3. Jake
3
JAKE
Iris Dixon is out of line. So far over it she’s not even in the same country as rational thought. Except…I forgot her history with the word crazy. I’m an asshole for saying it in any circumstance. I know better. I know to do better. It’s a shit word, and for her in particular given the way people lobbed it against her mom and brother with Iris caught in the crossfire. I didn’t mean it the way she thinks, but I’m still a fool for saying it to her.
Just like I’m a fool for returning to this bustling mountain town. For several reasons. A glaring one—quite literally—is the woman shooting death rays at me in front of a beater truck that should have been retired a long time ago.
The moment it left my lips, I saw that flicker of hurt in her eyes—the same look I'd seen years ago when the town gossips whispered about her mom's issues . I’m not a person who carelessly throws around terms like that, especially knowing how those words had been weaponized, forcing her to build walls so high I never found a way over them. Yet here I am, first encounter in over a decade, already tearing at old wounds.
“Maybe if you drove a vehicle with a windshield not coated in decades of dust, you would have seen me.”
Yeah, I spoke without thinking, but this almost-accident isn’t my fault. Iris is breathing heavy, her cheeks bright pink with rage. But I’d bet all the dollars in my trust fund, which is collecting as much dust as the truck’s windshield, there’s something more going on and I’m just the closest whipping post. She wants to pin the blame on me, just like she did for the accident that landed both me and her brother at that awful camp.
The unmerited claim burrows its way under my skin, and I want to claw and fight to get it out again.
“Maybe if you used a crosswalk, which is the damn law…” I cock a brow, calling bullshit on her bluster “…I wouldn’t have come close to running you over. I assume the mayor of this quaint hamlet would understand that.”
“Hamlet is a pretty sophisticated word for a college dropout to throw around.” She points to the phone gripped in my right hand. “Have you become a fan of Shakespearean porn recently?”
“Jesus, Iris.” I bark out a laugh. “You actually went there. Out loud.”
The color in her cheeks deepens even as her chin lifts. “I’d bet you were texting and driving, Jake, which is also against the law. But you never thought the rules applied to you.”
I nearly toss back my head and laugh. Leave it to this woman to never back down or admit she’s wrong. Something electric passes between us as she steps closer, her accusation hanging in the air. Her pulse flutters at the base of her throat, and her breath catches slightly as our eyes lock. Neither of us is willing to look away first.
"You haven't changed a bit," I murmur. The words come out more like a caress than the casual observation I'd aimed for.
Since we’re stopped in the middle of the street, a car honks as it passes. The sound distracts her for a second, and I take that brief opportunity to look more closely at the girl who starred in so many of my adolescent fantasies. I won’t disrespect her by using the term spank bank, but I’m not denying it either.
She’s a woman now, the sun-kissed streaks in her hair, now colored less by drugstore spray and more by professional highlights that give it shine and dimension. Her legs are still miles long, and her build is athletic with just the right amount of curves—the kind that fit perfectly in the palm of my hand.
When she first glanced toward me, frozen in fear, her eyes had been wide with not only terror but something that looked like bone-deep desperation. For a fleeting second, I wondered if the woman in a sleek suit more appropriate for the big city than this small town jumped in front of my car on purpose. She looked hopeless enough to do something that dire.
The Iris I remember would never put herself in harm’s way on purpose. Even as a teenager, she was the most composed person I’d ever met. And my family values self-control the way fitness fanatics prioritize a low-carb lifestyle, counting macros and hours on the spin bike.
“I’m sorry,” I say when her angry gaze returns to me. “I didn’t mean to frighten or run you over.”
The apology seems to incense her even more than the regrettable reference to her mental health. “You don’t scare me, Jake.”
She says the words through gritted teeth, and we both know she’s not talking about nearly meeting her maker on my truck’s bumper. Something about her tone piques my curiosity. Not smart when it comes to Iris, but that’s never stopped me before.
“Then what does?”
I shouldn’t ask. Never ask a question if you’re not prepared to hear the answer.
“I assume you’re here because of the announcement that your grandfather’s stepping down from running the foundation,” she says, ignoring my question. She’s a pro at ignoring what she doesn’t want to deal with. We have that in common, at least. “I hope he’s doing okay with the decision.”
“Be honest, Iris.” I don’t hide my temper. It takes two to tango and all that. “Do you really care? Or are you more concerned with the Byrne Family Foundation continuing its financial support of this town?”
To her credit, she doesn’t react. Iris has a world-class poker face. And a tone to match. “I assume you’re concerned whether his giving pledge will drain the family coffers to the detriment of him funding your…” She waves a hand, her slender fingers flapping up and down as if indicating my entire being. “Trust fund fun.”
If I hit Iris’s soft spot with the crazy comment, she’s taking a sledgehammer to mine. I know what most people think about me. It’s what I let them believe because my reputation as a lazy, loafing, good-for-nothing rich boy is easy enough to manage.
There are still a few people in the world whose opinions matter to me. My grandfather is one of them, which is why I’m here. Iris happens to be another, even though I’ll deny it if pressed.
“My trust is separate from the foundation money.” I wink at her. “All good here.”
She makes a sound close to a growl low in her throat as a large SUV slows to a stop next to us. The passenger side window lowers.
“Is everything okay?” a woman calls, leaning over the console, her gaze tracking between us.
I don’t know if Iris realizes she lets out a sigh—most probably of relief, but I see it. I’m annoyingly attuned to every tiny motion this woman makes.
“Can you give me a ride, Sadie?”
“Wherever you need to go,” this Sadie answers. She must read something in Iris’s expression because her eyes narrow when they lock on me.
I’m pretty sure I don’t recognize her as a friend of Iris’s or her brother’s from back in the day. Not that I paid too much attention. Most days that summer, I was too drunk to commit a face to memory.
Iris takes a step toward the SUV, then looks over her shoulder at me. “I care about your grandfather because the people in this town matter to me. I might not be the most fun mayor Skylark has ever had, but I care . It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks. Caring counts for a hell of a lot more than having a pie splat in my face or letting myself be drenched in a dunk tank.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d say I’m the one who got hit—in the head—because her words don’t make a damn bit of sense. My time with Iris that summer was the most fun I ever had, even if I couldn’t let myself care the way she needed someone to.
I don’t mention that. I’m a fool but not an idiot.
“Pie in the face feels like the opposite of fun,” I say, and she rewards me with the barest hint of a smile.
“So is a trip down memory lane,” she murmurs, then climbs into her friend’s vehicle. They drive away, leaving me alone beside the truck. I glance around and realize a small crowd has gathered on the sidewalk to watch the spectacle the mayor and I created. Slow news day in Skylark.