10. IRIS
IRIS
Six weeks later…
The chandelier above Mom and Mark's dining table casts warm light over the after-graduation celebratory dinner spread—roasted chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, glazed carrots—but my stomach twists too tight to enjoy any of it.
"So, sweetheart," Mom says, beaming as she refills my water glass. "Have you given more thought to State versus Portland Community? Both have excellent creative writing programs."
"State's further," Mark adds, cutting into his chicken. "But the dorms are newer. You'd get the full college experience."
Ivan's thumb traces slow circles on my palm beneath the table, grounding me. His knee presses against mine, steady and warm through my jeans.
"I haven't decided yet," I manage, pushing a carrot around my plate.
"Well, there's time." Mom reaches over to squeeze my shoulder. "We're just so proud of you, honey. Valedictorian! And that scholarship?—"
"She's brilliant," Ivan cuts in, his voice rougher than usual. His fingers tighten around mine. "Whatever she chooses, she'll excel."
Heat crawls up my neck. Under the table, I squeeze back—soon—trying to telegraph the promise we made on the drive here.
Mark chuckles. "Good to see you two getting along so well. I worried at first, throwing you together like that, but Rebecca said it would work out."
"It worked out," Ivan says flatly.
The weight in his tone makes Mom glance between us, her fork pausing midair. "You've been taking good care of her, Ivan. I can't thank you enough."
"Taking care of her comes naturally."
My pulse hammers. The circles on my palm speed up—nervous energy bleeding through his controlled exterior. I recognize the tell: jaw clenched, shoulders rolled back, the same tension that surfaces when he's fighting to keep something contained.
Now or never.
My mouth opens, throat dry, but no sound comes out.
"We're together."
Ivan's voice cuts through the pleasant dinner chatter like a blade through silk. His hand releases mine and moves to the back of my neck—possessive, claiming—fingers warm against my skin.
Mom's fork clatters against her plate. "What?"
"Iris and I. We're in a relationship." His thumb strokes along my nape, grounding me even as my heart tries to punch through my ribs. "We're in love."
Mark goes completely still, knife and fork suspended over his chicken. His hazel eyes—so like Ivan's—turn stormy. "You're joking."
"I'm not."
"Ivan—" Mom's voice cracks. Her face drains of color, warm brown eyes widening. "You can't be serious. She's eighteen. She's your?—"
"Stepsister. Not blood." Ivan's jaw clenches. "And yes, she's eighteen. An adult."
"An adult who just graduated high school!" Mark's silverware hits the table. "Christ, Ivan. How long has this been going on?"
The silence stretches, suffocating. My fingers twist in my lap, nails digging crescents into my palms.
"More than six weeks," Ivan says evenly.
"More than six weeks?" Mom's hand flies to her mouth. "Oh my God. While she was living under your roof? While we trusted you to—" Her voice breaks. "How could you? She's innocent, Ivan. She trusted you. We trusted you."
"I trust him," I whisper, finally finding my voice. "Mom, I?—"
"You don't understand what you're saying." She turns to me, eyes shining. "Honey, you're so young. You don't see how wrong this is. He's twenty-seven. He should have known better."
"I knew exactly what I was doing," Ivan cuts in. "And so did she."
Mark pushes back from the table, chair scraping loud against hardwood. "You took advantage of her innocence. Of the situation. We sent her to you because we thought she'd be safe with you." He pinches the bridge of his nose, going quiet. "What were you thinking?"
"I was thinking I love her."
"Love." Mark's laugh comes out bitter. "You've ruined her, Ivan. Her reputation, her future?—"
"I haven't ruined anything."
"College, internships, grad school—do you think anyone will take her seriously when they find out she's shacked up with her stepbrother?"
"Stop."
The word tears out of me louder than I intend, cutting through the accusations flying across the table. My hands shake as I push to my feet, chair scraping back.
Everyone freezes.
"Just—stop talking about me like I'm not here.
Like I'm some helpless little girl who doesn't know her own mind.
" My voice cracks but I push through. "I love him.
Not because he manipulated me or took advantage or any of the things you're imagining.
He didn't. I love him because he sees me. Really sees me."
Mom's tears spill over. "Honey?—"
"No. Listen." I swallow hard, fingers curling into fists at my sides. "You want to know what Ivan did? He saved me. When that guy tried to—at prom—" The memory chokes me for a second. "Ivan stopped him. Got there in time. And then he made sure I felt safe again."
Ivan's hand finds mine, lacing our fingers together. The contact steadies me.
"He didn't push me into anything," I continue, voice stronger now.
"He gave me space to figure out what I wanted.
He protected me. Made me laugh. Helped me stop being so scared of everything all the time.
" My gaze shifts between Mom and Mark. "I'm happier with him than I've ever been. Doesn't that matter?"
"Of course it matters." Mom's voice breaks. "But the circumstances?—"
"The circumstances are that we fell in love. That's it." I squeeze Ivan's hand. "And you can accept it or not, but it won't change how I feel."
Mark crosses his arms, jaw working. The silence stretches taut.
"There's something else." My heart hammers against my ribs. Ivan's thumb strokes over my knuckles—he doesn't know what's coming. "I'm pregnant."
Ivan goes completely still beside me. His hand tightens around mine, grip almost painful.
"What?"
I turn to face him, swallowing against the thickness in my throat. "I took three tests yesterday. All positive. I wanted to tell you after dinner but—" A shaky laugh escapes. "Guess the timing worked out differently."
His eyes search mine, dark and intense, shock bleeding into something fierce and bright. "You're pregnant." Not a question. A statement he's testing out, tasting. "With my baby."
"Yes."
His free hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "Jesus, Iris." But he's smiling—that devastating smile that transforms his whole face. "We're having a baby."
"We're having a baby," I whisper back.
He kisses me then, hard and claiming, like he's forgotten our parents are watching. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.
"Oh my God." Mom's voice cuts through our bubble. I turn to find her gripping the edge of the table, face pale. "Iris. This is—this changes everything."
"Rebecca." Mark's hand covers hers. His jaw works, eyes moving between Ivan and me. When he speaks again, his voice comes out rough. "It's done. They're having a child."
Mom's tears fall faster. She smooths her hand over the tablecloth—once, twice. "Ivan." She looks at him directly. "You need to take care of her. Really take care of her. She's my daughter."
"I will." Ivan's voice drops low, steady. "I swear to you, I will."
Mark's gaze locks on his son, hard and assessing. "You provide for her. Protect her." His throat works. "She's your responsibility now."
"She always was."