My fingers move over the keyboard.
Iris: Can we talk?
I stare at my cell.
For ages, I stare at my cell.
My eyes get dry. My fingers go numb. My heart beats so hard it nearly bursts out of my chest.
Finally, my phone buzzes with a reply.
Lily: I'm sorry, Iris. But I'm not ready to talk to you yet.
Fuck.
I let my cell fall into my lap, I lay back on the couch, pull my knees into my chest.
And I fall apart.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Iris
My phone buzzes against my chest. Not in a sexy, fun way—would that even feel good?
In a neutral, here's a text message kind of way.
I take forever reaching for it.
It's not from Lily. Of course it's not. She isn't ready to talk. Which is totally understandable. Really. Lying here for an hour, staring at the ceiling, poring over every one of my past mistakes…
I understand.
It's an unfortunate reality, one of those things I can't change, like traffic or taxes or weather.
The sun is going to shine tomorrow. UCLA is going to be a clusterfuck. And I have to wait until my sister is ready to trust me.
Walker: What are you up to?
It's pure booty call. But then it's not. He always starts his texts like this.
Iris: Giving up on studying.
Walker: To?
Cry in the dark by myself.
Iris: I haven't decided.
Walker: You want some company?
Iris: That's a complicated question.
Walker: You say that a lot.
Iris: They all are. There are too many factors. Company is nice, especially yours. But it means giving up the peace of solitude.
Walker: Are you okay?
Iris: No.
Walker: Have you been drinking?
Iris: Do I sound drunk?
Walker: A little.
Iris: No. Just thinking.
Walker: You're being weird.
Iris: How can you tell in a text?
Walker: I can.
Iris: I guess I'm a little worn out.
Walker: What happened, sweetness?
Iris: I called Lily.
Walker: Oh.
Iris: Yeah.
Walker: You want to talk about it?
Iris: Not right now.
Walker: You staying up?
Iris: I'm not sure I have a choice. Why?
Walker: No reason.
Twenty minutes later, there's a knock on my door.
I push myself to my feet. Check my makeup in the mirror. It's a travesty and my wrinkled shirt isn't any better. At least my underwear is cute. And it's not like my boyfriend is going to complain I'm skipping pants.
"Just a minute." I move to the bathroom. Wipe away my eye makeup, wash my face, pull a hoodie over my tank top. Then I move back to the door.
"Hey." Walker's voice flows through the wood. "I have something for you."
I pull the door open.
He's standing there in jeans, a t-shirt, and a leather jacket. He looks normal. Well, normal hot.
Not like he's here to take all my pain away, to erase my past, to love me despite the devastation I've wrecked.
He holds up the paper bag in his hand. "I'll leave if you want to be alone."
I shake my head and motion come in.
"Fuck, Iris. I like that look."
My cheeks flush. "Thanks."
He steps inside. Presses the door closed behind him. His dark eyes find mine. They're soft. Understanding. "You don't have to talk."
I nod.
He wraps his arms around me. The paper bag brushes my back. It's cold. Hard.
Walker runs his fingers through my hair. "I'm sorry."
"I'll be okay." Eventually.
"You say that a lot."
"It's true."
"Yeah, but—fuck, I know this is weird coming from me—but you don't have to convince me you're strong."
"I'm not."
He pulls back, sets the bag on the counter, pulls out a pint of coffee ice cream. "How do you figure?"
"I give in to temptation too easily."
He motions to the ice cream. "Does that mean you don't want any of this?"
"No, I do."
His lips curl into a smile. God, his smile does things to me. It's the silver lining on a cloudy day.
He grabs two mugs from the cabinet, divides the ice cream sixty/forty, hands me the fuller mug.
"Spoons." I nod to the drawer below the microwave.
He grabs two, slides one into his mug, hands the other to me.
I settle onto the couch and wrap a blanket around my shoulders.
I bring a spoonful of ice cream to my lips. Sugar and coffee. Everything I love. Everything that makes me happy.
"You can say anything you want, Iris." He moves closer. "But I'm not here to talk."
I arch a brow.
"Not for that. Wouldn't turn it down, but that's not my intention." He presses his lips to my forehead. "I'm just here."
"You're just here?"
He nods.
"You're sure you've never been a boyfriend before?"
"Yeah."
"You're good at it."
"I'm a fast learner." He brings a spoonful of ice cream to his lips. "You look like you're gonna break, sweetness."
I nod. "I… Lily isn't ready to talk to me. And I get that. Really, I do. I'm not sure if she's still hurting. Or if she thinks I'll be the way I was. What if I do go back to how I was? What if school stops satisfying me? What if I get desperate for anything to make it better?"
"What if? What would you do?"
"I don't know. Talk to my therapist. To you. Work out more. Read. But what if—"
"What did you do before?"
Get high. "Not that."
"Sounds like you've got it figured out."
"Maybe." I'm in a better place than I was. I don't want to self-medicate anymore. Even if it's tempting sometimes.
He leans in to press his lips to mine.
He tastes good, like coffee and sugar and Walker.
"Everybody does shit they regret. What matters is how you pick up the pieces." He moves closer.
"But your sister—"
"She crushes the pieces under her heel. You're nothing like Bree. Trust me."
"What if I am?"
"You're not."
"How can you say that when you don't know?"
"I know you. That's what matters."
I stare back into his eyes. "You promise?" Please promise. Please mean it. Please make today okay.
If the past doesn't matter, then I can tell him when I'm ready to confront it. When I'm sure he won't go from seeing me as Iris the person to Iris the recovering addict.
Seeing myself through his eyes is everything.
I can't lose that.
I don't know how to see myself as more than a recovering addict.
But he does.
He brushes my hair behind my ear. "Of course."
"What if I used to drink all the time?"
"I did too."
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. I need to feel him out. To see if it's possible he means it. "Or get high?"