Chapter 7 Iris #3
The proximity is immediate and impossible to ignore.
Our thighs brush as we settle, shoulders nearly touching.
I can smell his cologne again, fresh pine and soap, mixed with the lingering cold from the rink.
The booth suddenly feels smaller than it should, every accidental touch sending awareness skittering along my skin.
“So Jamie,” Collin says, settling back against the booth. “What’s your favorite thing about school?” Jamie considers this seriously, ice cream smeared at the corner of his mouth.
“Recess. And snack time. Oh! And when Mrs. Peterson reads us stories.”
“What kind of stories?”
“All kinds. Yesterday she read one about a bear who lost his hat.” Jamie’s eyes widen. “It was SO funny. The hat was on his head the whole time!”
“No way,” Collin says with appropriate shock. “The whole time?”
“The WHOLE time!” Jamie dissolves into giggles.
“He kept asking everyone ‘have you seen my hat?’ and it was RIGHT THERE.” I watch as Collin leans forward, giving Jamie the kind of focused attention you’d give another adult.
He asks about Jamie’s friends, his favorite playground equipment, whether he prefers swings or slides.
Swings, obviously, because “you can jump off them like a superhero.”
“Can you jump really far?” Collin asks.
“SO far. Mrs. Peterson says I’m not supposed to, but I do it when she’s not looking.” Jamie pauses, glancing at me. “Sorry, Mama.”
“Mmhmm.” I grin, shaking my head.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” Jamie asks suddenly, because four-year-olds have no filter. I nearly choke on my ice cream.
“Jamie—”
“Nope,” Collin answers easily, shooting me an amused glance. “No girlfriend.”
“Good. Mama doesn’t have a boyfriend either. Maybe you could—”
“Okay!” I cut in, my face burning. “Who needs more napkins? I think we need more napkins.”
“We have lots of napkins,” Jamie points out with devastating logic.
Collin’s fighting back a grin, I can see it in the way his mouth twitches at the corners.
The booth light catches the amber flecks in his eyes.
There’s a small scar through his left eyebrow I hadn’t noticed before, probably from—No.
I drag my gaze back to my melting ice cream.
I am not doing this. Not noticing scars or eye colors or the way his thumb drums against the table when he’s thinking.
I’m definitely not dating. Especially not him, who I’ve known for all of five minutes. Good God get a grip.
“Mom’s pretty,” Jamie continues, oblivious to my internal crisis. “And she makes good pancakes.”
“Jamie, eat your ice cream,” I manage with a nervous laugh.
“Two strong selling points,” Collin says, and when I risk a glance at him, he’s looking at Jamie, not me. At least he won’t notice the tips of my ears turning pink.
“Do you like pancakes?” Jamie asks.
“Love them.”
“Mom makes shapes. Last week she made a dinosaur, but its tail fell off.”
“Tails are tricky,” Collin says. “Did you eat it anyway?”
“Yeah! I pretended it was two dinosaurs.”
“Smart. Two dinosaurs are better than one.” Jamie nods seriously, then brightens.
“Do you know any superheroes?”
“A few. Who’s your favorite?”
“Spider-Man! I have Spider-Man shoes.”
“No way.”
“Way! They light up when I stomp.” Jamie bounces in his seat. “Mom, can I show him?”
“Not in the booth, baby. Maybe outside.”
“They’re red and blue with webs on them,” Jamie explains instead. “My friend Tyler has Batman shoes, but they don’t light up so mine are better.”
“Obviously,” Collin agrees solemnly. “Light-up shoes are definitely superior.”
“Su-peer-ior,” Jamie repeats carefully. “That means better, right?”
“Exactly right.” I watch them talk, this easy back-and-forth about superheroes and shoes and which Power Rangers is the coolest (the red one, apparently, though Collin makes a compelling case for blue).
“Can you swim?” Jamie asks, completely changing topics.
“I can. Can you?”
“I’m learning! I can go underwater for almost a whole minute.”
“That’s pretty good. When I was four, I was scared to put my face in.”
“Really?” Jamie’s eyes widen. “But you’re big now.”
“Even big people get scared sometimes,” Collin says simply. “We just practice until we’re not scared anymore.” Jamie considers this.
“Like Mom with her jumps?” I freeze, spoon halfway to my mouth. “She practices the same one over and over and over,” Jamie continues. “Even when she falls.”
“That’s what makes her so good,” Collin says, glancing at me. “Not everyone’s brave enough to keep trying after they fall.” There’s something in his voice—understanding, maybe even admiration—that makes me look away.
“I fell off the monkey bars last week,” Jamie announces. “But I got back on.”
“See? You’re brave like your mom.”
“Mom says I’m brave like me.”
“Even better.” Collin grins. Our knees bump under the table as he shifts, and neither of us moves away.
The contact is barely there—just the warmth of his leg against mine.
I check my phone and blink at the time. Over an hour.
The constant hum of anxiety that usually lives under my skin has gone quiet.
I haven’t thought about Owen or the divorce or all the ways I’m probably failing since we first got here.
I was just in the moment. Present. Comfortable, even.
The teenage employee’s pointed chair-stacking finally guilts us into motion.
We gather our trash, Jamie still chattering about swimming and superheroes as we bundle into jackets.
Collin insists on walking us to the car despite my protests.
At my car, Collin waits while I buckle Jamie in, then steps back with a quiet “Drive safe.” His breath clouds in the cold air between us.
I nod, not trusting my voice. He gives Jamie one last wave through the window before heading to his own car, and I sit there for a moment longer than necessary, engine running, watching his taillights disappear into the dark.
The whole drive home, I keep stealing glances at Jamie in the rearview mirror—his eyes heavy but still sparkling, ice cream dried at the corner of his mouth, completely content. My chest feels too full.
Twenty minutes later, Jamie and I are finally home.
I finish tucking him in, his sugar rush wearing off into soft, steady breaths, when my phone buzzes on the kitchen counter.
My heart leaps into my throat, fingers fumbling as I reach for it.
But it’s not Collin’s name lighting up my screen.
It’s my sister. I press accept and wedge the phone between my ear and shoulder, heading to the kitchen to make tea.
“Hey.”
“So,” she drawls, and I can picture her perfectly, cross-legged on the floor of her tiny Santa Monica studio, laptop balanced on her knees, probably still in her paint-stained overalls from a day at her easel.
Knowing Max, there’s probably blue or green smudged across her cheek that she hasn’t even noticed.
“Want to explain why I’m looking at photos of my sister and the NHL’s most notorious bachelor all over my news feed? ” I groan, filling the kettle.
“It’s not what you think. He’s my pairs partner, that’s it.”
“Uh huh.” The sound of typing filters through the line, probably leaving colorful fingerprints all over her keyboard. “The internet seems to think differently.” Setting the kettle on the stove, I lean against the counter.
“The internet needs to mind its business. Besides, he’s a total playboy. He’s practically slept with half of Seattle.”
“Well, then he should know exactly what he’s doing.
” There’s a smile in her voice, that same teasing lilt she’s had since we were kids.
As we talk, I absentmindedly scroll through my phone, looking at the various texts from Collin I’ve been ignoring—all vague, flirty attempts to get my attention that make me smile despite myself.
That’s when I notice something different.
His name has been changed from ‘Collin’ in my phone to ‘Stud Muffin.’
“Not. Helping.” I drum my fingers against the counter, watching the blue flames lick the bottom of the kettle. “And he’s an infant.” More faint clicking.
“He’s like two years younger than you.”
“Infant!” I huff into the phone and I can hear the eye roll in her tone. I finally text him back, unable to help myself.
Me: Did you seriously change your name in my phone? When did you even have time to do that?
The response is almost immediate.
Stud Muffin: No. Maybe... Why? Was Stud Muffin too obvious?
Stud Muffin: I’ll never tell.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it,” Max singsongs.
“I haven’t!” The words come out too quick, too defensive.
“Really? ’Cause your voice just went up.”
“No, it didn’t.” I wince at the pitch of my own voice. Yes, it did.
Me: Idiot. Stay out of my phone.
Stud Muffin: Put a password on it. Wanna know your name in my phone?
“Oh, look, there it goes again.” More typing, then the soft click of her laptop closing. “Come on, Iris. Live a little.” I abandon the kettle to pace the kitchen.
“Max—”
Me: No.
But even as I hit send, I can’t help the smile spreading across my face. Yes. Yes, I do. Tell me now.
Stud Muffin: Goodnight, Pretty Girl.
“All I’m saying is, maybe you need this.
Just a fling, just some fun. Something casual.
” I hear rustling, probably her moving canvases around to make room for her nightly meditation corner.
Max has always been the free spirit between us.
Yoga at dawn, painting until midnight, thriving on coffee and chaos.
I close my eyes, fighting back a laugh. Of course that’s her solution.
My baby sister, the queen of casual. One-night stands and no-strings-attached relationships are her specialty.
Last Christmas she’d brought home a gallery owner, then a musician for New Years.
Mom and Dad were less than thrilled. Meanwhile, I’ve never been able to separate my heart from my body, no matter how hard I tried.
The kettle starts to whistle and I move it off the heat.
“I don’t do casual. I’m not good at it,” I remind her, reaching for a mug. “I tried casual one time and now I have Jamie.”
“And you’re divorced,” she adds matter-of-factly. I hear her brush clattering against what’s probably a mason jar of murky paint water. I pinch the bridge of my nose, abandoning my tea making entirely.
“Wow, thank you Maxine. Ya know, I almost completely forgot that fact.”
“Hmm, tou-chy.” Silence envelops the phone line as I slide down the kitchen cabinets and settle on the floor.
Cold hardwood pressing against my bare legs.
The day’s weight settles into my bones like sediment.
This schedule was starting to wear one me.
The early morning practices with my students, the late-night practices with Collin.
I rub my eyes with the heel of my hand, trying to dispel the headache that’s been building since I answered Maxine’s call.
“Look,” Max continues, her voice softening into that tone she uses when she’s trying to be the wise younger sister. “I know you’re scared—”
“I’m not scared.” I stretch my legs out in front of me, surveying pink painted toes, as I cringe at my defensive tone. “I’m being realistic. You’ve seen the articles, Max. The model in LA, the actress in Vancouver, the—”
“Yeah, yeah, his greatest hits, I know. But maybe—”
“There is no maybe.” I pull my knees to my chest, trying to ignore the way my mind drifts to his hands, strong and sure and so gentle. How his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. Those warm brown eyes that seem to see right through me. “I have Jamie to think about.”
“Have you considered that maybe you’re the one afraid of getting attached?” Trust Max to cut straight to the heart of things.
“Of course I’m afraid of getting attached. Have you seen him? The way he moves, how he just... commands every room he walks into?” My voice drops. “The way he looks at me sometimes, like...”
“Like what?” Like I’m something worth looking at.
“Like nothing,” I say instead. “It doesn’t matter. Guys like Collin don’t change their spots. And I’m not going to be stupid enough to think I’m special enough to make him want to.”
“Iris—”
“No, Max. I mean it. Jamie and I have a good thing going. We’re stable. Safe.”
“Safe is good,” Max says carefully. “But maybe you deserve more than just safe.”
“Safe is all I can handle right now.” I rub my tired eyes with the heel of my hand. “I need to go to bed. It’s getting late.”
“Fine, fine.” A pause. “But Iris?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re allowed to want things for yourself, too. Not just Jamie.” I press my palm against the cool tile of the kitchen floor.
“I know... Goodnight, Max.”
“Night, Love you.” I end the call and let my head fall back against the cabinet with a soft thud.
The house feels extra quiet now, just the gentle hum of the refrigerator and Jamie’s night-light glowing down the hall.
Mom always said I thought too much, felt too deeply.
That I needed to learn to keep my heart behind better walls.
But that’s the problem with walls, isn’t it?
They don’t just keep people out. They keep you in.
I close my eyes, remembering the way Collin’s shoulder angled between Owen and me today, how something in my chest had loosened at the gesture.
How easy it would be to let myself lean into that feeling, to imagine what it might be like to have someone steady in my corner.
But I can’t afford to think like that. Not now, maybe not ever.
I am not going to fall for Collin King. I’m not.