Page 18 of Iridescent
I turned on the faucet and let the rush of water swallow the first sob. I pressed my hand over my mouth, trying to keep the sound in.
I cried until there was nothing left. Until my throat burned and my chest caved in.
Until I was empty.
When the tears finally stopped, I threw the test into the trash and splashed water over my face. I scrubbed away the tear tracks, then steadied my shaking hands long enough to force a smile at my reflection.
Once it looked almost convincing, the clock was nearing noon.
Xavier woke around noon and moved through his routine, mercifully unaware of the wreckage inside me.
I kept wondering how he had slept through all of it. The nurse. The call. The bathroom faucet running long past any reasonable excuse. Not once had he stirred.
He knew we were getting the result today, yet somehow, he had slept through the ruin of it.
While he stepped away for a brief conference call, I wandered the house in restless circuits, trying to quiet the noise in my head. I picked at a light lunch and kept to the edges of our home, grateful his distraction spared me the humiliation of explaining my swollen eyes.
He used to notice everything. These days, I’m not so sure he sees me at all.
When it was time to leave for his parents’ house, I changed into a simple black halter dress and low heels.
All I wanted was to sink into the pit of my failure and quiet the noise in my head long enough to breathe. But Xavier needed me. And I was the one who had pushed him to attend this dinner in the first place.
So I moved.
I found my husband waiting by the door, already scrolling through his phone.
Work again.
Or someone, a voice whispered at the back of my mind.
I shook it off.
“You look stunning, amor,” he said, glancing up to brush a quick kiss over my lips before his attention dropped back to the screen.
I smiled, even as something tightened in my chest.
He opened my door with his free hand, never putting his phone away.
What was it about work that he couldn’t let go of, even for a second?
I slid into my seat and watched him finish typing, the blue glow of the screen washing over his features. He didn’t look at me again before slipping the phone into his pocket and climbing in beside me.
Twenty minutes later, dusk has given way to night on the French Riviera.
Neither of us says much.
Xavier focuses on the road ahead, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift where—once upon a time—my fingers used to rest.
The engine purrs beneath us, the tires humming along the winding coastal road. Inside the car, the air carries the faint scent of his cologne—crisp and woody, with a hint of citrus—mingled with the warm leather of the seats.
I stare out the window as the landscape streaks past. The narrow streets of Nice open into sweeping curves carved into the cliffs above the sea. Streetlamps cast pools of pale light over umbrella pines and dark cypress trees. Through breaks in the foliage, I catch glimpses of the Mediterranean far below: an endless black expanse flickering with reflections from distant hillside homes.
A blue road sign flashes past: Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat – 5 km.
We’re getting close.
The silence between us is heavy, but my mind is loud with thoughts I can’t quiet. I wonder what impossible things the people in those distant villas and modest apartments are wishing for tonight—what hopes they cling to in secret. How many of them are like me, holding on to something they will never have?
