18. Iris
18
IRIS
I was lying through my teeth when I told Jake he isn't my idea of a good time. I'm guessing we both know it, but the moment we walk into the club, I realize it doesn’t matter. Because I could actually win our silly wager.
I’m so far out of my league, I might as well be Rose at the below-deck party on the Titanic. But the idea of winning feels less important than just getting to be here with him.
I pictured something like one of the ubiquitous dance club interiors you see in movies—flashing lights, a mass of drunken, sweaty bodies, and a crowd big enough to blend into without being noticed.
This club isn't that.
It’s way more.
The lighting is low, and the dance floor—clearly the heart of the club—is polished and surrounded by cozy seating areas with plush cushions. Couples of all ages, shapes, sizes, and sexualities wend and sway together on the dance floor. The energy is raw and real, the sensuality in the air palpable. I relied on liquid courage for karaoke, but I might need a full-on psychedelic trip to relax in this place.
A few people turn as we make our way through the crowd. While Jake gets welcoming smiles, I receive cool stares, like they know someone called the anti-fun SWAT team to wreck the vibe.
Jake places a hand on the small of my back. "Do you need a brown paper bag to breathe into?" The warmth of his touch zips up my spine like the first crack of lightning before a summer storm—startling and impossible to ignore.
I'd snap back with a sharp retort, but I'm hurtling toward a full-blown panic attack. Forming words is way beyond me when I can't even seem to suck air into my lungs
"Seriously, Dixon, are you okay?" He leads me toward a booth in the corner, saying something to the waitress we pass that I can't make out because of the ringing in my ears. I'm not sure my knees will bend to sit down, but Jake practically shoves me onto the red velvet seat and slides in next to me, his muscular thigh pressing against my now trembling leg. Even as my world narrows to a panic-filled tunnel, his voice is an anchor pulling me back to safety.
"What the hell is going on?" He waves a hand in front of my face.
"I can't do this."
"You don't have to do anything except follow my lead."
"They'll know I'm terrible."
"Iris, it's just dancing. Everybody's doing it. No one gives a shit about you and me joining in."
"I can't."
"Let's have a drink, and then we'll reassess."
"We could chug a bottle of Everclear, and I'm still not going to do this. This is not fun for me."
"What's going on?" he repeats, his tone softening, coaxing.
How do I explain my reaction without reliving the humiliation all over again? I bite my lip and stare out at the club, the music pounding in my chest like a second heartbeat.
"I took that one dance class as a kid, but moving wasn't the real reason I missed the recital. We were supposed to, but I pitched the only fit of my entire childhood and begged my mom to stay so I could dance."
I wave a hand toward the club's dance floor but snatch it back, embarrassed that my fingers are shaking. "We were performing to 'What a Wonderful World,' and I was so excited. I finally felt like I belonged somewhere and had friends and I loved dancing."
Jake grins. "I wish I could see little Iris in all her glory."
"The costumes were atrocious," I say with a laugh that dies as I remember that time with more clarity. "Mom was pissed that I'd taken a stand. She was champing at the bit to meet her new online love in person."
I swallow hard. My throat feels coated in sawdust. "Thinking back on it, I'm pretty sure she got caught with the husband of one of our neighbors in the apartment complex where we lived. There were a lot of slamming doors and hushed arguments that week, but Nick had also gotten into a fight so she blamed the tension on him."
“Maybe your brother went looking for trouble to deflect attention from her," Jake suggests evenly.
The idea throws me for a loop. I've never connected my mother's behavior with Nick's trouble, but it makes sense. It’s a sad, terrible insight, but one that resonates.
"I don't know," I say honestly, but the pit in my stomach would say otherwise. "Parents weren't allowed to watch class or attend rehearsals, but my mom came anyway. She pulled me from the recital as soon as she saw me dance. There was a huge blow-up between her and the instructor, with Mom screaming about how I was going to humiliate myself and her."
"That doesn't make sense," he says, shaking his head.
"I was terrible, Jake." I lick my dry lips and try to detach from how I felt then. I'm a grown-ass adult, I remind myself. Not that little girl with silent tears running down her face. "She knew people would laugh at me if I got up on stage. For once in her life, my mother was trying to protect me."
"What are you talking about?" He sounds both confused and irritated, but gently takes my hand like he knows I need something—someone—to ground me in the present moment so I don't lose myself in the past. "Iris, I've seen enough viral reels to know the cringey kids are the ones people love to watch. It doesn't matter if you're bad. It matters that you're bad with enthusiasm."
I choke out a laugh. "You've seen me dance. All the enthusiasm in the world isn't going to make someone with two left feet look good."
"We're not talking about now, are we?"
He brushes a strand of hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ear. The touch is both soothing and electrifying. It makes me want to lean into him. Find comfort in him. But Jake isn't my person. The tenderness of the gesture short-circuits the walls I’ve spent years constructing.
"What did your mother tell you?"
"She was protecting me," I say again, then roll my lips together because it still hurts.
"What exactly did she say, Iris?"
"I told you already. That I was going to embarrass myself. People were laughing at me."
He continues to stare, and I shrug. “They were laughing at her . My mom, who loved being the center of attention and never cared what anyone said about her. She was embarrassed by me. Nick could get into all kinds of trouble, but everybody knew he was cool. She could sleep with a string of married men, but she was beautiful and funny. I was the embarrassment because I wasn't good at something, even though I loved it."
"You were a good kid," he says. Not that I need the reassurance at this point. Okay, I totally need it. "You would have gotten better if you'd stayed with the lessons."
"It doesn't matter. I never danced in public again." I look out toward the crowded dance floor. "Until this class. Until I tried to let myself have fun."
"Tonight is no different than when we're at the studio."
I snort. "There's a big fat difference."
"Do you honestly think a bunch of strangers will care about your skill?"
"I think I'm not going to give anyone a chance to laugh at me again."
"Did you see them laughing when you were a kid?"
"What does that matter?"
He links our fingers together and squeezes. "Your mother wasn't a saint, and it's likely she was being run out of another town for having a relationship with another married man. You said it was the only time in your life your mother ever protected you. Is there a chance that, once again, she was protecting herself? This time at your expense?"
The breath leaves my lungs in a whoosh, and I feel like I’m watching a missing puzzle piece fall into place. “You think she pulled me out because of an affair?”
His smile is so sweet my heart flings itself against my ribcage like it wants to take refuge in Jake's arms. I know the feeling.
He traces a finger down my cheek. "I've seen the joy on your face when you forget to worry whether you're hitting a step or moving your hips the right way. If a good mother had recognized that joy in her child, she would have given you a standing ovation at that recital. Maybe you weren't going to embarrass yourself. Maybe your mother was going to be publicly humiliated for something she did, and chose to take care of herself instead of you.”
All these years I thought I was the failure, but maybe it wasn’t about me at all.
The waitress arrives at the table with two glasses of sparkling liquid and sets them down in front of us.
"You okay, hon?" she asks.
I take a mental inventory and find the panic has ebbed slightly. But I could still use a healthy dose of courage—liquid or otherwise—to handle tonight.
"I am," I answer, and Jake gives her a thumbs up.
When she turns away, I lift the drink to my lips, not caring what type of alcohol he's ordered. I'll take anything right now.
"Why does that taste like lemon-lime soda?"
He winks. "Because that's what I ordered."
"Tell me there's a shot being delivered to the table next."
He shakes his head. "If you want to order a drink, Iris, be my guest. But I know what happens when a person focuses more on numbing their feelings than acknowledging them. It's not a solution. At least not long-term."
"If you're looking for fun Iris, she's more likely to show up with a buzz than when I'm sober."
The waitress catches my eye as if she knows I was expecting something stronger, but I give a small shake of my head. As much as I don't want to live in fear, I don't want to be numb either.
"I'm looking for you to have fun, and not because you're drunk. That's fake fun. I want the real you. All of it."
Damn it. How am I supposed to keep the wall around my heart fortified when Jake keeps being so damn sweet?
Not only is there more to him, but he also makes me believe I'm more than I give myself credit for. I feel something crack inside me, a hairline fracture in the armor I've worn for so long. I know what flirting with Jake feels like. I can handle that. But this? This genuine interest in the real me? It’s terrifying. I don't know how to be vulnerable. My mom used her vulnerability as a weapon—it’s all I’ve ever known.
This feels like... an invitation. And I'm not sure if I'm ready for that level of exposure. Or if I even remember how to let someone in after keeping everyone at a safe distance for so long.
"Even if my mom did what she did for the reasons you're implying, it doesn't make her wrong about me potentially embarrassing myself. The people here, it's like natural rhythm is part of the requirement. I don't have that, Jake. Like I said, it's one thing when I'm in a class with the AARP set, but I'm not looking to publicly humiliate myself."
"Have a little faith in both of us. Charlotte sent us here for a reason. We can learn the moves and the counts in her classroom, but until you start trusting me and yourself, it won't change. If we concentrate on having a good time, then?—"
"You won't have to ask Jodi out again, and she goes back to undermining me. Then who knows what happens to my chances of being elected."
He releases a noise that sounds suspiciously like a growl. "Or maybe you stop trying to backdoor your way into being elected and believe you're the best candidate for the job."
"I want to believe,” I answer honestly.
"Start acting like it."
"Fine." I grab his hand and basically push him out of the booth then onto the dance floor. "For the record, I can already feel people looking at us."
"Of course they're looking. We're the hottest couple in the place."
As tense as I am, that tossed-off bit of cockiness elicits a real laugh. "Do you ever take anything seriously?"
"You have no idea."