Chapter 29 Iris
IRIS
The makeup artist dabs another layer of concealer under my eyes, working to hide the evidence of two sleepless nights.
“All set, hon,” she says, stepping back to assess her work. “Try not to touch your face, okay? And if you tear up during the show, look up and blink. Don’t wipe.” I nod, managing a weak smile that doesn’t reach my eyes.
“Thanks.” She moves on to the next contestant, leaving me alone with my reflection.
The woman staring back at me is a stranger—dressed in white, glitter catching the harsh backstage lights, wild curls pinned back to frame a face that looks simultaneously too bare and too made-up.
I’d insisted on wearing my hair down, despite knowing it would be a nightmare during spins.
I needed something to hide behind tonight.
Forty-eight hours. That’s how long it’s been since I ended things with Collin.
Since I convinced myself I was doing the right thing, the brave thing.
Forty-eight hours of swinging between numbness and pain, of checking my phone and then hating myself for hoping he’d call or show up at my door, despite telling him not to.
I fidget with the crystals on my bodice, careful not to snag the sheer fabric.
The dress is beautiful. I should feel stunning.
Instead, I feel exposed, like I’m playing dress up in someone else’s life.
“Stop touching!” Diane’s voice cuts through my thoughts as she appears beside me, swatting my hands away from the dress. “You’ll mess it up.”
“Sorry,” I mutter, clasping my hands in front of me instead. Diane sighs, her expression softening as she takes me in.
“Still feeling ‘sick,’ are we?” Her air quotes make it clear she never bought my excuse for skipping practice. A flush creeps up my neck.
“A bit.” Lovesick, maybe. Heartbroken, definitely. And I’d done it to myself. She leans closer, lowering her voice.
“So, you and King, huh? Never saw that coming.” She shakes her head, hands pulling at some of my curls, adjusting them just so. The bangles on her wrist jingle when she moves. My stomach clenches.
“There is no me and Collin King.” She frowns, lipstick smudging in the corners of her mouth.
“That’s not what TMZ is saying.” She pulls out her phone, but I wave it away before she can show me whatever headlines have emerged. I’d tossed my own phone in a drawer after the third call from Ellie, the fifth voicemail from Max, and a particularly ugly text from my mother:
Your poor judgment continues to astound me. Call me.
I hadn’t.
“They’re wrong,” I say, though the words taste bitter. “We’re just partners.”
“Right.” Diane smiles, staring me down in mirror. “And I’m a five-nine swimsuit model.” She bats her lashes at me, and I can’t help the small smile that pulls at my lips. I blink rapidly, tilting my head up to stare at the fluorescent lights overhead. Don’t cry. Not now.
“It’s done,” I whisper. “Over before it really began.”
“What?” Diane’s voice rises, drawing glances from nearby crew members.
She lowers it quickly. “Why? I shake my head, inhaling sharply. How can I explain that it’s not about the pictures or the headlines?
It’s about me not becoming someone’s regret.
It’s about protecting myself and Jamie from inevitable disappointment.
It’s about the fact that Collin didn’t show up, proving that maybe I was right all along—that it was easier for him to let me go than to fight.
The thought stops me cold. I’d told him not to.
Had I wanted him to fight? To ignore my words and push past my defenses?
“Please,” I say instead, my voice thick with unshed tears. “Can we just... not talk about it? I have to get through tonight, and I can’t if—”
“If you have to think about how you’re throwing away something good?” Diane’s bluntness is both her best and worst quality. Right now, it feels like the latter.
“You don’t understand,” I say, desperate to end this conversation before I shatter completely. She looks like she wants to argue, but something in my expression must convince her to back down.
“Fine.” She straightens my dress unnecessarily, a mothering gesture that nearly undoes me.
This will all be over soon. After tonight, I can retreat to my house, curl up in my bed, and try to piece myself back together.
Again. The thought brings no comfort, only a wave of desolation so powerful I have to grip the makeup counter to steady myself.
How do I go back to a life that no longer fits?
A life where I haven’t felt Collin’s arms around me, heard his laughter, known the safety of belonging somewhere, with someone?
I’d spent the last two days alternating between my bed and couch, crying until my nose was raw and my eyes swollen, then staring emptily at whatever mindless show was playing on TV.
At least Jamie was at Owen’s this week—a small mercy.
I couldn’t bear the thought of him seeing me like this, asking questions I didn’t know how to answer.
The empty apartment had been both blessing and curse.
No need to pretend I was okay, but nothing to distract me from the hollow ache in my chest.
My heart jumps as I notice Collin walking through the door in the reflection of the mirror. Brown eyes scanning the crowded space, until his eyes find mine. He looks good, frustratingly so, in black pants and that ridiculous white shirt I’d teased him about last week.
“Very romance novel cover model,” I’d said, laughing as he struck an exaggerated pose.
“Don’t act like you’re not into it,” he’d retorted, wiggling his eyebrows until I laughed harder.
The memory hurts. The shirt is open at the collar now, showing the strong lines of his chest—a place I’d rested my head, feeling his heartbeat beneath my ear.
My fingers itch to touch him. Instead, I clasp them tighter.
He makes his way toward me, and I feel myself tensing.
The closer he gets, the harder it becomes to breathe.
The arena around us is busy with last-minute preparations—technicians adjusting lights, cameramen getting into position, the other couples (just three of us left now) warming up.
The judges are taking their seats across from center ice.
The reality of the moment hits me. In minutes, we’ll be live in front of millions.
I’ll have to smile, to skate, to pretend I’m not falling apart.
And I’ll have to do it all while touching him, while letting him hold me, spin me, dip me.
It will be agony. All four minutes of it. Panic rises. I can’t do this.
“Iris.” His voice is low. He steps closer, the smell of pine and fresh laundry invading my senses.
God I miss him. I take a step back. “We should warm up,” I say, my voice professional.
Distant. The same tone I’d used when we first met, when I’d been determined to keep walls between us. Something flickers across his face.
“We need to talk.”
“Now isn’t the time.” I glance at the cameras being positioned around the stage. “We have a competition to finish.”
“I don’t care about the competition.” His intensity catches me off guard. “I care about you. About us.” The word ‘us’ sends a shiver through me.
“There is no us,” I say, with a half-shrug, the words constricting in my throat.
“You were wrong.” He steps closer, and this time I have nowhere to go. “I fixed things, Iris. With the team, with—”
“That doesn’t change anything,” I interrupt, needing to stop this conversation before I crumble. “I told you, I don’t want to be something you regret.”
“You could never be—”
“Collin, please.” My voice catches on his name.
“I can’t do this right now. Let’s just get through tonight.
” He watches me, while I keep my gaze firmly on his shoulder, his collar, anywhere but his eyes.
I know what will happen if I look at him directly—my resolve will shatter.
Those eyes have always seen too much, have always reached past my carefully constructed defenses.
If I meet his gaze now, here, with my emotions so raw and exposed, I’ll be lost.
“Just look at me,” he pleads. “Really look at me, Iris.” I drop my head, staring at the floor, at his shoes, anywhere but his face.
I take a deep breath, then slowly raise my eyes to his.
When our gazes connect, I feel it—that same pull, that same connection that’s been there from the start.
It would be so easy to fall back into him, but I can’t.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, each word clear and deliberate. “I really need to talk to you.”
“Quiet on set, please!” a PA calls out, moving past us. “Live in ninety seconds!”
“Collin—” I start, not even sure what I want to say.
“Later,” he promises, his eyes never leaving mine. “We’ll talk after. Just skate with me, Iris. One more time.” There’s something in his expression I can’t quite read. That look in his eyes that tells me he’s up to something and all I can do is wait to see what it is.
“Places, everyone!” The ice director’s voice cuts through the moment.
“First pair, get ready to take the ice!” Logan and Sophia, a couple no one thought would make to the finale, move to the rink entrance, their faces set with performance smiles.
They’re the underdogs of the season, but their triples are perfect.
We all watch from the sidelines as the show begins, spotlights sweeping across the gleaming ice, music swelling from the speakers.
The host’s voice booms through the arena, welcoming America to the season finale of Ice Breakers.