Page 104 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

A knock comes from my bedroom door. A little louder and aggressive for it to be Colt and definitely won’t be Wade given that he hasn’t stepped foot in the house all week.

Taking my chances that it isn’t some home abductor coming for me, because what kind of abductor knocks first, I yell, “Come in.” Sitting up so I can see my guest.

The door swings open, and there, in all her alternative-looking glory, is my best friend Iris.

She stands in the doorway with her carry-on by her feet, sunglasses pushed up off her head, looking dead at me That is all it takes for me to burst into tears.

“Oh no.” She rushes into the room, door slamming behind her. She drops the sunglasses onto the floor, crossing the room with her arms wide, ready to take me in her arms, and when she does, I just let go. Every single fucking thing I have been trying to hold together comes apart all at once, and I let it, because my best friend is the one person in the world I don’t have to hold anything together for.

Iris just holds on to me, rubbing slow circles on my back, her chin resting on top of my head, letting me get through the worst of the breakdown. For all her chaos, all her no-filter commentary and the many times she is wildly inappropriate, she still knows when to just be quiet and hold on.

As I start to gain composure again—very slowly, I must add—she pulls back and holds me at arm’s length, looking at my face with that particular forensic attention she uses when she’s trying to work out what’s going on in my brain. Girl, I don’teven really know myself.

“Right,” she says. “Talk.”

And just like that, I tell her everything. There are no secrets between me and Iris because there is no judgement between us. Sure, she will call me out on my shit when needed; that’s what true friends do, but she still loves me no matter what.

“So, it’s done?” she asks, and I nod. She is quiet for a moment, before asking how I am. Concern laced in her voice.

“Well, I have now showered and left the house, so I’m calling that a win,” I joke, using humour as my armour, as per usual.

“And ending it—that felt like the right call for you?”

“It had to be.”

“Do you love him?” The question comes out of nowhere and lands right where I do not want it.

Do I love Wade Carter? I haven’t let myself even think of that. I keep that particular door firmly shut. Sure, I really like him, but love?

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, ignoring the truth I know deep down.

“That’s not a no.” She squeezes my knee, giving it a little shake. In other words, come on, girl.

“Iris,” I warn.

“Fine…” Her voice stretches the word out as she shifts next to me, leaning back on the headboard, shoulder pressing into mine. She looks up at the ceiling, the same ceiling I have been staring at for five days, and for a moment, we just sit there in quiet.

Then something occurs to me.

I turn to look at her properly. At the suitcase still near the door. At the fact that Iris is here, in Texas, in my—temporary—bedroom, when four days ago she was in London bitching to me via voice note about a terrible date she’d been on,followed up with a ten-minute explanation as to why she never is going to date a British guy again.

I shove her lightly. “Bitch,” our term of endearment.

Unphased by it, she just hums in response.

“Why are you here?”

She keeps her eyes on the ceiling, the smallest smile threatening the corner of her mouth. I sit up straighter, giving her the famous Callaghan look that she knows all too well.

“Fine, so…” she finally stops staring up, “Wade rang me about three weeks ago. I answered the phone to hear someone with a very serious American accent asking if I am Maeve’s Iris,” she did quotation marks with her hands. “Of course I am her. Then, he introduced himself, and I was like, ohh, cowboy superman or whatever you call him—”

“Batman,” I correct, hurting as I say it out loud.

“Well, same difference. Anyway, he said he wanted to fly me out early as a surprise. Paid for the flight and everything. All confirmed on Sunday, telling me I was flying out in five days. Not much of a warning, but he is lucky I am a freelancer and that I love my girl.”

Sunday… The day I ended things. The day he came with a coffee and water to check if I was ok. The day I last heard him say “Angel” for the last time in that low, rough drawl. think about him pressing his lips to my forehead before he said what he said, walked out, and closed the door like he was trying to make it easy for me. And before all that, he had just dropped money so I could have my best friend here.

My eyes fill before I can stop them.