Page 120 of Two-Step
“Ray’s been sleeping upstairs in Sally’s room since they got back from New Orleans,” she says dryly. She wears a smirk. “Good thing since this room shares a wall with mine.” Iris points to the wall behind the bed’s headboard.
I drop my bag with a quick nod. I don’t need to be thinking about banging headboards while standing this close to Iris. I need space.
“Look, um.” I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. “I’m going to hang out here for a while. Check the weather and callNonc.Get out of your hair.”
I hear my own words and my gaze unconsciously sweeps over the messy bun she constructed when she changed her clothes. Her dark waves swirl into a knot and still-damp tendrils spill around her face. I’d like nothing better than to getintoher hair. Run my hands through it. Bury my face in it.
“Oh—Okay,” Iris stammers, her posture stiffening. She steps backward and hits the doorframe. “Ow—”
I wince as she blushes and rubs the back of her shoulder. “I—um—I’ll just go look over my scenes for next week.” She hooks a thumb behind her. “I’ll be in the living room if you need anything.”
I nod. “Thanks.”
She turns and disappears and then immediately pops back in. “M-maybe we could hang out later or—” She stops, lifts her shoulders and drops them, staring at me at a loss. “I have no idea what people do to kill time during a hurricane.”
I grin. She’s adorable even when she’s awkward. Especially when she’s awkward. I want to tell her that killing time with her during a hurricane sounds like bliss on tap, but it’s going to be a long night, and I need to watch it.
“Right now? The goal is to soak up the air conditioning, watch all the TV you want—or anything that requires electricity—and eat all your ice cream.”
Iris gives me a forlorn expression that tries to make me laugh. “I don’t have any ice cream.”
“I noticed.” I cross my arms and give her a mock frown. “And whose fault is that?”
Iris doesn’t miss a beat. “Moira’s. First thing I do after this storm is buy myself a fuckton of ice cream.”
She doesn’t try this time. She succeeds. I laugh so hard I’m sure the room will run out of air.
Like any great comedian, she leaves on that high note, and her departure is cause for both relief and regret. And for the next two hours, I’m absurdly aware of her just down the hall in the living room.
Because Iris hums. I do all the things I listed to keep me busy—check the weather radar, call my uncle and Val to let them know where I am, text Ramon a general update—and then a few other things like chime in on Facebook’s Virtual Cajun Table group discussion, read every news article on my phone, check my email.
But every now and then, I hear her humming. I can’t make out what song is stuck in her head, but it’s a pretty sound, lilting and sweet.
I stretch out on the bed and count the ceiling tiles, wanting with all my being just to go be with her but knowing all too well my own intentions.
And they aren’t innocent.
The wind picks up. I push myself off the bed and peer out the window. The frothy sky is the color of concrete. The branches of the sturdy oak tree in Iris’s yard dip and sway, as though confident of its survival. Judging by the size, it’s got to be more than a hundred years old, so it’s seen plenty worse than this. By contrast, her smaller crepe myrtles thrash and rail like the world is coming to an end, the confetti of their blossoms littering the ground, the street, and even the air.
The bones of the old house tick and the windows sigh with each powerful gust. Even though the house makes noise, I’m not worried. It’s like the oak tree. Sturdy. Old school. Here for the long haul.
Iris is safe here.
For an instant, I make the mistake of forgetting that the house doesn’t belong to her. She’s renting while she’s in town. Temporarily. She’ll be here until the end of July, but by the time my fall semester starts, she’ll be back in L.A. and someone else will be living in this house.
The thought bores a hole through my chest.
She’ll be gone, and I can’t even picture a scenario where I’d ever see her again—except on a screen.
And no version of Iris on screen will capture the split-second mischief when she knows what she’s about to say will make me laugh. No video of her will have the casual intimacy of sharing watermelon. Or boudin. No movie will make me feel the way she feels in my arms.
All at once, I can’t breathe.
Iris is oxygen, and my time with her is running out.
I escape the bedroom, seeking her. I don’t care that she doesn’t want more than friendship. I don’t care that this is all we’ll ever be.
I won’t waste any more minutes that I have to be with her.
