Chapter 7 Iris #2
“Ex-husband,” I cut in sharply, the correction automatic after all this time.
Collin’s brows shoot up into his hair, a lazy grin stretching across his face that deepens the dimple in his left cheek.
Of course he’s enjoying this. Some of my earlier anxiety dissolves at his complete lack of intimidation.
The same easy confidence I’ve seen on the ice radiates from him now, and why shouldn’t it?
A guy like Collin would eat Owen for lunch any day of the week.
Just his presence alone deflates some of Owen’s bluster, and I feel my shoulders relaxing slightly, my breath coming a bit easier.
It’s strange having someone else in this space.
Someone utterly unimpressed by Owen’s posturing.
Owen shifts his weight, that familiar muscle twitching in his jaw.
The shadows from the parking lot lights carve harsh lines across his face.
He turns to face me fully, attempting to create a pocket of private space with his body.
But Collin shifts with him, a subtle movement that maintains his position in Owen’s peripheral vision.
The parking lot lights catch the sharp line of Collin’s jaw, the easy set of his shoulders, brown eyes never leaving Owen, like he’s got all the time in the world to be standing here.
“Do you mind?” Owen’s voice is edged with false politeness, the one he used to use with waiters who brought him the wrong wine. He gestures between Jamie and me with one hand. “We’re in the middle of something here.” Collin purses his lips thoughtfully, then breaks into another slow grin.
“Not at all,” he says, not moving an inch. My gaze darts between them as I bite back a smile.
“Well, he’s already had dinner.” Owen’s tone is louder than necessary, wooden, obviously annoyed.
“Great. Thanks.” I nod, pressing my lips together.
“Jamie’s backpack is in the car,” he adds curtly, stalking back to retrieve it.
When he returns with the little dinosaur-covered backpack, he hands it to me without meeting my eyes, then bends down to hug Jamie goodbye, expression softening for just a moment.
The transformation never fails to catch me off guard.
How easily he can shed that razor-sharp edge when he looks at our son, like flipping a switch between two different people.
I’ve spent years trying to understand it, this magic trick of his: how the same man who can speak to me with such calculated coldness can melt into such genuine warmth for Jamie.
Sometimes I wonder if I imagined the gentleness he once showed me, if it was just another performance I was too naive to see through.
“See you next week, bud.” He pulls Jamie into a fierce hug and then he’s gone.
As his car engine fades into the distance, that familiar vice-grip around my chest begins to loosen.
Beside me, Collin chuckles softly, and when I glance over, he’s watching Owen’s retreating taillights with an expression caught between amusement and disbelief.
“So,” he says, voice warm against the cooling night, “ex-husband?”
“Yeah.” I run a hand over my head, trying to smooth the flyaway curls that dance in the breeze.
My fingers catch on a small tangle. “Sorry about...” I wave my hand vaguely at the empty space where Owen stood, not even sure what I’m apologizing for.
His attitude? The awkwardness? The whole messy, embarrassing situation?
“Hey.” Collin’s voice is firm but gentle. “Don’t apologize for him.” My throat constricts as I look up at him, caught off guard by the quiet certainty in his voice. Gravity indeed.
“Mooooom.” Jamie tugs at my bag, his eyes darting between Collin and me with that look four-year-olds get when they think adults are being particularly dense.
“Oh, right. Jamie, this is my...” I hesitate for a fraction of a second. “Friend, Collin. Collin, this is my son, Jamie.” Without missing a beat, Collin drops to one knee on the asphalt, meeting Jamie at eye level.
“Hey, little man. Nice to meet you.” He holds out his hand with the same earnest formality he’d offered Owen, but this time his smile transforms his whole face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. Jamie, delighted at being treated like a grown-up, puts his small hand in Collin’s.
“Hi,” he says, suddenly shy but grinning. Something shifts in Collin’s expression as he glances between us, like he’s making a decision. A grin snakes it’s way up his face, deepening the dimple in his cheek as his eyes shift back to Jamie.
“You know what?” he says, still at Jamie’s level. “I was thinking about grabbing some ice cream. What do you say we all go? My treat.” Jamie’s eyes light up instantly.
“Can we? Please Mom?”
“I don’t know,” I start, glancing around the parking lot. Dusk is gathering, the light from the sky fading into a soft purple. Collin and Jamie beam up at me, waiting.
“One hour, tops. Promise.” He grins, then stage-whispers to Jamie, “Help me out here, dude.”
“Pleeeease?” Jamie clasps his hands together, bouncing on his toes, and I find myself laughing despite my hesitation. The sound surprises me, light and genuine. Unfamiliar.
“Alright,” I concede, shaking my head at their matching hopeful expressions. “One hour.”
The neon pink of Sweet Scoops glows against the darkening street. Jamie skips ahead, one hand still loosely holding mine while the other traces patterns in the air, his voice carrying back to us on the cool breeze.
“Mom, do you think they’ll have the birthday cake flavor today? Remember last time they were out?” He turns to walk backward, nearly tripping over a crack in the sidewalk. “Oh! And can I tell Collin about Mr. Whiskers?”
“Watch where you’re going, baby.” I steady him, but I’m smiling.
“And I’m sure Collin would love to hear about Mr. Whiskers.
” Jamie needs no further encouragement. As we approach the shop, he launches into an elaborate tale about the class hamster’s latest escapade, something involving an empty paper towel roll and what Jamie insists was a deliberate escape attempt.
“He’s really smart,” Jamie explains to Collin, who listens with surprising attentiveness.
“Mrs. Peterson says hamsters have good memories. That’s why he remembers where she keeps the treats.
” The bell above the door chimes our arrival, and warm air wraps around us, heavy with the scent of waffle cones and vanilla.
A handful of customers dot the cheerful interior.
A couple sharing a sundae in the corner booth, and a tired-looking mom with twins who are pressing their faces against the glass case.
We join the short line, Jamie immediately drawn to the display.
He provides running commentary on each flavor, explaining to Collin which ones are “the good ones” with four-year-old authority.
I stand slightly apart, watching them. The fluorescent lights catch the gold undertones in Collin’s hair where it’s still damp from practice.
He bends down to Jamie’s level, genuinely engaged in a debate about whether rainbow sherbet counts as one flavor or three.
My fingers find the raw spot by my thumb, picking at the edge where I’ve already worried the skin.
Owen’s voice slithers through my mind. The dismissal in his tone.
The way he’d looked at Collin. At me. What must he be thinking now?
Probably congratulating himself on being right about me all along—stupid, selfish—I catch myself mid-spiral, irritation flaring hot beneath my ribs.
No. Owen doesn’t get to narrate my choices anymore. I’ve got to remember that.
“Earth to Iris.” Collin’s voice pulls me back. He’s watching me with those dark eyes, a slight furrow between his brows. Behind him, the teenage employee waits with barely concealed impatience. “You’re up.”
“Sorry.” I step forward, forcing my hands apart. “Just... thinking.”
“Dangerous habit,” he says lightly, but there’s something knowing in his gaze.
“Mint chocolate chip, please. In a cup.”
“Good choice,” Collin says as the girl scoops. “Classic.”
“Let me guess,” I say, finding my footing again. “You’re a rocky road guy. Or maybe cookies and cream.”
“Moose tracks, actually.” He grins. “Can’t resist the peanut butter cups.”
“That’s a lot of chocolate happening at once.”
“Says the person who just ordered chocolate with toothpaste flavoring.”
“It’s mint,” I protest, accepting my cup. “Refreshing. Sophisticated.”
“Sure, we’ll go with that.” His eyes crinkle at the corners as he orders his own.
As we wait for the final scoops, Collin shifts his weight.
“That was... interesting earlier,” he says quietly, not quite looking at me.
“In the parking lot.” I tense, waiting for questions I don’t want to answer, judgments I’m not ready to hear.
“Jamie seems like a great kid,” he continues, his voice neutral.
“Happy.” The observation catches me off guard.
Both what he says and what he doesn’t say.
No probing about Owen, no assumptions about our situation.
I keep waiting for the interrogation, the subtle pressure to explain myself that I've learned to expect, but it never comes.
“He is,” I agree, my throat tight. “Most of the time, anyway. Four-year-olds have their moments.”
“I bet.” He accepts his ice cream, then turns to help Jamie with his.
“Mom, look!” Jamie interrupts, already sporting a multicolored mustache. “It’s already melting!”
“Better eat it fast then,” I suggest, guiding him toward an empty booth.
Jamie slides in first, immediately claiming an entire side with his backpack and jacket spread out like territory markers.
Collin and I share a look of amused resignation before sliding in opposite him, the vinyl squeaking under us.