Chapter 21
Stupid is as Stupid Does
IRIS
Is it possible to be heartbroken when you’ve never been in love?
Probably not, right? That doesn’t make any sense. What would there be to be heartbroken over?
But if that’s not possible, then why does every breath I take feel empty? And why can I taste the salt of tears on my lips? If heartbreak without love is not possible, why does the steady rhythm in my chest feel so foreign? As if I’m hearing it for the very first time?
It is quiet, a persistent whisper in my ears.
All I want to do is reach down my throat and pry it free. If only it would go back to being silent.
But maybe this is my punishment for being foolish. For allowing myself to believe for even a moment that someone, somewhere, could love a monster like me.
Or maybe it really isn’t heartbreak.
Maybe I’m just hungry. Or angry. Or some combination of the two.
Whatever it is, it hurts, and I spend the better part of an hour drowning in it before I’m able to pull myself into a seated position.
Thank fate, Elsie is out with her secret. She wouldn’t take kindly to me getting snot on the sofa cushions, and she’d probably ask me a million questions. Questions like, ‘what’s wrong?’ or ‘what happened?’
Questions I don’t have an answer to.
What would I say?
A boy hurt my feelings?
“Big whoop, eat him,” she’d say.
I put my faith in a man?
“Stupid is as stupid does,” she’d say.
The only man I’ve ever trusted lied to me?
No, that’s not right, not quite.
The only man who’s ever seen me for what I am could never love me.
What would she say to that?
I don’t think I want to know.
Moonlight is streaming in through the windows, and there’s an Iris-shaped dent in the couch when I finally get up, but I quickly slouch off to my room to make another in my bed.
The plush fabric of the pillows softens the harsh reality, but she’s a persistent old bitch, and the moment my eyes slide shut, she re-establishes herself.
My phone starts to buzz.
I ignore it the first time. And the second and third. But on the sixth or seventh ring, I decide to make use of the rage scratching at my skin to be free.
“Look here, motherfucker—” I shout into the speaker, blood pooling in my face, fingers fisting the sheets, but my anger is cut down when a voice answers.
“Iris?”
“Dame?”
“Sorry if I woke you,” he says, his deep voice soft in my ear. “I’ve been calling you for hours.”
I sit up, blinking against the harsh light of the screen as I check my call logs.
For the last two hours, Dame has called me every fifteen minutes, and in a single breath, my mind conjures every possibility. Most of them end with Elliot either dead or caged.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Dame says. “Have you heard from Elliot?”
“No, I haven’t seen him since the Inquisition’s Office. He went home for the moon.”
There’s a muffled grumbling sound as Dame takes a moment to respond. When he speaks again, his voice is tight, and my stomach sinks.
“He should’ve been home by now,” he says. “He’s never there this long.”
A quiet voice chimes in from the background.
“Tell her to call him. He’ll answer her.”
“Why would he answer her and not me?” Dame asks, speaking to the other person in the room with him.
“Just do it,” the voice answers.
It’s almost five in the morning, and the voice sounds sleepy.
“Who is that?” I ask.
“Kitty,” Dame answers.
Bullshit.
“Can you call him?” he asks. “Elliot shouldn’t be on his own after a shift. He’s not like the rest of us...”
Yeah, he definitely isn’t. He’s an idiot without a heart.
Dame’s explanation is interrupted by a loud thud, slamming into the front door, and I spring from the bed, reaching for the blade I now keep tucked under my pillow.
“Hang on,” I whisper into the speaker as I pad out into the hall.
Faintly, I can hear Dame calling my name as I creep toward the door, but I ignore him.
There’s now a heavy scraping sound coming from the other side, growing louder with every step.
I ready myself, blade aloft, tip down as Isaac taught me, and suck in a deep breath before I yank the door open.
A tall figure, cloaked in black, comes tumbling through the doorway, and I sigh as it straightens, propping itself up against the doorframe with a groan.
“Dame,” I mutter into the phone. “He’s fine. I found him.”
“What? Wait, Iris—”
I hit end just in time to catch Elliot as he slumps away from the wall, reaching for me.
He grins sloppily as my arm comes around him, and his hand lifts to stroke my face, but it doesn’t quite make it before his arm goes limp, and it drops back to his side.
“Are you drunk?” I ask.
“I wish,” he grumbles. “At least then it wouldn’t hurt so bad.”
He pries himself from my grip, takes two tangled steps into the room, and collapses onto the couch, face down, shoes on, arms and legs splayed out like a dying star.
“Cross, what are you doing here?”
“I came to apologize,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
The words are muffled as he speaks them directly into the cushions.
“Oh, so you can feel guilt, I see.”
He shakes his head.
“I don’t feel guilty,” he corrects.
“Then what are you apologizing for?” I ask, contemplating whether I may still have use for this knife.
“You’re upset,” he explains. “I don’t like when you’re upset. It hurts.”
In explanation, he points at the leather choker around his throat. The thick band is weathered from his years of prying and scratching at it, and I wonder how many times I’ve seen him choking beneath this dampener without even knowing.
Before I can answer, he groans into the cushions and pushes up on his elbow to look at me.
“Gods, you’re so beautiful. It’s disgusting.”
Definitely drunk.
“Alright,” I sigh, setting the blade on the coffee table. “Come on.”
I help him out of the heavy leather jacket and pull his boots from his feet, leaving them where they fall.
Lifting his giant head is no easy task, but he cooperates, rising up just enough for me to wedge a pillow underneath.
I drape a blanket over him and manage to roll him onto his side just in case.
“Goodnight, Cross.”
He mutters some semblance of acknowledgment, and I leave him to his fitful sleep on the too-small couch. But I don’t make it very far before his hand latches around my calf.
“Don’t lock it. Please. I’ll be good,” he says. “I promise, I’ll be good.”
“What?”
His eyes are closed as the words tumble from his mouth, and I squat down, brushing his hair out of his face. There’s a scrape above his temple, and he winces as my thumb swipes over it.
“Elliot, what are you talking about? Lock what?”
He doesn’t answer me. He merely strokes my thigh as he mutters, “I’ll be good.”
“Okay, shhh. I won’t lock it.”
A small smile tugs at his mouth, and I stroke his back until his breathing grows deep and his hand falls limp along the floor.
I leave the light on in the hall, and my door cracked as I crawl back into bed, but the crushing feeling from before returns tenfold the moment my head hits the pillow.
As I lay there, listening to the new thrum of my heart, I change my mind.
It’s definitely possible.