Chapter 14 Iris
IRIS
“So, have you fucked him yet?” I almost drop my phone, fumbling with it to take it off speaker as my eyes dart wide toward Jamie, who’s thankfully still sprawled out on the living room floor, exhausted from our afternoon at the park with Collin and Ace.
Crisis averted—my four-year-old’s innocent ears remain unsullied by his aunt’s complete lack of filter.
“Oh my God, Max, no!” I whisper-shout into the phone. “You were on speaker! Jamie could have heard you.”
“Oops,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. “But come on, he’s four. He wouldn’t even know what I—”
“I swear to God, if you finish that sentence.” We just got back from what was definitely not a date.
Nope. Just a totally casual, completely platonic walk in the park with Collin and his ridiculously sweet German shepherd.
And if I happened to use Jamie’s obsession with Ace as an excuse to say yes when Collin asked if we wanted to join them.
.. well, that’s nobody’s business but mine.
For two hours, we sat on that bench while Jamie and Ace played in the grass.
We talked about everything. Tonight’s performance, how he ended up rescuing Ace three years ago, and his obsession with ’80s movies.
Specifically the Molly Ringwald Romcoms—the man has watched Sixteen Candles seventeen times.
He has this way of making me feel light.
Like the world isn’t quite so heavy when he’s around.
“What? I’m just asking,” Max interrupts my thoughts, and I can practically hear her wolfish grin through the phone.
“If I were you and he man-handled Owen like that in front of me, I woulda jumped his bones right there in the—SHIT!” There’s a loud crash on her end, followed by what sounds suspiciously like paintbrushes clattering across her studio floor.
I press my lips together, fighting back a smirk.
“Kar-maaa,” I singsong into the phone, listening to her scramble and curse as she presumably tries to clean up whatever mess she’s just made.
“Oh, shut up,” she grumbles, but I can hear the laugh in her voice.
“At least I’m not the one eye-fucking my skating partner on national television.
There’s gotta be some kind of karmic retribution for not hitting that.
I mean come on, Iris. You’re a prude, but you’re not dead.
” I gasp into the phone pacing around my kitchen.
“I’m not a prude! I’m just trying to be...” I pause, searching for the right word. “Smart, for once.”
“Smart?” She snorts. “Is that what we’re calling those bedroom eyes you were giving him at O’Malley’s last week? Because those photos in Us Weekly tell a different story. The headline’s a little cheesy for my taste, but hey, you look great!”
“Oh my God, quit cyber-stalking me! Don’t you have your own love life to worry about?” She ignores me.
“Hey, it’s not my fault your googly eyes are public domain now.”
I lean against the kitchen island, watching as Jamie methodically stacks his Legos, his little tongue poking out in concentration.
My heart squeezes watching him. He’s adjusted so well since Owen left, but dating?
That’s territory we haven’t navigated yet.
The thought of disrupting the careful balance we’ve built is partly why I haven’t dated since the divorce.
That, and the crushing fear of getting hurt again.
Letting someone back in, giving them all of myself just for them to tie me up in knots, turn me into something I’m not.
The thought of giving someone that kind of power over me again, letting myself be vulnerable again?
It’s hard to stomach, but Collin is, well, he’s Collin.
Damn it. I do like him. I don’t realize I haven’t responded until Maxine speaks again.
“Listen, if you’re trying to sell me on the fact that you’re not into him, I’m not buying it,” Max says, her voice dripping with amusement. “Not even a little bit.”
“It’s... complicated.” I huff.
“Oh? Do tell.”
“Maybe I feel... something. He’s just...
he’s so...” I trail off, thinking about the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, how gentle he is with Jamie, the fact that he literally rescued a dog.
“He’s stupidly cute, okay? And sweet. Even if he is still the most cocky, insufferably sure of himself person I’ve ever met.
But that’s strictly from an objective standpoint.
Like, anyone would notice these things. It’s just basic observation. ”
“Basic observation?” Max’s voice is thick with skepticism.
I can see her now, brow arched, that same smile that lets you know she sees right through you.
She’s always been good at that. Annoyingly so.
“Hate to break it to ya, babe, but that sounds an awful lot like a crush to me. You like him. End of story.”
“I do not have a crush! I’m simply appreciating his qualities. From a distance. Professionally.” I flap my arms out to prove the point, even though she can’t see me.
“Right. Because professionally, you needed to almost kiss him?” I groan, dropping my head into my free hand. I should’ve never told her about that.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t. You love me.”
“This isn’t even why I called you.” I sigh, exasperated. “When does your flight get in next week?” There’s a pause on the other end. Too long of a pause.
“About that...” My stomach drops.
“Max, please tell me you’re coming home for Christmas.”
“Negative, Ghost Rider.”
“No!” I push off from the counter, resuming my pacing.
“You have to come home. You can’t leave me alone with them.
Mom will eat me alive.” She was probably too busy shacking up with that drummer from whatever indie band she’s been raving about lately.
I can’t really blame her for choosing to stay away though.
Our parents had been hard on me, sure—the constant criticism, the pointed comments, the disappointed sighs.
But they were brutal to Max. Nothing she did was ever good enough for the Clark family standards.
“Iris, I’ve been the black sheep for twenty-two years.
Surely, you can handle it for one holiday.
” I’ve never understood why they were so hard on her.
Max is everything I’ve ever wanted to be, as silly as it might sound to look up to my younger sister.
She’s brave and funny and takes exactly zero shit from anyone.
I could use a little more of that attitude in my life.
Though her timing couldn’t be worse. The truth is, I’m not mad at her for skipping Christmas.
Not really. I just miss her. Miss her stupid jokes and her complete lack of filter and the way she always knows exactly what I’m thinking before I do.
“Absolutely not. No way.” I push errant curls back from my face, my voice rising enough that Jamie glances up from his Legos.
I force a smile and lower my volume. “You know Jamie’s gonna be with Owen this year.
That’s gonna be all they’ll talk about. If you’re home, I’ve at least got someone to hide behind. ”
“Sorry, babe. Love to help, but can’t. Love to. Can’t.”
“Max—”
“Uh oh...” she cuts in, her voice taking on that fake static quality that makes me want to reach through the phone and strangle her. “Going thr... tunnel...”
“I swear to God, if you—”
“Breaking... call you...”
“I know you’re not really going through a tunnel, Maxine!”
“Love you, bye!”
Click.
I stare at my phone in disbelief, fighting the urge to throw it across the room. Behind me, Jamie’s tower gives in to gravity, scattering across the floor.
“Oops,” he says cheerfully, already gathering pieces to start again. If only adult problems were that easy to fix.
I park my car in the circular driveway of my parents’ house, a sprawling Georgian Colonial that would make Martha Stewart weep.
Precisely trimmed topiaries, wreaths hanging in each window, and a big red bow on the front door.
They’d offered, multiple times, to help me find something bigger than my little blue craftsman.
Something more “suitable.” But I like my cozy house with its mismatched furniture, each piece carefully selected from thrift stores and estate sales.
We haven’t talked much since that day a month ago when she showed up unannounced, armed with “concerns” Owen had shared about my “lifestyle choices.” As if finally doing something for myself somehow made me unfit. The memory still burns.
“Come on, baby,” I say, helping Jamie out of his booster seat.
“Let’s get you inside.” The door opens before we reach it, and there she stands in cream cashmere and pearls.
She tucks a perfectly styled dark curl behind her ear, the same texture as mine but tamed into submission in a way I’ve never managed with my own.
“There’s my sweet boy!” She bends down, arms outstretched, and Jamie launches himself at her. Her green eyes crinkle at the corners as she hugs him. When she straightens, her smile dims slightly. “Iris.”
“Mom.” I offer my own tight-lipped smile. “Thanks for watching him tonight.”
“Of course.” She ushers us inside, her heels clicking against the marble foyer.
The house smells like cinnamon and pine, exactly the way it has every December for as long as I can remember.
But underneath that manufactured holiday cheer lingers the sterile scent of furniture polish and lemon cleaner.
Everything gleams with the kind of pristine perfection that makes you afraid to touch anything.
The grand staircase still has that one spot on the third step that creaks—the step I always skipped when sneaking down to the kitchen for midnight snacks, usually to find Max already there, hoarding cookies like contraband.
I kneel down to Jamie’s level, the marble cold even through my jeans.
“Be good for Grandma, okay? Mommy loves you.”
“Love you too!” He plants a sticky kiss on my cheek before darting off toward the Christmas tree that dominates the living room, already eyeing the presents underneath. My mother moves to adjust a crystal reindeer on the entryway table.
“I was just finalizing the seating arrangements for Christmas dinner,” she says, “You’ll be here at four, of course.
Though it’s such a shame Jamie won’t be with his whole family this year.
” And there it is. Lasted a whole two minutes before snide comments started.
That’s a new record, folks. Her voice carries that precise blend of concern and judgment she’s perfected over the years.
The familiar weight of frustration settles like hot coals in my chest. I’ve spent so many years trying to be the good daughter, to keep the peace, to smooth things over.
Learning to swallow my words along with my wine at every family dinner.
Nodding and smiling through pointed comments this past year about “broken homes” and “what’s best for Jamie.
” But something inside me has reached its limit.
I am so tired of my choices never being right. Never being good enough.
“Actually,” I say quietly, studying the intricate pattern of the marble floor beneath my feet, “I don’t think I’ll be coming to Christmas dinner this year.” She stills, her hand hovering over the crystal figurine.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I just think it’s best if—”
“Oh, Iris, honestly. You can’t spend Christmas alone just because Jamie’s with Owen. Family tradition is important, even if some of us choose to disregard it.” She adjusts her pearls, each word precisely aimed. “Though I suppose you’ve made quite a habit of breaking tradition lately.”
My fingers curl into fists at my sides as I watch her perfectly painted lips curve into that familiar disappointed frown. The one that used to send me scrambling to fix whatever I’d done wrong. To be better. To be perfect. To be worthy. But maybe I don’t have to be perfect to deserve love.
The thought comes unbidden, Collin’s voice echoing in my memory from dinner the other night.
You thought you had to earn it. That that’s what it took to be loved.
It doesn’t. It takes much less. I’d been too stunned to respond.
Too stuck in the belief that love—from my mother, from Owen, from anyone—came with conditions.
That I had to be the perfect daughter, the perfect wife, the perfect mother to be worthy of praise.
But standing here now, watching my mother’s disapproval wash over me like it has so many times before, I realize something has shifted.
Collin looks at me like I’m enough exactly as I am.
He doesn’t need me to be smaller or quieter or more agreeable to think I’m worth his time.
And maybe I don’t need to shrink myself to fit into anyone else’s idea of who I should be.
“That attitude right there? That’s exactly why I’ll be spending Christmas by myself.
” The words tumble out before I can stop them.
“At least if I’m alone, I won’t have to pretend I like the taste of dry turkey while washing down veiled insults with my wine.
” Color rises in her cheeks, her face taking on the tight, pinched quality she gets when she’s particularly displeased.
“It’s clear you’ve never supported my divorce, Mom.
No matter what my reasons were for leaving.
And that’s...” I swallow hard, uncurling my fingers.
“That’s fine. That’s your choice. But choosing peace, choosing not to spend an already difficult holiday with people who refuse to be there for me?
” I meet her eyes—so like my own—and see them widen slightly.
“That’s my choice.” She draws herself up, nostrils flaring.
“Iris Elaine Clark—”
“I don’t have time to argue about this. I’m already late for the show.” I check my watch, grateful for the excuse to end this conversation. My hands tremble as I push a wild curl behind my ear.
“Iris, this is completely ridiculous—”
“I’ll pick him up in the morning,” I say, already turning toward the door.
In the reflection of the frosted glass, I catch a glimpse of her—standing perfectly straight, one hand pressed against her throat, looking for all the world like I’ve slapped her.
But for once, the weight on my chest feels a little lighter as I walk to my car.