“Iris?” I call out as I walk through the halls filled with her plants.
No one answers back. I search the whole house twice before I come to the conclusion that she isn’t here.
“Fuck.” I pull out my phone and call Iris. Not surprisingly, she doesn’t respond.
I dial Cal’s phone number next, but he doesn’t pick up.
Me: Is Iris with you?
He doesn’t answer right away, and I’m not interested in sitting around. I might as well drive to his place while I wait.
Less than thirty minutes later, I park outside his apartment and decide to call him again. He finally answers, but his voice is gruffer than usual.
“What do you want?”
I see Iris got to him first.
“Where’s Iris?”
A door shuts in the background. “She’s sleeping.”
“At your place?” My teeth grind together.
“I don’t think it matters much to her so long as it isn’t yours.”
“Put her on the phone.”
“She doesn’t want to talk to you right now.”
“I want to hear her tell me that herself.”
“Man, just listen to me. Go home and take the night to cool off. Both of you are too emotional to deal with one another right now.”
“Fuck this.” I hang up the phone. I’m not about to let Cal tell me how to handle my wife. They might be friends, but I’m her husband. She belongs in our house no matter how upset she might feel right now. Couples talk issues out. They don’t need third-party mediators to handle their shit for them.
Cal’s doorman holds the door open for me. I press the elevator button and wait, tapping my loafer against the floor until the doors slide open. The ride to the top is quick.
I knock my fist against Cal’s front door. “Open up.”
“Motherfucker.” I hear him grunt before the door swings open.
“Go home,” he seethes as he shuts the door.
I block it with my foot and throw it back open. “Where is she?”
He shoves me, and I stumble back.
I blink. Cal pushed me? He doesn’t touch anyone, much less throw his weight around because he is pissed. The only time I’ve ever seen him do such a thing was on the ice during high school hockey games, and it was a part of his sport.
He jabs a finger against my chest. “She doesn’t want to deal with you right now.”
“So what? You know what’s best for her?”
“One of us has to, seeing as you sure as hell don’t. I knew you weren’t capable of taking care of her. I freaking knew it and I still helped you, thinking maybe you were really starting to change. That maybe you really did love her.”
“I do love her. Not that I owe you any explanation.”
“No, Declan. Clearly you don’t if you called her a failure like every other disappointing fuck in her life.”
“Shut your fucking mouth.”
“Why should I? It’s not like you ever do the same.”
My jaw tightens. “I made a mistake.”
“A mistake?” He laughs. “You belittled your wife until she felt as worthless as you. You made her feel small, useless, and insignificant—all because you care more about your job than the person you claim to love. So all I can say is congratulations, Declan. You spent your whole life protecting us from our father, only to become just like him.”
“Fuck you.” I bite down on my tongue and taste blood.
He salutes me with his middle finger before slamming the door in my face.
Nothing feels worse than returning to the house without Iris. Defeat presses against my shoulders, making each step feel more difficult than the last. I drag myself inside the dark house that is as silent as a tomb. What used to bring me comfort only fills me with dread now, especially knowing what I did to earn it. I’m stuck replaying my brother’s words to fill the silence.
You called her a failure like every other disappointing fuck in her life.
You belittled your wife until she felt as worthless as you.
You spent your whole life protecting us from our father, only to become just like him.
It’s the last one that hurts the most. To hear how Cal thinks of me…
It makes me want to rage. Not because of the sacrifices I’ve made, but because he is right. If I don’t check myself, I will become just like my father. It’s not like he started out as a cold bastard either. It took him time, and heartbreak, to get to a dark place faster than most.
You can be different. It’s not too late.
I release a deep breath as I move toward the kitchen. After my flight from hell and my brother’s conversation, I have no energy to cook anything, but my grumbling stomach demands some kind of nutrition.
I sift through the pantry, turning over different items before settling on Iris’s favorite.
Pasta straight out of a box.
The pressure in my chest intensifies as I consider all the times she cooked for me over the weeks. It might not have been gourmet, but I didn’t care so long as she kept me company.
Company I no longer have because I drove her away.
I set up two placemats without thinking much of it. It takes me a whole ten minutes before I realize my mistake, and my throat tightens to the point of difficulty breathing. I try to eat but everything tastes like cardboard to me.
The churning in my gut gets progressively worse as I dump my half-finished plate of pasta in the sink and go upstairs. No matter where I go, I can’t escape my mistakes. Even my damn bedroom isn’t safe. The memories of Iris assault me the moment I enter, with her perfume lingering in the air.
Her hair tie on the dresser. Some random heel left abandoned in a corner during a hookup. A framed photo of us on our wedding day, with her smiling up at me while I scowl at the camera.
I grip my chest, wishing for the tightness to stop. My hands tremble and I take a few deep breaths, trying to curb the anxiety attack before it starts.
You never deserved her.
No. I didn’t yet I wanted her anyway.
I miss my wife. She belongs next to me, complaining about how I like to cuddle although she secretly loves it. I’d do anything to hear her groan about my alarm clock in the morning or for the grumpy kiss I get before I crawl out of bed to go work out.
I slide under my comforter after my shower and stare up at the ceiling, surrounded by the smell of Iris’s coconut body wash. No position feels comfortable without her.
You’re fucked.
I turn over for the third time and stare at the cactus she bought me two years ago.
Don’t be a prick.
I’ll try. Just for her.
44
DECLAN
I arrive at Cal’s doorstep at 8 a.m. with a coffee in hand, ready to talk to Iris. I’m running on limited sleep and a lot of caffeine after an endless night of tossing and turning.
My brother opens the door wearing a suit and tie, which is out of the norm given he doesn’t even have a job to go to.
“Where are you going?”
“Work.” He shuts his front door and locks it.
“Since when do you have a job?”
“Since you needed an assistant.”