22. Iris
22
IRIS
“Are you okay?” Sloane asks as I pull to a stop in front of the bookstore after our night out at the rodeo and concert. Her apartment above the shop has made it easier for her to keep working—and still take breaks during the day—since she started treatment. “Tonight couldn’t have been easy.”
“I can’t get the image of the cowboy this town adores being carted out of the ring on a stretcher.”
“Bull riders are tough as nails, and he’s one of the best.”
“You’re right.”
I checked in with one of the EMTs during the lull between the end of the rodeo and the start of the concert. According to her, Chase was awake and alert at the hospital but would need surgery to repair the shattered bones in his leg. Word that he would likely make a full recovery spread quickly, so the crowd at the concert was in high spirits.
“And you know I wasn’t talking about Chase,” she says gently.
Sadie and Ian had gone home early, but Sloane and I stayed until the end. I tried not to make it too obvious that I spent most of the time surreptitiously searching for Jake and Jodi, but I guess I hadn’t been as sly as I thought.
I close my eyes for a moment. “Being sad about two people going on a date that I helped set up feels even sillier in light of what happened tonight.” But it doesn’t dull the ache in my chest. Especially when I picture him with someone else.
“Emotions aren’t trivial.” She reaches out to squeeze my arm. “And the only way to move through them is to let yourself feel.”
I cover my face with my hands. “Hearing you say that makes me feel like the worst friend on the planet. You’re dealing with the big C, and I can’t even manage to keep fun simple. It shouldn’t be this hard.”
“As simple as having fun sounds,” Sloane answers, “I understand why it isn’t that easy for you. The fact that you’re willing to try gives me hope. I didn’t start the bucket list challenge just to watch each of you easily succeed at something.” She gives an unsteady laugh. “I wanted to see other people struggle. Maybe that makes me a terrible friend. Everyone believes I’m handling my diagnosis and treatment so well. The truth is, I’m scared, angry, and resentful. Sometimes I hate everyone.”
“You don’t?—”
“I do,” she insists, her voice quivering. “I hate people who are healthy. I hate people who have things worse than me because it makes me a jerk for feeling sorry for myself. I hate people who think they know what I’m going through. I hate myself for all of those things. I grew up in a house filled with anger and hate, and I swore I was going to be a happy person. I wouldn’t let that hate define me. Yet here I am.”
“Sloane, honey, if I’m allowed to feel emotions, so are you. Even the hard ones.”
She turns to look out the window, and it breaks my heart to see tears shimmering in her eyes under the moon’s silvery glow.
“People think I’m a hero. ‘ Sloane has such a good attitude. She’s so strong. ’ I don’t feel strong. You flaunt your flaws, Iris. Use them as a calling card. At least you’re handling the hard stuff.”
“Look at my life.” With what I hope is a wry—and not pathetic—smile, I hold my fingers up one at a time. “I’m fighting for a job I don’t even know if I truly want. My heart hurts watching a man I shouldn’t want to go on a date I pressured him into. I’m trying to have fun but suck at dancing?—”
“You love it,” she interrupts.
“But I suck,” I repeat. “There’s a decent chance I’m going to publicly humiliate myself in front of half the town at Fun Fest. Oh, yes. Fun Fest. To prove that I’m the right candidate for the job I don’t know that I want, I’m on a mission to also prove I’m fun to a community that seems to care more about karaoke than literacy. And I can’t convince them otherwise.”
I slap a palm to my head. “I won’t bore you with the rest of the list, but it’s a doozy. Trust me. I’m not handling anything. At least not well.”
“That’s what I mean.” She swipes at the edges of her eyes and then offers a watery smile. “You’re so upfront with your shit-show life that you make me feel better about mine. We’re quite a pair.”
I reach across the console and wrap her in a tight hug. “If it counts for anything, there’s no one I’d rather be dysfunctional with than you.”
“It counts for a lot,” she whispers into my hair.
“You know…” I cup her too-thin face with my palms. “A brilliant person told me you can’t move through emotions unless you let yourself feel them. You’re allowed to be pissed about having cancer. I think it would be more concerning if you weren’t.”
“But what if I let the rage and hate have their way with me?” She bites down on her lower lip. “What if the hate latches on and doesn’t let go, the way it did with my mom and dad? I might as well let cancer win because I’ll poison everything and everyone around me.”
I grab her shoulders and give her a gentle shake. “Don’t you say another word about cancer winning. This world needs you, Sloane. You’re a gift to the people lucky enough to have you love them.”
“I could say the same about you,” she says. “The outcome of an election and some festival dance routine don’t determine your value as a person. Nothing outside of you can. I’ve seen the soft parts beneath your prickly exterior. You deserve a lot more than you’re giving yourself credit for.”
“Maybe,” I say, even though it’s still hard for me to believe. “We might just have to agree to disagree on which one of us is more awesome.”
“Uhhhhh...” Sloane mock scoffs. “It’s me. I’m the more awesome one.” She taps on the cotton beanie she’s wearing. “There’s no way you could rock a pixie cut the way I’m going to when my bald nut grows out.”
I laugh and hug her again. “Fair point. For the record, I love your bald nut and all the rest of you.”
“Love you, too, Iris.” She starts to open the door, glancing over her shoulder. “Call me after you talk to Jake.”
“What makes you think I’m going to talk to Jake before I see Jodi on Monday?”
“Just call me,” she repeats with an eye roll, then heads inside.
Driving home from downtown only takes a few minutes, and the quiet night surrounds me like a blanket. I appreciate the houses that leave the porch lights on, welcoming visitors to their door. It tugs at something deep within me—the community I never had growing up with my mother's nomadic lifestyle. In these lit doors, I see the possibility of belonging. It's what drew me to local politics in the first place—the chance to help weave together the threads of community that I'd always longed for but never experienced.
My heart skips a beat when I notice the silhouette of a man sitting on my porch swing. I smirk and secretly wonder if Sloane’s treatment has made her clairvoyant. I plan to rip Jake a new one because he shouldn’t be here, but I’m also ridiculously happy to see him. A ridiculous, hopeful part of me perks up at the idea that it might be Jake.
Only it isn’t Jake. Disappointment stings sharper than I expect.
Worry suddenly tinges my happiness as I park in the driveway and rush toward the house.
“Hey, Sis.” Nick stands to greet me as I take the front porch steps two at a time, throwing my arms around him. No matter how long it’s been or what he’s done, seeing my twin in person is like having a part of me come home.
“When did you get in? What are you doing here? How are you doing?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Nick drops a kiss on the top of my head. “It’s good to see you, Sis. Let’s pump the brakes on the firing squad of questions.”
I pull away and look into his face, searching for...what, I’m not sure. That’s a lie. I know exactly what I’m looking for. Evidence that he’s using again. That he’s here to ask for money or hide from some shady deal he got himself into.
“I’m okay, Iris.” His voice is so sincere I can’t help but believe him. “I mean it.” He gives me a gentle smile. “I’m in a good place. And I’m staying there.”
“That’s good, Nick.” I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Really good.”
As easily as I can read my brother, the twin bond goes both ways. He’s studying me in return and sees something that makes his thick brows draw together.
“Why don’t you invite me inside so you can tell me what’s going on with you?”
“Of course. Come in.” I notice the duffel bag at his feet. “Are you staying?”
“Maybe a few days if it’s okay?”
“You can stay as long as you like.” I squeeze his hand and then move to unlock the front door. “But I thought you hated Skylark.” No matter the mess he’s bringing with him, Nick is still home to me on so many levels.
“I hated what happened to me here. To both of us.”
My hand jerks as the door swings open, and the keys fall to the hardwood floor. I bend to retrieve them, willing myself to stay calm. Does he know that Jake is also back?
I know Jake told me about helping Nick with rehab, but so much of my brother’s negative feelings about Skylark are tied up in the trouble he and Jake got into. The trouble I always believed wasn’t my brother’s fault.
Is that simply what I wanted to believe all this time? To blame that night on Jake so I didn’t have to hold my twin responsible.
“It isn’t the town’s fault.”
“Of course the mayor would say that.” I turn to face him, and he winks as he kicks the door shut and drops his bag on the floor.
Although we text and talk a decent amount, it’s been nearly a year since I’ve seen my brother. I visited after his last stint in rehab, when he asked me to pay off the loan shark he owed. But it’s always been easy to focus on Nick and his problems, and keep him in the dark about mine. I told him I was moving back to Skylark, and he knows about me being appointed as mayor, but nothing that led up to it.
“You don’t like me being here?” I ask cautiously.
“I’m happy for you. You’ve worked hard your whole life. You deserve all the success that comes your way.”
I think about Sloane’s comment that I deserve more. Based on how I’ve gotten to where I am now, is that really true?
My friends don’t know about the affair or losing my job. Returning to Skylark with my tail between my legs and only getting the position I’m in now because of a tragedy.
Yes, I’ve worked hard. But where has that gotten me?
“Thanks. I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
He frowns slightly, like he realizes I’m lying, but thankfully, he doesn’t call me out on it. I’m not sure I could resist revealing everything if he pressed me on my secrets.
Not that my brother has any room to judge my mistakes. He’s got me beat in the screw-up-your-life department by a mile, but I don’t want him worrying.
I’m the strong one, the one who takes care of things.
If I’m being honest, I don’t know who I’d be without that as my identity. Without giving and doing to prove I’m worth my dreams and goals. I’m worth being loved.
“Are you hungry?” I ask, moving down the hall to the kitchen.
“You know the answer to that.”
“You’re always hungry,” I answer over my shoulder, then flip on the overhead light in the L-shaped kitchen.
“Your house is cute, but not exactly your style.”
“What do you know about my style?”
He points to the rooster-patterned valance that covers the bottom half of the window overlooking the backyard. “I know it doesn’t include barnyard animals.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, well, it’s a rental, so no point updating things.”
I grab the loaf of bread from the basket on the counter and open the fridge. I stand before it longer than I need to, letting the blast of chilled air cool my cheeks. I’m not sure if Nick knows how much that last loan I gave him cost me, and I don’t plan on mentioning it.
“Speaking of updates, maybe you want to give me the 411 on you and Jake Byrne.” He makes the request casually, like we’re talking about the weather, as he takes a pan out of the drawer below the stove and turns on the gas range’s front burner. I hand him the bread and butter and try to appear just as casual.
Despite some of her more glaring flaws, our mom was always a fantastic cook. When she was in the mood, Mom had the ability to meld spices and flavors into the most mouth-watering meals with the most basic of pantry ingredients. Even though our mother had natural talent, she had little inclination to use it for anything so mundane as feeding her children on a daily basis. As backward as it sounds, her indifference made the meals she did cook even better, at least to me.
I don’t know how Nick felt about her somewhat lackadaisical commitment to raising us. But as Nick inherited our mother’s cooking skills, he did most of the cooking when we were growing up. When we were young, we spent most of our time trying to survive and cope. Later, I spent way too many nights praying he’d survive his own demons.
“Are you and Jake still friends?” I ask casually. “Is that how you know he’s back here?”
“Jake didn’t tell me, but I know.” He smears two slices of bread with butter as I cut thick slices from a block of golden yellow cheese. I don’t love how this visit is starting, but appreciate having something to do with my hands if we’re going to talk about Jake. There’s no doubt I’d have a hard time hiding my feelings from Nick if he was looking into my eyes right now. “I saw him at the rodeo tonight.”
The knife slips from my fingers and skitters across the counter before I grab it back. “What were you doing at the rodeo?”
“Hoping Chase Calhoun makes a full recovery, just like everybody else.” He nudges me with his elbow. “Why is it that while we’re both asking questions, I’m the only one answering them? I’m real curious about the two of you being friends.”
“We’re taking a dance class together.”
My brother barks out a laugh. “Shut the front door.”
“It’s true.” I focus on slicing more cheese. These sandwiches will be two inches thick by the time I’m done. “We didn’t sign up together,” I clarify. “I’m in the class because my political mentor is there. And while you might not remember this detail from our childhood, I love dancing. It’s fun.”
The magic word.
“I know you love to dance,” Nick says, and my hand stills on the block of cheese. At this rate, I’m going to be lucky not to slice off a finger.
As usual, Nick sees more than he lets on. He takes the knife and slides the cutting board away from me.
“I’ll handle the grilled cheese,” he says. “Do you still have a thing for chamomile tea?” His memory of the smallest things is one of the things I love best about him. My brother is the best despite his demons.
“I’ve upgraded to lavender,” I tell him.
“Even better. Lots of honey in mine, please. And while you’re boiling water—which I assume you can manage without hurting yourself—you can explain why Jake is part of the dance class. Does he wear tights?”
“Don’t be a dick.” I grab the copper kettle from the back burner and fill it with fresh water. “Not that there’s anything wrong with wearing tights, but it’s ballroom dancing. His grandfather is part of the class. Jake joined as a favor to Gilbert. And he’s good.”
Nick laughs as he layers the cheese across the bread. “That doesn’t surprise me. Jake is the most naturally coordinated person I’ve ever met.”
I snort. “Right? He’s annoyingly good at pretty much everything.”
“Not everything.” He glances at me while he places the second side of bread on top of the cheese, buttered side up. The scent of toasting bread fills the kitchen. “He’s terrible at relationships, and I saw him dropping you off a couple blocks from here early this morning. Too damn early for a ballroom dance class. You spent the night with him, Iris.” The way he says it feels like a warning, echoing the doubts in my own head and heart.
“Who I spend my nights with is none of your business.” I swat his arm. “And you sound like a total creeper spying on me. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
“I wasn’t spying.” The smell of melting cheese and the sizzle of buttered bread in the pan bring me back to my childhood as much as arguing with Nick does. Only now, it’s not cheap processed singles in individual wrappers, but locally-made smoked cheddar and artisan bread from the local bakery. And we’re not fighting over who used the last of the hot water but things that are far more serious for both of us.
“I flew in from Savannah last night. I wanted to surprise you.”
“You hate surprises,” I remind him.
He glances in my direction and then flips the bread, which is perfectly crisp and golden on one side. “Okay, I didn’t call or text first because I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about me coming to Skylark. My flight got delayed, and we didn’t touch down in Denver until nearly three a.m. I didn’t want to wake you up at that god-awful hour, so I parked the rental in the neighborhood and went for a run.”
The kettle begins to whistle, and I pull it off the burner and pour water over the teabags I’ve placed in ceramic mugs. They're a set I bought myself when I first moved here—deep blue with little white daisies, nothing like the mismatched collection our mom pilfered from restaurants and hotels.
“Since when have you become a runner?”
“Since I saw how much good it does for you mentally and emotionally.” He shrugs. “My last rehab center was surrounded by nature trails. One of the counselors did ultra-marathons. I’ve never been a great sleeper, so I started tagging along.”
“That’s what you were doing yesterday morning when you saw Jake drop me off?”
“I saw him drop you two blocks from your house like he didn’t want any witnesses to you getting out of his car. Like he has a problem being seen with you.”
I carry the mugs to the table while Nick scoops the sandwiches onto a cutting board. “It’s not Jake who has a problem with it. This is a small town. I don’t want people talking about us when there’s nothing to talk about.”
“Yeah, well, maybe we should talk about me seeing him at the rodeo with another woman. What the hell, Iris?”
He places a plate with four perfect triangles of the grilled cheese sandwich in front of me, then turns around and opens the refrigerator to grab a bottle of Dijon mustard. My throat constricts with emotion when he sets it next to my plate. I’ve always loved dipping any sandwich in mustard, which most people think is gross. Maybe it is, but my brother remembered that I like it.
I squeeze a generous dollop onto my plate, dunk one corner, and then take a big bite. “God, you missed your calling,” I whisper. “It still isn’t any of your business, but I asked Jake to take out the woman he was with tonight.”
“Why would you do that if you have feelings for him?”
My heart squeezes. “I don’t have feelings for him. Like you said, Jake doesn’t do relationships. I’d be a fool to fall for him.”
My brother takes a sip of tea and then adds another spoonful of honey. “You aren’t a fool, but I swear I’ll beat the shit out of Jake Byrne if he hurts you.”
“I’m not going to let him hurt me.” Liar , my heart screams. Because it doesn’t mean he couldn’t. Or that I haven’t already let him close enough to try.
“I hope not.”
“Besides, you don’t need to fight my battles, especially against your best friend.”
“Jake and I aren’t about to start braiding each other’s hair, Sis. But speaking of battles, some tool bag at the rodeo was bragging to his loser entourage about kicking your ass in the upcoming election. You texted that the election is just a formality. You’re running unopposed.”
I take another bite, then lick a tendril of cheese off my finger. “You really are checking up on me. That tool is Homer Moore’s nephew.”
“Jesus Christ, Iris.” He drops his mug to the table, dark liquid splashing over the rim. “You’re a glutton for punishment. First Jake, and then you want to dredge up the scandal that ran you out of town in the first place.”
“It wasn’t my scandal.”
“Do you think anybody cares? You’re her daughter.”
“I’m nothing like her.” Liar .
“I don’t want to see you get hurt or watch your perfect reputation torn to shreds in an election. You have a history here, whether you like it or not. If Homer Moore’s nephew is going to the trouble of running against you, he’ll use it.”
I cross my arms over my chest, hating the truth in his words. But they aren’t the whole truth. “Mom wasn’t the only one who caused trouble here.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Do you want me to leave? No one but you and Jake even know I’ve been here. It can be one more secret to bond the two of you.”
Instead of reacting, I force myself to take a slow, steadying breath and then meet his eyes, several shades darker than mine. “I don’t want you to leave, and I’m sick of secrets. I want to get to know you again, Nick. Please stay. I promise I know what I’m doing.”
“You always do, Iris,” he says after a long moment.
I stand and walk around the table, wrapping my arms around him. “Not always. But when it comes to you and me, I know I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too, Sis. Now sit down and finish your sandwich.” He squeezes me tight. “The past can’t be changed, Iris, but it’s a hell of a teacher.”
“We’ve both had some hard lessons. It’s time for something better.” I just hope I’ve learned enough to move on without my past defining me.