled the switch made it almost impossible to just up and leave, at least in Iris’ experience.
She’d wanted so desperately to be one of those people, but, the first time it happened, it was subtle, Natasha was laughing, it was a big joke, she’d even made comments to their friends about it.
Nothing too revealing or explanatory, but Iris hadn’t been able to figure out how to walk away when…
it wasn’t that bad, when it was just some fun, when Natasha insisted she’d never do anything to purposely hurt Iris, that Iris was her world and she’d never survive without her, wouldn’t want to.
And, then, it kept going. The respect Iris received dwindled into nothing, left on the floor with her self-esteem and self-respect.
And who left when they thought they had nothing outside of the relationship?
Who left when they thought they’d have nobody to help them?
Who left when their partner convinced them all their friends would turn against them, that they’d learn who the villain really was?
But Iris had never been the villain.
And she’d never been respected.
Was there respect in Barrett calling her princess? For a long time, she’d fought with herself on whether it was insulting and she was just convincing herself it was cute. Just like with hippo.
But Barrett was looking at her now in a way Natasha never had. She wasn’t surveying her for weakness, wasn’t trying to exploit Iris. And maybe that meant it was said with respect.
“Yes, well,” Iris said tightly. “There’s that.”
“Did you tell Penn that was the reason?” She tilted her head curiously, an echo of something Oscar did when he was confused.
“No.” The idea of doing so was mortifying. She’d simply insisted it didn’t bother her and that was that. Much like with anyone else who asked.
Barrett nodded. “Okay, princess.”
A novel, fizzy feeling exploded in Iris’ chest. Barrett knew and was still calling her that. She was saying it soft and knowing, and, most importantly, respectfully. She trusted Iris to make her own decisions. She was using the name because they’d both agreed on it.
But it was still Barrett.
Iris studied her far too intently. When Barrett half smiled, a dimple appeared on one of her cheeks.
Iris had been aware she had dimples, of course—Barrett smiled all the time, showing them off freely—but she’d never paid much attention to them before.
Now, they seemed loud. Smooth and interesting and attention-grabbing.
“I’m sorry for what you went through with Natasha,” Barrett said after a moment.
Iris very almost told her she didn’t need to be, that it wasn’t her fault, but she stopped.
She hated when she told someone she was sorry for them and they insisted she shouldn’t be, that she wasn’t responsible.
That wasn’t why she was saying sorry. She knew she wasn’t responsible for the things that had befallen them.
It was just that her heart ached for them, that she understood their pain and wished things could be better for them. That was what Barrett meant.
Anya had told Iris she was sorry for what happened with Natasha.
Her therapist had told her, too. And now, Barrett.
The first two had been easy to believe. Anya was her best friend.
Her therapist got a direct line to her emotions and experiences, she knew what people went through in these situations.
Barrett was her colleague. But she was there, standing on Iris’ stoop and telling her she got it and wanted better for Iris.
She was holding a dog she’d rescued after he went through something terrible and she was telling Iris that better things could come into your life after storms—and one of those things could be her.
She’d done it for Oscar and she was here for Iris, too, even if she had no reason to be.
“Thank you,” Iris said, realizing how clipped and frozen her voice sounded. Just like at the bar. She’d work on it.
Barrett nodded, looked down at Oscar, and flicked her eyes back to Iris. “Princess, what are you doing after work tomorrow night?”
“Oh. Uh. I don’t know. I don’t… have plans.”
Barrett smirked. “Do you want to go grocery shopping with me?”
“Huh.” Iris almost choked on her own breath.
They’d talked about grocery shopping. But that was before.
And, whether she wanted to admit it or not, she knew Barrett was more than aware she hadn’t been eating properly.
It wasn’t a stretch to imagine she needed help buying groceries. “Sure. Okay. Yes. Thank you.”
Barrett’s smile was radiant, dimples on full display. “We can get updog.”
“Updog?” Iris’ brow furrowed, sensing the change in Barrett’s tone to something lighter before she left Iris alone for the night. “What is updog?”
“Not much, princess. What’s up with you?”
Barrett laughed as Iris scowled at her, shoulders dropping. She couldn’t believe she’d fallen for a joke like that—or that Barrett would tell it. Was she five?
Iris shook her head and turned to her door, letting out a deep, existential sigh. “I’m going now.”
Barrett’s amusement was clear in her voice as she called after Iris. “Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow, princess.”
“You won’t be seeing me ever if you keep telling jokes like that.”
“Come now. I know you wouldn’t deprive yourself of the pleasure of my company.”
“Pleasure. Sure,” Iris grumbled as she unlocked her door and slipped inside the building, leaving a beaming Barrett watching after her.