Chapter 31
Ididn’t think much of the texts at first. I had received a few midweek check-ins from Iris.
A question about whether I’d tried the sushi place she’d told me about, a photo of a dog in a sweater that she saw on the subway, a “fun fact” about serotonin that I hadn’t asked for.
Yet I replied to all of them. Not too quickly, I didn’t want her to think I had just been sitting here with nothing else to do but read her text messages as soon as they came in.
That was exactly what I had been doing when they came in, but I didn’t want her to know that.
So, after waiting a bit and overthinking my responses, I did reply.
Then on Friday night, she sent me another text in response to something I had said earlier.
IRIS
Wait. You’ve never had a sleepover?
DANNY
How with everything you know about my childhood are you surprised that I haven’t had a sleepover?
IRIS
Okay, well pack your bags. We’re doing one.
DANNY
huh
IRIS
Next session is a sleepover. You and me. My place. I’ll supply marshmallows and moral support.
I told myself I had no other choice but to agree.
She sounded so excited. How could I let her down?
I would let her give me all these missed life experiences, to make her happy, and then one day I’d leave and hope she wouldn’t think of me again.
I’d gulped at the thought of that and then told myself not to think about that either.
The day of my next session, as I packed and repacked my bag, the panic began to set in slowly.
I’d drafted three different excuses to text her but found myself deleting them.
I imagined her face as she received my lame excuse as to why I couldn’t attend her therapeutic sleepover and I couldn’t do it.
So, I finally shoved everything back into my bag and zipped it shut.
I could survive one night with her even if it came with talking about my feelings and scented candles.
So instead of backing out on her, I texted Carter.
DANNY
SOS
DANNY
she is making me have a sleepover at her house tonight
DANNY
WHAT DO I DO?
It took him three minutes to respond. I chewed two of my fingernails off in that time.
CARTER
bag her
CARTER
but bring condoms
DANNY
are you 14 years old?
CARTER
a 14 year old would have fucked her by now
DANNY
ew. I can’t go. What if that’s what she’s thinking?
CARTER
you’re overthinking it. Just go
CARTER
bring the condoms just in case.
DANNY
I’m not gonna fuck her Carter.
CARTER
and here I thought you were brave…
Evening had come faster than I wanted it to, but I kept my word and took an Uber to her place.
I stood outside Iris’s apartment building with a backpack slung over my shoulder—a change of clothes, pajamas, deodorant and my toothbrush stuffed in it.
I also held a bag full of Chinese food and had a bouquet of flowers tucked into the crook of my arm.
I didn’t know what you were supposed to bring to a sleepover as I had never been invited to one as a kid, and although I really didn’t want to attend one as an adult, I still needed to do it right.
Iris opened the door wearing socks, leggings and a long, oversized hoodie that said, “it’s not clocking to you” across the front. Her hair was up. Her face was makeup-free.
“Hi,” she said, like this was all perfectly normal.
“You’re underdressed for therapy.” The words tumbled out of me. I hoped I didn’t sound as awkward as I felt. She smiled and stepped back, opening the door more to make room for me to go in.
“Come in. I already set up the smores station.”
Her apartment smelled like jasmine and toasted marshmallows.
There were candles lit, but not in a weird romantic way, rather in a cozy, adult sleepover way.
The lights were dim; her couch had a stack of blankets on it.
She’d even built a pillow fort on one side and hung twinkling lights around it making it look like an adult fairy house.
My chest tightened—not with dread, but with that weird ache I always got when I stepped into a scene of life that I clearly didn’t belong in. I was so, so fucked.
We ate our dinner while sitting on the floor because all the couch cushions were being used for the fort. We had General Tso’s, fried rice, egg rolls, wonton soup, and she also ate a veggie option that I didn’t touch.
Iris told me stories about growing up attending a church youth group and sneaking out to see romance movies behind her dad’s back.
I told her about my first part-time job—stacking boxes at a thrift store run by a man named Gary who had named all his mannequins.
She laughed so hard she snorted, then covered her face like her dribbling a bit of her iced tea down her chin wasn’t adorable.
“Do you think he was like…” She blushed and didn’t finish her sentence.
“Like what?”
She looked uncomfortable for the first time since I’d met her.
“You know… was inappropriate with the mannequins?”
“I don’t think you can be. They’re just one solid piece of plastic.
” I felt the tips of my ears go red. I was pathetic and I knew it.
Carter would have already sweet-talked his way into her bed.
He’d know what to say to make mannequins seem sexy.
I, on the other hand, was like an awkward pre-pubescent teenager.
She made a non-committal “hmm” sound, and we both sat there wondering if Gary had molested his mannequins after hours.
After we cleaned up from dinner, we watched the movie Wicked and made s’mores in the fire on her stove.
She’d turned off the rest of lights and brought out flashlights for the scary story portion of the night.
Hers was about a haunted doll in a glass case.
Mine was about a foster home with walls that whispered.
She didn’t speak for a long time after I finished, in fact I thought I might have heard her sniffle.
But I didn’t say anything to ruin the moment.
Eventually she said, “You always tell the truth when you’re trying to scare me. ”
“Am I scary enough?” I asked, trying to make it sound like a joke. But I knew it didn’t land that way.
“I’m not scared of you.” She paused; her voice grew softer. “But sometimes I’m scared for you.”
That hit harder than it should have. I looked over—her legs were tucked beneath her, a flashlight rested against her knee, her eyes caught the low amber glow from the one light she had turned back on in the kitchen, and she wasn’t smiling.
“For what exactly?” I asked, quieter.
“For what’s still living inside you that you haven’t said out loud yet.”
My throat tightened. She didn’t press but she didn’t look away either. And in that moment, I felt more vulnerable than I had standing on top of an elevator shaft or hanging out in a tornado.
“I don’t want to be someone people are scared for,” I muttered.
“I think you don’t want to be someone people care about,” she said gently. “Because then you’d have something to lose since you’d have the chance to care back.”
I made a joke about being sure that sleepovers weren’t meant to be this emotional, but deep down I knew she was right.
It was past midnight when I finally stood in her bathroom, toothbrush in hand, trying not to hyperventilate.
Her counter was covered with neat rows of lotions, an electric water pic and creams that smelled like flowers.
Everything around me felt too quiet even though I could hear the soft music she’d put on drifting down the hall.
I could smell the lingering scent of coconut shampoo from the towel on the hook behind the door.
I was in her space—the most real, unfiltered version of her—and it felt intimate in a way I hadn’t prepared myself for.
I splashed water on my face and stared at my reflection.
“You’re just going to sleep,” I whispered.
“Don’t fuck this up.” My pep talk worked, and I finally opened the door and left the safety of her bathroom.
When I stepped back into the living room, she was sitting cross-legged on the couch in a long-sleeved pajama top that looked like a hockey jersey and sweatpants.
The shirt had the name Rozanov across the back.
I wasn’t a sports guy so I had no idea who he was.
The glow from the kitchen light framed her like she was a painting set out on display in a gallery.
Her feet were bare; her hair had fallen out of its bun.
She looked up and everything stopped. The silence between us crackled.
Not loud. Not sudden. Not even obvious. But the moment was…
charged. Like we were on the edge of something neither of us had a way to describe.
I sat down at the other end of the couch.
Close enough to feel it. Far enough not to act on it.
“Thanks for agreeing to do this,” she said quietly.
“Thanks for inviting me.”
She nodded. After a pause, she added, “You know… if we were ten years old, this would be the part where we made friendship bracelets and gossiped about our crushes.”
“Who says I don’t want to make bracelets?”
“I’ll add it to your treatment plan.”
I laughed. Then stopped. “Why are you doing this?”
She tilted her head. “Doing what?”
“This. The sleepover. The texting. The sushi. All of it. You know you’ve crossed a line.” I knew I was being blunt, but I didn’t really have time to beat around the bush. Her voice didn’t falter when she said, “Yeah. I know.”
“So why?”
She let out a long breath and then said, “Because I think you need it.”
“You’re my life coach, not my…”
She looked at me. Not simply a glance from over a pillow, but directly at me.
“Not your what?”
My throat tightened.
“Not my person,” I said, quieter than I’d meant to be.
She didn’t respond. Didn’t move. Just sat with what I had said. Then she reached for the remote to turn off the music and said, softly, “I hope you sleep well tonight, Danny.”
I did. I didn’t have any nightmares. I didn’t wake up with my fists clenched, thrashing amongst the blankets. I slept and experienced stillness in the night for the first time.
The next thing I knew, morning light filtered in through the windows. I blinked once. Twice. Then I sat up. Iris was already awake, and I found her curled up in the corner of the couch with a book in her lap. Her eyes flicked over to me from the top of the pages.
“Morning,” she said.
I groaned. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like mornings are good.”
She smiled. “Did you sleep well?”
“Unfortunately, very well, yes.”
“Any nightmares?”
“Nope.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That’s kind of a big deal.”
I rubbed my face; my skin was prickly from the hair that had grown in overnight. My voice came out gravelly. “I think my inner child liked the sleepover.”
Her face lit up. “Did he?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
She set the book down and stood. Then she came over, knelt in front of me, and before I could process what was happening, her arms were around me as she hugged me.
It was simple human-to-human contact. It didn’t feel weird or like something it shouldn’t.
It was just arms around my torso and a cheek pressed lightly to my shoulder.
I sat there, frozen until I let myself lean into it—just a little.
Before I knew it, I was hugging her back.
She was warm and soft against me. She smelled so good.
And the contact made me feel safe and seen.
I tried to memorize the shape of her. Why was my throat swelling up like that?
I dropped my arms. She backed away. But for a second, I forgot why I had ever wanted to die.
My phone buzzed as I gathered my stuff and headed to the front door to leave.
CARTER
so did you bag her?
DANNY
you know I didn’t.
DANNY
But it was a really good night. I think it wasn’t just for me. I think she actually enjoyed it too.
CARTER
you don’t say…