Chapter 12 Iris
IRIS
Ineed to get out of here. Maybe it’s proving Dad right—stupid Iris, always fucking things up—but I don’t care.
I dump my model and papers into the wastepaper basket by my desk, then flee the building, desperate for air.
Tears press at my eyes as I hurry along Fruit Street, shivering for reasons besides the cold.
I don’t think as I clamber down the steps to the subway.
All I know is I can’t go back to the office.
My mind races as I speed through the tunnels under the city, the screech of the subway against the rails making my head ache.
But that’s better than the words I keep mentally replaying on a loop: You’re wasting your time, and his.
You don’t need to play architect. Leave it to the people who know what they’re doing.
Who was I kidding, drawing those sketches, making that model? I hadn’t meant to take things quite so far, only to draft a potential floor plan and see if Aidan might deign to look at it.
But what started on Friday as a Pinterest dive for inspiration became hours of watching studio apartment tours on YouTube that night.
By Saturday morning, my head swam with possibilities, and before I knew it, I’d drafted multiple layout options and constructed a model with some materials I had leftover from school.
Without the pressure of deadlines, the looming critiques and assessment, it was actually fun.
And the more time I sank into it, the more energy I had. And the more ideas I generated.
This happens sometimes when I’m excited about something, and I can’t explain why.
I lose hours in the blink of an eye, researching and exploring and creating, with virtually no effort, forgetting to sleep, forgetting to eat, so consumed by whatever I’m working on.
Like my brain forgets anything else exists.
The problem is, it doesn’t always work. Sometimes I desperately want to do something, but for reasons I cannot grasp, I can’t seem to make myself start.
And it definitely doesn’t work for things that actually matter, like school, or work, or, you know, clearing my inbox.
It’s like a weird superpower I can’t access when I need it.
Unless there was a looming deadline for one of my classes.
Then I’d work like a demon for two days straight, and collapse in a heap afterward.
But this weekend was different. There was no pressure, no deadline, only the pure excitement of possibility, and when I carried my sketches and model into the office early this morning, I buzzed with anticipation.
I know Aidan told me not to get involved, but I couldn’t help but hope he might see them and consider…
I don’t know… that this project isn’t the nightmare he thinks it is.
That he could do something good with this space.
It wasn’t until he held my model in his hands that I realized I wasn’t only hoping to contribute to the project. I had hoped to impress him. Hoped he might see that I’m not completely useless.
But I am.
Dad made that very clear. He’s always made it clear.
And not only him.
As I exit the train at Queens, throat tight and hands clammy despite the cold, I can’t help but think of classes in high school. College, too. Teachers and professors telling me I’m “bright but lazy,” that I could really succeed if I only “applied myself.” As if that’s some kind of compliment.
As if I wasn’t trying my hardest.
This job has been no different. I wrote Aidan’s meeting in my notebook because I knew I’d see it there and be less likely to forget it.
I covered my desk with Post-it notes so I’d remember what I needed to do.
I moved his drafting table so I could finish one of my sketches this morning, to help with the project he’s stuck with because of me.
All I ever fucking do is try, and no one sees it.
All they see are the ways I don’t measure up.
I’m exhausted as I climb the steps to my apartment. It’s only nine in the morning, but I feel like I’ve run a marathon; limbs heavy and numb, head pounding, lungs tight.
My phone buzzes in my pocket as I reach for my keys, and I pull it out to see a text from Dad.
Dad: Where the hell are you?
My heart lurches.
Shit.
There’s an icy trickle down my spine as the reality of the situation hits me. I was supposed to get Aidan’s coffee, but somehow I ended up here. Anyone else would have sucked it up and just gotten on with things, but not me.
Not Iris, the fuck-up.
Tears well in my eyes, and I press a hand to my forehead to hold them back. I can’t do anything right. No matter what I do, no matter how good my intentions, it feels like I’m not built for this world. Like I’m missing the rulebook that everyone else knows to follow.
I reread Dad’s text, an ache stirring in my chest. Just once, I’d like a message from him asking if I’m okay.
A note from Mom to see if my day is going well.
She hasn’t once checked in since I started at the firm, despite knowing it wouldn’t be easy for me, and resentment brews in my belly.
She’s not that kind of mom. They’re not those kinds of parents.
Instead, I type out a shaky email to Debbie in HR telling her something has come up and I’m taking a personal day. Dad will be angry, but I have rights. I’m entitled to a day to myself.
But knowing that doesn’t stop my hands from trembling as I let myself into my apartment. It doesn’t stop the mean voices in my head reminding me I can’t get anything right.
And as I close the door, sealing myself into the safety of my apartment, I finally let myself cry.
It’s late afternoon when I wake. I hadn’t planned to sleep, but after bingeing a morning’s worth of Brooklyn 99, I found myself crawling into bed and dozing off, wanting to forget the world.
But now my head pounds, and I roll over in bed to rummage for painkillers in the nightstand, careful not to disturb the half-finished embroidery hoop lying where I left it six months ago, thread still trailing from the needle.
Ugh, there’s nothing. With great effort, I gingerly descend the ladder, crossing the hall to the bathroom to find some Tylenol.
I down it and turn to the tub, wanting nothing more than to sink into some bubbles and forget today.
There’s a scented candle at the end, one I made last year and gifted to Eric, and I light it, then twist my hair up on top of my head as the tub fills.
I’m easing myself into the warm water when a knock comes at the door.
“Iris, honey?” It’s Eric. “Are you in there?”
I freeze. As much as I love him, I can’t face him right now. My body might be covered with a mountain of bubbles—and I don’t think he’d care, even if it wasn’t—but my face is puffy, my eyes red. I don’t feel like seeing anyone in this state.
“I’m in the tub,” I reply through the door.
There’s a pause, then, “Any chance I could come in? I need to get ready.”
Damn. Of course. He’s got rehearsals.
I sigh, glancing around. There’s a sheet mask in the open medicine cabinet, and I grab it, tearing the packet open and quickly covering my face.
“Come in,” I call, making sure the bubbles are keeping me decent.
The door opens, and he gives me a sheepish look as he closes it again behind himself. “Sorry.” He grins as he takes in the bubbles, the candle, the face mask. “Ooh, doing a little pampering, are we?”
“Something like that,” I mumble. I motion to his candle. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Knock yourself out.”
I lean my head back with a long sigh, hoping he’ll be quick, but he seems to be in the mood to chat.
“How’s the new job?” he asks, dotting eye cream under his eyes.
“It’s… fine.” The word comes out a little strangled, not even convincing to my own ears. Eric pauses, meeting my gaze in the mirror.
“Everything okay?”
“Everything is…” I try to say the word “fine” again, but this time I choke out a sob instead.
“Oh, honey.” Eric sets the cream down and turns to me, his brow knitting. “What’s going on?”
I force myself to focus on the bubbles, so I don’t completely lose it, but of all the people I can be my true self around, Eric is probably number one. I don’t need to hide from him.
With a deep breath, I fill him in on everything.
Meeting Aidan at Marco’s. Becoming his assistant.
Me trying to impress him with my sketches.
Dad humiliating me. Eric listens patiently, perched on the closed lid of the toilet seat, and by the time I’ve shared it all, I’m surprised to find I feel better. A lot better.
“What about the model?” Eric asks. He popped in during the weekend to borrow my air fryer and spotted me working on it. Said it looked like the Taj Mahal compared to our places, and he’d happily move in.
I try to recall Aidan’s words. What did he say? It’s not half bad. It felt like a reluctant compliment until he noticed I’d moved his drafting table. I cringe as I remember the way it crashed to the floor, the broken piece of wood in his hand, my model forgotten.
Eric’s phone dings, and he pulls it from his pocket. “Shit, my ride will be here in five. I’m so sorry.” He glances up. “I could skip rehearsal…”
I wave a hand. “Don’t be silly. Get ready.”
He eyes me for a moment longer, then quickly turns to the mirror, adding product to his hair. “I’m sorry, honey,” he says again, and I shake my head.
“No, I’m feeling better. Thanks.”
“Of course.” He takes one last look at himself, then comes to give me a peck on the head. “We’ll do pizza soon, okay?”
A smile tugs at my mouth. “Definitely. And you can tell me all about how the new play is going.”
“Sounds good.” He grins, then slips out the door.
A long sigh gusts out of me, and I reach for my phone. Now that I’m thinking clearly again, I know what I need to do. I need to fix what I’ve broken and get back to my actual job as Aidan’s assistant.
It takes me a few minutes to find an antique drafting table similar to Aidan’s on eBay, and I order it, trying to ignore the eye-watering $800 price tag.
That’s what credit cards are for, right?
Hopefully, it will be enough to smooth things between us.
For him to forget I was ever in his office, attempting to do his job.
Satisfied with this, I peel off the mask and drain the tub, checking my skin in the mirror above the sink.
The mask has reduced the puffiness in my face, and I apply a little moisturizer, a spritz of my favorite perfume, and let my hair down.
Then I wrap myself in a fluffy towel and open the door, planning to make some ramen and settle in with Captain Holt and the gang.
But when I step out into the hall, I run straight into someone. Someone I’d never in a million years expect to find in my dingy hallway.
Aidan Brooks.