Chapter Thirteen
All night, Iris had thought about Barrett.
About how much she’d told Barrett, about Barrett’s past and how that influenced who she was in the present, and about just how much she was avoiding her friends but not avoiding Barrett.
Still, she needed how they interacted at work to stay the same.
Whatever was going on in their newly expanded dynamic, it was an outside of work thing.
In the office, where Iris worked so blisteringly hard to stay normal and competent, she couldn’t have Barrett being soft and kind and revealing the cracks that splintered everything Iris was.
For maybe the first time ever, Penn made it in before either of them, so she hadn’t needed to worry about being caught alone with Barrett.
However, when she’d arrived to find the office already unlocked, Penn sitting at their desk and grinning widely at her, she’d hated that alongside the calming anxiety was a swell of disappointment.
She’d spent half the night lying awake, spiraling on what Barrett might say to her when it was just the two of them and the morning sun streaming into the office.
She’d worried about what to say to someone who’d bared so much of their soul to her—and then told a terrible joke just to leave her on a less sour note.
Barrett didn’t make any sense, and Iris had no idea what to do with that.
But, instead of Barrett and whatever drinks she was insisting on making, it was Penn looking at her as she took out her meager pot of yogurt and set it in the staff fridge.
“How’s the McMillan project?” they asked brightly.
Iris pulled herself up, feeling her back muscles burning as she did. “Yeah, okay. We’ll need an LPC review of the requested addition, and the HVAC will be a little tricky, but I’ll make it work.”
The LPC, or Landmarks Preservation Commission, was going to be the trickiest part.
When they’d first taken the project, the client hadn’t mentioned wanting any additions.
Of course, last night, she’d received an email requesting the addition of a glass extension.
It had almost been a welcome distraction from thinking about Barrett when she’d gotten home—read the request, assess it, email Penn, and resolutely don’t spiral on why Barrett was being so nice, why it had to be her who saw what Iris was going through.
Now, however, she was faced with the reality of trying to make it happen.
On historical buildings, you couldn’t make additions to the roof that were visible from the street, and the LPC had to approve how appropriate the plans were.
Iris understood how they worked. The McMillan client did not.
Or, at least, he seemed not to care, insisting that Iris could make it happen and give him exactly what he wanted simply because he’d seen it somewhere else in the city.
On a newer building, Iris would have wagered good money.
Penn was talking through Iris’ initial thoughts on the design when the door cracked and every cell in her body suddenly felt overheated.
Tiny feet clattered across the floor and she bent to scoop up Oscar without a second though.
His tail wagged happily as he settled into her arms, and, while it was adorable, the way it hit her side reminded her inexorably of Barrett’s fingers tapping against her ribs.
Every part of her mind was suddenly taken up by the need to concentrate on Penn and not on feeling Barrett moving around the office.
This was why she couldn’t be friends with Barrett, why they weren’t supposed to be involved in each other’s lives outside this place, because, the second they were, the air was weird and loaded and she had no idea what to expect.
Of course, when Barrett was done making coffee, she simply joined them in the main room like nothing had changed at all. She greeted Penn first, placing a latte on their desk unobtrusively as she shot Iris only the smallest of smiles. Her usual office smile.
It was foolish and dangerous and entirely illogical, but Iris was… bothered. She’d wanted normal, she’d wanted Barrett to refrain from saying anything incriminating. And, apparently, she’d wanted that annoying hello, princess before Penn got a greeting. Why?
Barrett was doing the exact right thing.
Penn was their boss, and Iris wasn’t anything special, particularly not to Barrett.
Was it simply that she’d gotten so used to those moments in the morning, when it was just her, Barrett, and Oscar, that it was disruptive to go without it?
She couldn’t remember the last time her day had started with something other than being called princess by a smug Barrett.
“And your cappuccino, princess,” Barrett said, winking at Iris when she reappeared from around the corner with two mugs and placed one on Iris’ desk.
Iris nodded, taking a steadying breath. Her distress had simply stemmed from needing to hear Barrett interact with her like usual.
In the confirmation that last night hadn’t ruined everything, she could breathe again.
Yet, it lasted only a minute because, as Penn turned back to their screen, scanning Iris’ email again, Barrett pulled a small Mason jar from her bag and placed it on Iris’ desk, right beside her coffee.
Iris wrung her hands together behind her back, eyes flicking between the jar and the side of Penn’s head. Their words came through a gauzy filter, Iris’ mind running battling tracks. One, taking note of Penn’s suggestions. The other… screaming. The latter was more demanding.
“You see what I mean?” Penn asked, looking up at Iris with a bright smile.
“Of course. I agree that’s likely the best way to deal with the whole thing.” Iris was fairly sure she agreed. She’d heard every word Penn said. She just hadn’t… followed their meaning. But Penn was her boss and an excellent architect. They were bound to be right.
Penn laughed. “Well, I’m just rehashing what you told me, so I’m sure you do.”
“Right. I’ll, uh, get to it, then.”
Penn shot a thumbs up in her direction before putting a pair of heavy-duty headphones on and turning back to their own project. There was something about Penn that felt so much younger than their age. And there were so many things about Iris’ life that were making her feel so much older than hers.
Her mind bounced between roof extensions and LPC policies and Barrett. The woman wasn’t even looking at her. She was typing and turned away, and still she was like a neutron star—an undeniable gravitational force.
Iris sat down, Oscar settling readily in her lap with his head resting in the crook of her arm, and slid the mug towards herself. Followed by the Mason jar.
It was still cold to the touch, condensation wetting Iris’ skin as she moved it.
Barrett had tied a small tag around it, and Iris ran her fingers over the small, pink heart on one side.
Barrett hadn’t drawn that on. Apparently, she simply owned gift tags with little hearts on them.
Still, Iris’ heart couldn’t take the conundrum of Barrett having chosen it.
Surely, she owned other gift tags or other pieces of paper. It hadn’t needed to be that one.
Her hand shook as she turned it over slowly, her teeth clamped tightly together.
But she didn't need to worry. Not overly, at least. There was no sentimental message, nothing that broke the weird code of conduct Iris needed between them. Sure, it was an unnecessary gift, but it wasn’t made worse by emotions.
All Barrett had written was the name of the dish and a list of its ingredients, limited though they were. A chocolate tofu pudding.
Iris had seen them before—had even made one before. It was a good way to get some protein and not worry too much about it feeling like a real meal. It was chocolate pudding. She hadn’t eaten breakfast in two weeks, but she could probably eat that.
Her screen swam briefly as she looked at it. She had to eat the pudding. Barrett had gone out of her way to make it and to provide an ingredient list. She’d spent her evening walking with Iris, feeding her pizza, and, now, quite inexplicably, she was bringing breakfast.
And Iris wasn’t going to think about how sweet a gesture that truly was. Or about the heart. She definitely wasn’t thinking about the heart. That was too… familiar, too caring, and Iris had done nothing to earn that. Barrett had no reason to care about her.
She replied to emails and steadied her breathing, and she did everything she could not to realize that Barrett, between whatever she was working on, was also eating a small jar of the chocolate pudding.
If Penn looked around, they’d see the two of them with matching jars and none for them. And what would that mean?
Had Barrett been imagining the two of them enjoying breakfast together before Penn arrived?
Would they have sat together, Barrett talking a mile a minute to distract Iris from the fact that they were eating?
Because, no matter what, Iris was not distracted enough not to realize that was what Barrett had been doing last night.
Buy one slice of pizza, pass it off to Iris for convenience, and keep her talking so she wasn’t thinking about food.
It wasn’t the worst idea. She’d even done it in therapy before—agreed ahead of time that she’d bring a snack with her, made it easily available during the session, and Phoebe kept her talking while she ate without thinking about it too hard.
But Barrett wasn’t her therapist. She wasn’t getting paid to help Iris.
If anything, it was costing her money. The pizza last night, the time and ingredients for the pudding.
And none of that made sense. Why did Barrett care?
Stepping in by accidentally being there the night Iris ran into Natasha was not a catalyst that forced Barrett to look after her. She’d have to make that clear tonight.
With a sly glance Penn’s way to ensure they were still wearing headphones and locked in on their project, Iris popped the jar open. She barely avoided screaming in surprise when Barrett’s arm shot into her peripheral vision.
She turned to look at her, eyes wide, only to be met with Barrett’s smiling profile, one dimple visible as she kept her eyes on her desk. But the rest of her attention was on Iris, that much was obvious.
She was reaching her arm across the space between them, her chair rolled back a few paces, to offer a small bag of slivered almonds. More nutrients.
Iris registered that she’d sprinkled them on the top of her own pudding—and that Barrett had clearly been eating slowly and paying more than a little attention to Iris as she waited for the familiar pop of the jar’s lid.
Without a word, and while sucking in a breath as steadily as she could, Iris reached out and took the bag, sprinkled almonds on her own pudding, and handed it back.
Barrett lingered when she did—Iris would swear to it—her hand almost cupping Iris’ as she gradually retrieved the small bag. Sure, given that she wasn’t looking, some extra care was required to prevent the almonds from spilling, but that wasn’t what was happening.
And, when Iris managed to face her computer again, seeing nothing on the screen as her mind fixated on the amount of communication that had just passed between the two of them without a word or even a shared glance, she absolutely was not concentrating on the food and how complicated eating felt.
She was concentrating on how cold and sharp the spoon felt on her lip—and how unflatteringly it could be compared to the soft, warm skin of Barrett’s hand.