1. IRIS #2
Ivan's jaw works, that telltale sign he's fighting something back. "He's our new neighbor."
"What?" I twist in my seat, staring at him.
"Moved in three houses away last weekend." His knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. "His parents showed up at our doorstep Sunday afternoon with some homemade pie, all smiles and neighborly bullshit. Introduced themselves, introduced their son."
My stomach drops. Of course. Of course Nate lives on our street now.
"They seemed nice enough." Ivan takes a corner too fast, the tires protesting slightly. "All polite conversation and 'we're so happy to be part of the community' garbage. His mom went on about how their last neighborhood didn't work out, something about wanting a fresh start."
I file that away—fresh start—but don't interrupt.
"The kid stood there with all politeness and smiles." Ivan's voice roughens. "All charm and practiced friendliness. Shook my hand, looked me right in the eye, said all the right things."
"And?"
"And something's off." He rolls his shoulders, tension radiating off him in waves. "Can't put my finger on it, but my gut says he's not what he pretends to be."
"Your gut." I cross my arms, ignoring how the movement presses my sensitive breasts against the flannel. "Maybe you just don't like that he's young and popular and?—"
"And nothing." Ivan cuts me off, his gaze flicking to mine before returning to the road. "I've been reading people for a decade, Iris. It's what I do. And that kid? He's hiding something."
The certainty in his voice sends a chill down my spine, but I push it away. Ivan's being overprotective. Possessive. Reading danger where there isn't any because he can't stand the thought of?—
Stop.
I turn back to the window, biting my lower lip hard enough to hurt.
"Well, he's just a neighbor. And as you just figured out, not my boyfriend. So you can relax."
Ivan's mouth curves into that infuriating smirk. "So. Not your boyfriend."
"Shut up." I press my palms against my burning cheeks.
"The look on his face when I called him out." He chuckles, low and dark. "Kid looked like he'd walked into a minefield."
"You embarrassed me."
"You embarrassed yourself." His voice drops, teasing. "Making up boyfriends. What are you, twelve?"
"I panicked, okay?" The words burst out defensive, mortified. "You were asking invasive questions and?—"
"And you thought claiming the new transfer as your fictional boyfriend would shut me up?" He shakes his head, that smirk widening. "Sweet, innocent Iris. You're a terrible liar."
Heat floods my entire body—face, neck, chest. My pulse hammers in my ears, and God, the humiliation makes everything worse. Makes me hyperaware of my body's reaction. The dampness between my thighs. The ache in my breasts that's been building all afternoon.
Then it happens.
Warmth spreads across my chest, soaking into the flannel. The fabric clings suddenly, wetness seeping through the cotton layers.
No. Not now. Please not now?—
I glance down. Two dark spots bloom across the blue-and-black plaid, spreading slowly.
Horror crashes over me. My arms fly up, crossing tight against my chest, but it's too late. I've been so careful. So careful keeping this secret, wearing dark colors, checking constantly, changing in bathroom stalls?—
"Iris."
Ivan's voice cuts through my panic. Sharp. Focused.
I can't look at him. Can't breathe.
"What—" He pulls into his driveway, shifts into park, then turns fully toward me. "Are you lactating?"
The clinical word from his mouth makes me want to die. Just curl up and cease existing.
"I—" My voice cracks. "It's not what you think. I'm not pregnant. I don't have a secret baby. I've never even—we already established I'm a virgin, so obviously I don't?—"
"Iris. Stop." He holds up a hand, jaw working. "That's not—Christ, I know you're not pregnant. You haven't had a boyfriend since birth." The words come out flat, matter-of-fact. "You're too uptight. You intimidate every guy at that school just by existing."
"Excuse me?" Indignation flares hot in my chest, momentarily overriding the mortification. "I do not?—"
"You do." His gaze drops to where my arms press against the damp flannel. "What I want to know is what's causing the lactation? Could it be hormones? Cancer?"
I bite my lower lip hard enough to taste copper. This is the worst conversation of my entire life. Worse than the sex talk with Mom. Worse than getting my period in gym class freshman year.
"It's called spontaneous lactation." The words come out small, defensive. "It just... happens sometimes. To some people. The doctor said it's hormonal, probably stress or—I don't know. She ran tests. Everything came back normal, so she said it'll go away on its own."
Ivan stares at me. Processing.
"How long?"
"A few months." I fiddle with the flannel's string, unable to meet his eyes. "It started over summer. Before... before I moved in with you."
"And you haven't told anyone?"
"Yes." My voice drops to barely a whisper. "I don't want our parents to know. They'll freak out, ask a million questions, drag me to specialists. The doctor said it'll resolve itself, so I just need to wait it out and manage it until then."
"Manage it." He repeats the phrase slowly.
The silence stretches between us, heavy and charged. Ivan's jaw clenches. That muscle ticks in his temple.
I reach for the door handle, desperate to escape this conversation, this car, the weight of his gaze?—
"Do you actually like Nate?"
My hand freezes. Something in Ivan's voice catches me—forced casual, like he doesn't even want to ask this question.