Chapter 21 Iris
IRIS
I press my forehead against the cold glass, letting the bite of it seep into my skin and morph into a dull ache as I close my eyes.
My fingers drift to my lips without permission, remembering last night.
Not just the sweet, tentative kiss by the Christmas tree that tasted like peppermint hot chocolate, but what came after.
How we barely made it back to the house before I dragged him into that shadowy alcove by the porch.
The memory of his body pressing mine against the siding sends a wave of heat through me that has nothing to do with my quilt.
God, I’d practically tried to climb him like a tree right there on his mother’s porch, grinding against his thigh like some desperate, touch-starved teenager.
My lips twitch at the memory, a sigh slipping through.
I shouldn’t have kissed him. Shouldn’t have let him kiss me back.
Shouldn’t have melted into him like some silly girl.
Shouldn’t have forgotten myself so completely that for one perfect moment, I’d been happy. Really, truly happy.
The guilt creeps in quietly—not because I did anything wrong, exactly, but because this isn’t how I pictured spending Christmas.
Jamie is fine, safe and warm at Owen’s house, like we agreed.
But this was our first Christmas apart, and instead of feeling appropriately miserable about it, I’m here on this snow-covered island, unable to keep my hands to myself.
I couldn’t help it, there was something about the way he looked at me.
Like he saw me. Like maybe I wasn’t just Jamie’s mom or someone’s ex-wife.
Like maybe I was just... Iris. My cheeks heat.
Lost to the memory of his hands cupping my face, fingers tangling in my hair, I almost miss the first sounds of movement upstairs.
The creak of floorboards, the soft whisper of slippers on stairs.
A moment later, Julie sweeps into the kitchen, red flannel pajamas dotted with reindeer, her hair caught up in a messy twist. She smiles when she sees me, warm and knowing, like she’s in on some secret.
“You’re up early!” she says brightly, moving to the coffee maker with the ease of someone who has mapped every inch of their kitchen in the dark. She pulls four cream-colored mugs from the cabinet.
“Up and at ’em!” she calls toward the stairs, measuring coffee into the filter.
“Coffee’s brewing and Santa came!” Julie hums “Silver Bells” under her breath, as the coffee maker gurgles to life.
I keep my eyes fixed on the window, pretending to be absorbed in watching a cardinal land on the bird feeder, though really I’m listening intently to the sounds floating down from upstairs—a door opening, water running briefly in the bathroom, then footsteps padding down the hall.
Each sound makes my pulse skip faster, knowing he's getting closer.
The memory of those same footsteps retreating down the hall last night, the agonizing space between his room and mine.
I force myself to breathe normally, to stop fidgeting with the edge of my quilt. Get it together.
“Mom,” Collin groans from the doorway, his voice rough with sleep and warm as he scrubs a hand down his face.
“It’s not even light out.” My heart stumbles at the sight of him.
How was I supposed to act normal when he was standing there in yesterday’s sweater?
The one my fingers clutched so desperately as I’d pulled him back to me, not ready to let him go.
It was still slightly rumpled where I’d gripped it, and the sight of it sends another wave of heat crawling up my neck.
“Since when has that ever stopped me?” Julie shoots back. “Besides, I heard Iris wake up an hour ago. At least someone in this house has a good attitude and appreciates the magic of Christmas morning.” My cheeks warm as Collin’s eyes find mine.
Using her now free hand, she tugs me out of the window seat with surprising strength for someone her size.
Collin shoots me a look halfway between apologetic and conspiratorial as we obediently follow her to the den, where Christmas sparkles in full force, glinting off shiny ribbons and ornaments in the pre-dawn light.
“My attitude is fine,” Collin mutters as he drops into the armchair.
He rearranges his features into a pout that makes him look unfairly adorable, dark hair sticking out in soft waves.
Brown eyes catch mine and he winks. I sputter into my coffee, coughing and patting my chest, trying to look anywhere but at him.
The crunch of boots on the front porch make Julie’s head snap up, her face brightening. A moment later, the distinctive rhythm of three quick knocks followed by two slow ones echoes through the house.
“Right on schedule,” she says, already moving toward the door. “Twenty years and he still won’t use his key on Christmas morning.” The door swings open to reveal Hal, his arms laden with wrapped packages, snow dusting his shoulders and clinging to his dark hair, graying at the temples.
“Merry Christmas, Jules.” He grins, stamping his boots on the welcome mat—the same way I imagine he has for many years.
“You’re letting all the cold in,” Julie scolds, but she beams as she reaches for some of the presents.
She brushes the snow from his coat with practiced familiarity while he steps inside, that same fond smile on his face, the one he probably reserves just for her.
The packages find their way under the tree, added to the already impressive collection, and Hal settles into what is clearly his usual chair by the fire.
Julie hands him a mug of coffee without being asked and perches on the arm of his chair
“You know,” Julie says, leaning into Hal’s touch as his arm slides behind her. “I’m almost positive I still have the video of Collin at age six, running down the hallway at 3:45 a.m.”
“Mom.”
“Full Superman pajamas...”
“Mom.”
“Yelling ‘IT’S PRESENT TIME’ at the top of his lungs...”
“I will pour this coffee in your stocking,” Collin threatens, but he’s laughing now, and when his eyes meet mine again, they hold so much warmth.
In mere minutes, the living room has transformed into that particular kind of Christmas chaos that comes from a family who knows how to do the holiday right.
The massive pine tree, which Julie apparently insisted on cutting down herself two weeks ago, fills the corner with its sweet scent.
She told me the story last night, her eyes twinkling with mischief: “Hal tried to talk me into a smaller one, but I told him Christmas trees are like personalities, the bigger, the better!”
Now that same tree sparkles in the early morning sun, its multicolored lights twinkling against vintage ornaments.
Each one has a story—the glass pickle, Julie’s grandmother brought from Germany; the tiny ice skate, which Collin made in second grade; and the delicate angel Hal had given Julie on their first Christmas together.
Years of memories, all wrapped up in glass and glitter.
“First things first.” She claps her hands together.
“Stockings and presents before breakfast. That’s the rule in this house.
” Julie shoots Hal a look when he opens his mouth to protest while she stands admiring the stockings hanging over the fireplace, which flicker with a soft, orange glow.
“And don’t you start with me about needing bacon first, Harold Walker. Some rules are sacred.”
“After last year, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Hal replies, hands up in mock surrender as he stands up and stokes the fire beside her.
They move like magnets. If Julie stood, he stood.
If Hal sat, Julie sat. I wonder if they even noticed it anymore—this dance they do around each other, the way they shift in perfect synchronization like two stars locked in orbit.
I wonder if Collin notices it too. I settle onto the overstuffed couch and tuck my feet under me, surprised by how comfortable I feel in this house, how easy it all feels.
A month ago, I was dreading Christmas, and now here I am in my flannel pajamas, oddly feeling at home.
Almost like home. The thought sneaks in before I can stop it, bringing with it a sharp pang as I imagine Jamie’s face, how his eyes would light up at the massive tree, the way he’d practically vibrate with excitement over the stockings.
He’d love Julie’s ornaments, would beg to hear the story behind each one.
And Hal—Jamie would be fascinated by Hal’s model ships, would probably talk the poor man’s ear off about sailing and pirates.
Stop it, I scold myself. This isn’t helping anyone. Jamie is having his own Christmas morning with his father, probably already gorging himself on Owen’s chocolate chip pancakes. He’s fine. Better than fine.
“Y’know, if you keep making that face,” Collin says, “it’ll freeze that way.” He demonstrates by screwing up his features into an exaggerated frown, complete with furrowed brow. See? The man’s an absolute idiot. An adorable idiot who somehow knows how to pull me out of my own head, but still.
“Here’s yours, honey,” Julie says, and reaches up to unhook a stocking from the mantle. I stare at it, thrown by the sight of my name embroidered in white thread across the red felt. She must have made it herself, though I couldn’t imagine when she would’ve found the time.
“Oh, you didn’t ha—” I catch Collin’s eye across the room, a bit helpless, and he just shrugs, lips twitching into that smug half-smile of his. Of course he knew this would happen, known his mother would go all out to make me feel included.