2. Iris
2
IRIS
An hour later, the barrage of complaints that rained down like golf ball-sized hail have left me shredded inside and out.
"You didn't have to stay for all that," I tell Gloria as I slump forward in one of the chairs at the large conference room table.
"Where fun goes to die," she murmurs with a grimace.
Gloria Johnson looks like a quintessential grandmother—snow-white hair styled in a neat bob, twinkling blue eyes behind understated glasses, and a face lined with experience. But there’s more to her than that. Her years in office were marked by pragmatic decision-making and unflinching determination to do what she believes is right.
I make a noncommittal sound in my throat.
"It's a catchy tagline, but not one you want associated with your term as acting mayor. And definitely not one that will get you elected this fall.”
Her words pierce the veil of numbness covering me like a shroud. The same one I retreated to as a kid when things got too rough in our house. Shutting down my emotions and disassociating is hardwired into my system, serving me well in a variety of situations. Not this one, unfortunately.
I meet her gaze across the table. "I'm running unopposed.”
The undertone of steel in her laugh reminds me she’s more than the president of Skylark’s local knitting club. Gloria is not someone to trifle with.
“Honey, if you think someone isn't coming for you after that setup, you need more than mentoring from me to start your political career. Hop off the starry-eyed trust train and open yours to what's really happening here."
My mouth does this weird open-and-shut thing several times, like I'm a fish on dry land gasping for air.
“I have a plan ,” I tell her, like that makes a bit of difference. “I’m going to spend one elected term as Skylark’s mayor then run for state senate. I'll be thirty-five when I'm elected, and I'll serve a four-year term in the Colorado legislature and then think about a congressional seat, which should coincide with Congressman Allen’s retirement plans. That seat has always been held by someone from Skylark.” I force a smile. “I want to be the next woman to hold it. To follow in your footsteps serving this town.”
"As you know,” she begins with a steady voice. “I started by filling my late husband's seat when he was diagnosed with ALS. Matthew Allen was elected because Reggie Moore had to shut down his campaign after the scandal broke. Hard to run on a platform of family values after…” Her voice trails off.
My stomach clenches. “The video of him and my mom leaked.” As if the affair wasn’t bad enough, the video revealed the former mayor’s penchant for Star Wars cosplay.
"I'll never hear the pew-pew of an interstellar gun without picturing the two of them,” she says with a shake of her head.
“Which is why I asked for your help.” When Homer, Reggie’s brother, became mayor after the scandal, the younger Moore served the town tirelessly and with no scandals attached to his name. But now Homer is gone, and things are different for me. I have a past in this town, even if it isn’t one I created. “I don't want to be associated with my mom’s legacy or her affair with former Mayor Moore.”
Mom hasn't been back to Colorado for over a decade, but her reputation as a fun-loving free spirit lives on. Only her version of fun left me and my brother without care or food half the time and made enemies of married women in every town she blew through.
“Skylark can't be the place where fun goes to die, Iris.” Gloria steeples her fingers on the polished cherry table. “I also cannot back a candidate who has a reputation for killing community spirit. Do you know why Skylark’s leadership first started actively investing in the town’s image?”
I do. As a way to distract the town from his brother's scandal with my mother fourteen years ago, newly appointed Mayor Homer Moore began instituting prescribed events to bolster community spirit and build a reputation for wholesome small-town fun.
In the last decade, we've gone from hosting the usual seasonal festivals and an occasional juried art show, to at least one event a month funded by the town for the purpose of bringing a smile to the faces of residents young and old. I’m not a fan of forced fun, but I’ve attended most of the events, at least in passing, because of my position. Thanks to social media and a bajillion online lists ranking small-town life, plus the fascination with romantic movies centered around the very same thing, Skylark has grown in popularity. Our reputation and designation as one of the happiest towns in the country is a source of pride for many residents. But others, like me, have festival fatigue.
“Not every event brings in enough revenue to offset the costs associated with them. Plus, sometimes they prevent us from supporting the people who live here in a meaningful way. That's all I'm trying to do. Isn’t that what good politicians do? We take care of our constituents."
She inclines her head to study me. "You're a smart girl. I didn't expect you to show such Pollyanna tendencies."
"I'm not?—"
"This isn't Camelot, Iris.” She closes her eyes for a minute. “Politics is as much about impressions as intention. You have to get elected before you can do the work, and you aren't going to get elected in a town like Skylark if everyone thinks you're the grim reaper of fun."
"I'm fun,” I insist, but the words come out like a snarl.
She cracks a real smile. "Oh yes, that tone will convince people. Figure it out, Iris, and then we'll talk. Is the life of a career politician in the public eye truly what you want?"
I frown and force myself not to argue. “Of course, it's what I want.”
Okay, maybe that hasn’t always been the case. But once the members of the town council appointed me interim mayor, I realized this was how I could both do good and show that I am good. Prove to everyone in town that I’m not my mother, who still subscribes to the belief that sex, drugs, and rock and roll are the only kind of fun worth having.
Mom was like a holdover groupie from the decade of free love. Only instead of collecting famous notches on her belt, my mother collected married notches.
"I am fun," I insist. "And if I need to stay sunup to sundown at every event this town sponsors to prove it, I will."
She lets out what I can only describe as a disappointed sigh, confusing me all the more.
"Isn't that what you want from me?”
"I want you to do something for you . Something that lights you up and takes you out of your comfort zone."
Her blue eyes bore into me like she’s imparting some great wisdom, but for the life of me I have zero clue as to what lights me up.
I think about my book club’s bucket list challenge. We’re meeting tonight, and I need to be ready to tell them what I'm going to do. I haven't been able to come up with anything that would rival our friend Sadie's choice of a challenge. How do I compete with her losing her virginity to a former NFL star?
My friends would tell me it’s not a competition, but…my brain doesn’t work that way. I thought about training for an ultramarathon, which isn’t nearly as interesting as sex, but it would showcase my strength and perseverance to the people in town. We’re in Colorado, and the freaky fit outdoorsy types like that kind of crap. But it's not exactly fun, and now it feels like fun is mandatory.
Sadly, Gloria’s right. I don’t do fun.
“Speaking of fun…” Gloria glances at her watch. "I need to get ready for my dance class."
I offer a smile because Gloria seeing how freaked out I am about all of this is not going to help. “I didn't know you were a dancer."
"I'm not, but I love shaking my hips." She does a little wiggle that’s surprisingly sensual for a woman in her mid-seventies. "Salsa is my favorite," she says. "Find something you love that doesn’t have anything to do with the job or getting ahead. Do it because it makes you happy. You do, after all, live in the town voted one of the happiest in the country."
I hate that stupid slogan, but I keep the smile on my face. "I will, Gloria. I won't let you down."
"This is about you , Iris.”
I try not to squirm under her steady gaze. Sure, there are plenty of politicians who crave the spotlight, but I want to make this about the town, not me. I don't like things being about me. I'm not worth the attention.
I wait a few minutes after she leaves, a cloud of Chanel No 5 lingering in her wake, before following her out of the conference room. Instead of walking back to my office or past Jodi’s desk near the main entrance, I rush to the cramped staircase at the end of the hall. The air inside is stuffy, and my heels make the metal steps clang, the sound reverberating as I rush down.
It's like I can't breathe—can't get the air in. And not because of what happened with the angry community members or Gloria's advice about having fun. It's the betrayal I feel from somebody I should have known isn’t my ally.
I trusted Jodi. I thought we were on the same team, working together for the town. I thought we were doing good things and putting our personal differences aside. Turns out I’m the fool again, thinking I could trust just anyone.
I bust out of the back door of town hall and take deep gulps of the crisp fall air. I will not cry. I haven't cried since the day my twin brother got carted off to that camp for juvenile delinquents when we were seventeen. He told me tears are for losers, and I took his words to heart. It gave me something I could control, which I needed badly in the chaos of that summer.
Maybe an occasional hay fever flare-up makes my eyes water, but I do not cry. Not when I watch sad movies. Not when my friend Sloane told me at the start of summer that she has cancer. Not when Sadie and former NFL legend Ian Barlowe announced their engagement. Nada.
I drag in another deep breath and keep my eyes forward as I exit the alley and march toward the crosswalk. I don’t have a destination in mind, and my keys are tucked in the bottom drawer of my desk, so I can't truly escape. But I can head for Cover to Cover, the book store Sloane Winslow owns on the other end of downtown.
Since her diagnosis, she's reduced her shifts to part-time, but she's always there on Wednesday mornings to host the children's reading hour.
It's early enough that there isn't much traffic, so I don't worry about being spotted in my mismatched outfit and red-rimmed eyes. Until I notice one of Jodi’s many cousins walking toward me. Oh, hell no.
I pivot and dash across the street, only I don't notice the truck zooming in my direction. Not until I hear brakes squeal and the vehicle stops inches from my kneecaps.
Paralyzed by almost being flattened in the middle of Main Street, I stare at the truck’s green bumper. Oh, crap. I know that bumper. I've been pressed against that bumper during a deep, passionate kiss.
My gaze raises to the man behind the wheel. When the hazel eyes that used to haunt my dreams meet mine, it’s like looking directly at the sun. My corneas burn and my vision goes hazy at the corners.
I press a hand to the hot hood of the old Chevy truck as Jake Byrne climbs out of it. The cherry on top of a shit show sundae of a day.
My stupid heart stutters in my chest, a painful thud of yearning and resentment. Damn him for still having this effect on me after all this time.
He looks different than he did as a teenager when he was the most beautiful boy I'd ever met. He’s become a man in the intervening years. The thick coat of stubble that covers his jaw makes those soulful gray-green eyes look all the more distracting and his full mouth even more kissable.
Stop that, I command myself.
No thinking about Jake and kissing in the same sentence. We only shared one soul-shattering—not to mention panty-melting—moment before things went to hell, yet the feel of his arms around me remained seared on my memory for far too long.
That one moment had haunted my dreams for years, the ghost of what could have been. The memory of his lips on mine and the sweet words he’d whispered—all lies in the end.
Whatever he's doing in Skylark, I want nothing to do with it. With him. He might have turned my life upside down once, but I'm smarter now. If this morning is any indication, I don't need any help getting into trouble. I've got that covered all on my own.
The universe has a cruel sense of humor, doesn't it? We all have that one person who got away—or in my case, who was sent away. Apparently, the cosmos thinks a second chance encounter is best with me at my absolute worst. I'm reeling from that disastrous committee meeting, my political career potentially in shambles before it’s even gotten started. My chances for re-election feel as crushed as my spirit right now.
What better time for the man who broke me into pieces to show up again, looking unfairly better than he has any right to. With his chiseled jawline, tousled hair and that movie-star smile, Jake is the embodiment of every woman's fantasy and my personal nightmare.
I quickly fix my face and plaster a bland, tight-around-the-edges smile on it. Taking a step back from the car, I lift my hand.
"It's fine," I say, like Jake and I have no history. Like he means less than nothing. "Just watch where you're going next time."
He takes two steps toward me but stops and throws up his hand, exasperation rolling off him like a wave. "Okay, are you crazy or do you make a habit of jumping in front of moving vehicles?”
That word…crazy. All my emotions—the worry, regret, and self-doubt—coalesce into something different inside me. Something that feels dark and thick like sludge. I lean into that blackness and let it ooze through me. I may not like Jake Byrne, but he’s the one person in this town I don't have to be nice to. Might as well take advantage of it.
“Go to hell, Jake.” I start to flip him off, but realize that’s not a great look for the mayor when there’s an audience staring from the sidewalk. Instead, I lean in closer. “Or crawl back under whatever trustafarian rock you slithered out from. Polish the watches in your overpriced collection or count the zeros in your bank account. Whatever guys like you do when you’re not busy pretending to be real.”
“Fucking hell, Iris.”
He rears back like I’ve slapped him, and a swish of guilt creeps up my spine. Maybe I took it too far—okay, I know I took it too far—but that word cuts through me like a knife. Crazy . People called my family worse, but we heard crazy whispered enough that it still gets to me. I shove down my guilt because I don’t owe him anything. Less than anything after what he took from me and my brother.
And there's something intimate in the way he says my name, like he still has the right to it. Heat rises to my cheeks, anger and attraction tangling together until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins. Jake Byrne doesn’t get to breeze back into town—my town—like he owns the place. Like he still has any claim on my heart.
Nope. He doesn’t get my sympathy. Not today.