Chapter 10 Iris #2
“What? A mother can’t check up on her eldest daughter?
” She perches on the edge of my couch, the same spot where Collin was sprawled minutes ago, and smooths her skirt over her knees, pointedly not looking at my state of undress.
I can still see where his body indented the couch, and I wonder if she can feel the remnants of his warmth.
“Mom.” I shift my weight, acutely aware of just how high up my thigh Collin’s shirt ends.
“You color-code your calendar by family member. You’ve scheduled every Sunday brunch through next Easter.
You once filed a complaint with the postal service because your Good Housekeeping arrived on a Tuesday instead of a Monday.
You don’t do spontaneous.” Her expression softens slightly, though her posture remains perfect.
“Normally, no. But Owen called me last night, and what he said...” She pauses, choosing her words carefully. “Well, let’s just say it was concerning enough to warrant an exception to my schedule.” The name hits me like a slap.
“You’re still talking to Owen?”
“When the father of my grandson calls to tell me his mother is gallivanting around town with strange men, what exactly did you expect me to do? Ignore him?”
“Collin,” I snap, my nails digging half-moons into my palms. “His name is Collin, and what I do isn’t Owen’s business anymore. It hasn’t been since I took Jamie and left. And yes, you are supposed to ignore him.”
“Oh please, Iris.” She waves her hand dismissively, like she’s shooing away an annoying fly.
“A mother doesn’t stop being a mother just because her child is being ridiculous, and an ex-husband doesn’t stop being concerned just because you’ve decided to have some sort of delayed teenage rebellion.
” A laugh bubbles up in my throat, harsh and raw.
In my mind, I see Jamie’s face the day Owen missed his meet the teacher night because he was “too busy,” the way my four-year-old had tried so hard to be brave while his friends’ dads took pictures and gave hugs.
“Concerned? The man who couldn’t be bothered to show up for his son’s meet the teacher night is suddenly concerned?”
“He had a meeting—”
“He always has a meeting!” The words explode out of me. “Or a conference call, or a client emergency. He’s got an excuse for everything except taking responsibility for how he treated us. And now in the face of divorce he gets to pretend he’s father of the year?”
“Really, Iris.” She fixes me with that patented Allison Clark stare that could freeze hell itself. “These accusations are becoming tiresome. Owen is a respectable man who has always provided for his family. This narrative you’ve constructed about him being some sort of monster—”
“Narrative?” My hands are shaking now, but not from fear.
Not anymore. “You mean like the narrative he’s feeding you right now?
Let me guess, he’s just so worried about Jamie being exposed to ‘inappropriate situations’?
He’s concerned about my judgment? My stability?
” The bitter taste in my mouth has nothing to do with last night’s tequila.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She stands, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt. “I don’t know what sort of dramatic screenplay you think you’re starring in, but Owen is Jamie’s father. He has every right to be concerned when his ex-wife is entertaining half-dressed men while her son—”
“Jamie wasn’t even here!” I cut her off, my voice rising. “He was with Owen. I would never, never, put my son in any kind of compromising position. The fact that you’d even suggest—”
“Well, what am I supposed to think?” She gestures at my current state of dress. “This isn’t exactly the picture of responsible motherhood.”
“Jamie. Wasn’t. Here.” I grit out the words. “I’m allowed to have a life outside of being his mother.” She sighs, her posture wilting.
“I know that. I just... when Owen called, he made it sound like you were being reckless.”
“I swear to God if you mention Owen one more time,” I scoff, shaking my head.
“This is all just very sudden. A year ago you were married, and now...”
“Now I’m figuring out who I am when I’m not trying to be who Owen wants me to be,” I finish.
“And maybe that includes having friends over occasionally.” I cross my arms over my chest. “And not that it’s any of your business,” I say, drawing myself up despite my distinct lack of pants, “but Collin is my new pairs skating partner.” The silence that follows is deafening.
I watch the words hit her like a physical force, her perfect posture faltering for just a moment.
“You’re skating again?”
“Yes.” The word hangs between us, heavy with everything unsaid. “Diane called about this television show they’re putting together. Former Olympians paired with new partners, competing—”
“A reality show?” The way she says it, you’d think I’d just announced I was joining the circus. “You’re doing a reality show?”
“I am.” And God, it feels good to say it out loud.
For the first time, I let myself acknowledge how incredible it had felt to just say yes to something without weighing it against Owen’s inevitable disapproval or calculating my mother’s reaction.
To make a decision simply because I wanted to, because my blood had hummed at the thought of the ice under my blades again.
My mother’s perfectly lined lips purse as if she’s just bitten into a lemon.
“So you’re telling me that not only are you back on the ice—without bothering to inform your own mother, I might add—but you’re doing it for some tawdry television spectacle?
” She smooths her skirt, a gesture I recognize as her gathering ammunition.
“A reality show. Two-time Olympic medalist Iris Clark, competing in some gaudy television show?”
“Mom—”
“No, no, by all means.” She cuts me off with a wave of her hand.
“Tell me how this”—she gestures at my current state of undress—“is part of your grand return to competitive skating. I’m sure the judges will be very impressed with your unconventional training methods.
” She takes a sharp breath, and for just a moment, I see something flicker across her face—not just disapproval, but genuine hurt.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Am I such a terrible mother that you couldn’t even pick up the phone? ”
“I’m not trying to hurt you.” The words come out softer than I intended, but somehow steadier.
“I just... I needed to do this for myself. After everything with Owen, after feeling like I was just going through the motions for so long...” I take a breath.
“When Diane called about the show, it was the first time since the divorce that something just felt right. I didn’t overthink it.
I didn’t weigh everyone else’s opinions. I just said yes.”
“I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me.” Mom’s voice has that particular tremor she reserves for maximum guilt delivery.
“Can you blame me? I knew exactly how this conversation would go. You would have never supported my decision.”
“Well, of course I wouldn’t support it.” She adjusts the throw pillow, not meeting my eyes. “Reality television, Iris? This sort of... entertainment is beneath you.”
“Beneath me?” I laugh, short and sharp. “What’s beneath me is how quickly you dismiss anything that doesn’t fit your perfect vision of who I should be. And speaking of things that are beneath us, why are you still talking to Owen? After everything he did?”
“Everything he did? You mean provide a stable home? Support his family? Iris, these delusions about Owen being some sort of—”
“Delusions?” My hands start to shake. “He spent three years convincing me I was crazy for wanting anything outside of being his perfect wife. He used Jamie as a weapon every time I talked about missing skating.”
“He only called me because he’s concerned,” she cuts in, her voice crisp as fresh ice. “And clearly he had reason to be.”
“Of course he’s ‘concerned.’” I make air quotes around the word.
“He’s concerned because for the first time since Jamie was born, I’m doing something for myself.
Something he can’t control.” Even through the divorce everything was on his terms. Rescheduling meetings, child support negotiations, everything a fight.
“Mom, he was emotionally abusive.” My voice cracks, but I force myself to keep going.
“How many times do I have to tell you before you actually believe me and not him? The gaslighting, the constant criticism, the way he isolated me from everyone—”
“Oh, honestly, Iris.” She shakes her head. “I just don’t believe he would do something like that. He’s not the type. A respected pediatrician, from a good family—”
“Get out.” The words come out so quietly I’m not sure she’s heard them at first. She blinks at me, once, twice.
“You can’t be serious.”
“You know what?” I straighten. “I am. Please get out of my house.”
“Iris—”
“No.” My voice is steady now, certain. “I’m done.
I’m done trying to make you understand. I’m done watching you choose him over me.
I’m done letting you dismiss my truth because you’d rather believe his lies.
Get. Out.” For a moment she just stares at me, mouth slightly open, as if she’s waiting for me to take it back.
When I don’t, her face hardens. The slam of the front door echoes through the house like a gunshot.
I stand there listening to the click of her heels fade down the walkway, waiting for the guilt to come. It doesn’t.
I collapse onto my bed, the throbbing behind my eyes blooming into a full-blown migraine.
The morning sunlight streaming through my windows feels like needles, and I throw an arm over my face, trying to block it out.
I can’t block out her words though, how easily she dismissed me.
God, the lies have spread so deep, wrapped their tendrils around everything until I feel cut off from the very people who are supposed to be in my corner.
Who are meant to support me, believe me, protect me.
Not that they ever have. Not unless I was perfect.
I’m so tired. Bone-deep, soul-heavy tired.
Tired of fighting against the current of their expectations, tired of putting on a brave face and trying to navigate through life without making waves.
Without making mistakes. Always trying to keep everyone around me happy while I slowly lose pieces of myself.
Tired of second-guessing every decision, of always trying to do the right thing, the best thing, only to be told over and over that I’m wrong.
That I’m making a mistake. That I’m being dramatic or difficult or selfish.
I roll over, burying my face in one of my pillows, and catch the lingering trace of Collin’s cologne, pine and fresh laundry.
The scent triggers flashes from last night: my hand on his wrist, asking him to stay; the solid warmth of him as he curled around me.
Beyond that, it’s all fuzzy. A smile tugs at my lips.
Collin. He’s nothing like I expected. Well, that’s not entirely true, he’s a lot like I expected, but also, a lot different.
He has this way of drawing out my smiles, even on days when I’ve sworn I won’t give him the satisfaction.
He fills any space he’s in with this light, this warmth that’s impossible to resist. And God, the way he makes me nervous.
Not the walking-on-eggshells kind I’ve known before, but this fluttery, alive feeling that starts in my stomach and spreads outward until my fingers tingle with it.
When I’m with him, it’s like coming up for air after being underwater too long.
Like I’ve been holding my breath for years without realizing it, and now my lungs remember how to expand fully, how to take in all the oxygen they need instead of these careful, measured sips of air I’ve been surviving on.
My gaze drifts to the nightstand, catching on two things I hadn’t noticed earlier, a glass of water and a bottle of Advil, placed carefully next to my phone. Such a small thing, really. Simple thoughtfulness, but it melts something inside me.
“Collin King,” I murmur into my pillow, feeling a smile curve against the fabric, “the man that you are.”