Under Her Skin

by Lea Santos

  Iris studied Torien’s angled profile, fighting the urge to brush away the perspiration trickling down her temple. What kind of life did she believe Iris lived? Did Torien imagine she would complain over a five-hundred-thousand-dollar discrepancy in pay? A nagging hand of shame about her good fortune clawed at Iris’s conscience. She had earned her money, sure. But mostly because she’d inherited good genes and had seized the modeling opportunities that had come her way. She frowned. Wait a minute—why did she suddenly feel the need to defend herself? She wasn’t Antoine, after all. Mr. Entitlement.

  “Where is El Proyecto working now?” Iris asked, yearning to know more about this intriguing woman instead of wallowing in the unsettling and uncharacteristic guilt for her own comparatively easy life. “I read online that you’d finished that garden on the West End.”

  Torien made an affirmative sound low in her throat, eyes focused on her task. “We are in my neighborhood now. Círculo de Esperanza, on the north side.”

  Circle of Hope. Iris knew of it, yes. A modest immigrant neighborhood referred to derisively by many Denverites as Tortilla Flats, due to the large population of Mexicans who lived there. Having grown up in the suburbs, she was ashamed to admit she’d never really been to Torien’s neighborhood, though it wasn’t so far from where they stood now. “Is there room for a community garden near your home?”

  “Sí. Directly in front of our home, en realidad.” At Iris’s look of confusion, she added, “Our house sits on the corner of a square.” Torien lifted one hand off the handle of the spreader and drew a shape in the air. “The square was empty. Feo, no?”

  “Ugly?”

  “Yes.” Torien smiled. “But we’ll make it beautiful.”

  Warmth radiated from within Iris. How appropriate that Torien should live in a place called Circle of Hope. “You live there with your sister?”

  “And two other compañeros. Do you say…roommates?”

  “Yes.”

  Torien shot her an almost embarrassed glance. “When we first arrived from México, we could not afford a place alone.” She shrugged. “Now we are…used to each other, I suppose. They are all hardworking women. Decent.”

  Iris didn’t doubt that.

  “A propósito”—Torien ventured—“Señora Moreno has allowed me to borrow equipment for the community project. If you see me taking it…that is why.”

  Stopping short, Iris faced Torien. Clearly, she feared being accused of theft. Did she really think the possibility would cross Iris’s mind? “Torien, you don’t have to explain yourself to me. I would never doubt your integrity.”

  Torien pressed her lips together. “I meant no offense. I live in a different world, one where you can’t be too careful. I thought I would mention it. Just in case.”

  Iris’s jaw tightened and her mind raged. It shouldn’t have to be that way. A pang of compassion clenched her stomach, and she reached out to touch Torien’s lean, strong back, intended as a gesture of understanding. However, the feel of the cotton clinging lightly to the sweat-dampened muscles beneath mesmerized Iris, and, God help her, she couldn’t make herself stop. She smoothed her hand up, then down again, feeling Torien tense beneath the caress. Still, Iris didn’t pull away.

  Finally, Torien stilled. Glanced at her, as if trying to puzzle it out. Iris recognized the smoldering look in Torien’s eyes, the promise and the need of it, because she felt it herself.

  She eased closer, yearning for Torien’s touch. Craving confirmation that Torien felt this crackling sensation stretched taut between them, too. That Iris wasn’t the only one consumed by it. Instead, Torien reached behind her and gently captured Iris’s wrist, removed it from her back. Holding it loosely in her hand, Torien massaged Iris’s pulse point with gentle motions of her work-roughened thumb. “We cannot.” Torien’s words were low, intimate. “You know this as well as I do.” Her sobered, unwavering gaze searched Iris’s face.

  “Why not?” Iris whispered.

  “Too many complications.” Torien moistened her lips with a flick of her tongue. “Si esta víbora te pica, no hay remedio en la botica. You understand?”

  Iris tried to translate in her head. Something about a snake bite with no remedy to cure the poison, the subtext of which wasn’t sinking in. “I…uh…haven’t heard that one.”

  “In English, you might say…playing with fire, no?”

  “Ah, I see. But I don’t understand why you think so.” Iris inched closer until she could feel the heat radiating off Torien’s body. “Is it me?”

  “Yes,” Torien replied, with a small huff of humorless laughter. Honest as always.

  The answer surprised Iris, but it shouldn’t have.

  “It is you. And me.” Torien released Iris’s wrist and stepped back, motioning across the distance between them. “And all this. All that separates us.”

  “What separates us, Tori, except you? Your worry?”

  Torien’s jaw clenched. She flickered her eyes closed, then open again. “Don’t do this.”

  “Why not? Don’t you want to explore this…this thing between us?” Iris asked, feeling brazen. Wanting answers. “You feel it, too. I know you do because I see it in your eyes.” Her heart beat hummingbird wings against her rib cage. Torien was shutting her out before they ever had a chance, and a small, pathetic part of Iris felt desperate to change her mind.

  After several frozen moments, Torien leaned a palm on the handle of the spreader. One side of her mouth lifted in a sad half-smile. “I feel it. But what I want and what I must do are often two different things.”

  “Meaning?”

  Torien released a long breath through her nose and smoothed the backs of her fingers along Iris’s collarbone. “Ah, Irisíta. There are a million reasons why we cannot spend that kind of time together. I don’t even have the words to list them all.”

  Iris’s stomach plunged with humiliation and regret. “B-but we’re spending time together right now.” She lifted her arms to the sides. “What do you call this?”

  “This is different.”

  “How so?” Why so affronted? a voice inside Iris chided. You assume any woman would fall at your feet because you’re Iris Lujan? She didn’t; that wasn’t her vibe. But…Jesus.

  Maybe she wasn’t Torien’s type.

  Maybe this was her way of letting Iris down easy. She should accept it with dignity, no matter how difficult that was to dredge up. Iris held up a hand. “You know what? Don’t answer. I just—” She paused, fighting to leach the raw emotion from her voice. She was a grown woman. She’d handled worse than a simple “thanks, but no thanks.”

  “¿Qué?” Torien tucked her chin and lifted Iris’s slightly with a knuckle.

  “What I mean is…we seem to get along well.”

  Torien inclined her head. “Very well.”

  Iris flipped her hands, defeated. Embarrassed. Last kid picked for kickball. “Well, then, I guess I just don’t understand.”

  “Don’t you?” The question sounded gently skeptical. Torien pointed toward the mansion where Iris was a guest, where she worked as the gardener. “We live in completely different worlds. Worlds so far apart it is…increíble that our paths even crossed. Nothing is ever going to change that.”

  Torien had a point. Still, Iris blinked at the woman who’d somehow managed to invade her thoughts and get under her skin in a way she hadn’t experienced…maybe ever. She lowered her voice to a near whisper. “I get that. But…does it matter?”

  Torien stared at her for a long time, then sighed, looking both regretful and fully reconciled to her decision. She danced her fingertips over Iris’s cheek, down her neck to her shoulder, then squeezed her arm before breaking the connection completely. “I’m sorry, but this is real life. It matters a lot.”

  Chapter Four

  “Yo!” Emie snapped her fingers twice. “Earth to Iris, come in, Iris.”

  Startled, Iris blinked twice and refocused on her two best friends across the dimly lit restaurant table. Cau
ght daydreaming—how embarrassing. She’d been doing that a lot in the past couple of weeks, more so since yesterday’s cutting rejection. “I’m sorry.” She closed her eyes and shook it off. “What did you say?”

  Emie Jaramillo and Paloma Vargas exchanged a quick, cryptic glance. Paloma covered Iris’s hand with her own. “Girl, if you were any more out of it, we’d put your ass in a home.”

  “Locked down,” Emie added.

  “Yeah,” Paloma said, with a fleeting smile. “What’s going on with you?”

  Whenever Iris was in town, going out to lunch was their weekly ritual. Since it hadn’t happened nearly often enough in the past few years, she cherished these moments. She shouldn’t sit here ignoring the two people who had never rejected her—even on that fateful camping trip when she’d been sprayed by a skunk—just because Torien had. Indecipherable emotions swung like a wrecking ball in her stomach. “Eat first, then talk,” she said, pasting a falsely bright smile on her face.

  They returned frequently to this particular burger joint because no one seemed to recognize Iris, and if someone did, there might be discreet gawking, but no one disrupted their meal. The three of them would sit in a dark, high-backed booth for at least three hours, catching up on all the gossip while indulging in artery-clogging food and umbrella drinks until they had to unfasten the top buttons of their pants just so they could breathe.

  For the next several moments, they sat buried in their familiar, oversized menus, exclaiming over the new dishes and arguing over whether margaritas were best frozen or on the rocks. Piped-in alternative music muffled the conversations around them, and the scents of grilled beef and fried vegetables permeated the air. As the menu offerings blurred before Iris’s eyes, the question resurfaced. Why doesn’t she want me?

  She had seen evidence of their mutual physical attraction in Torien’s eyes, felt it crackling like lightning in the air around them. She didn’t think Torien had a girlfriend, or she probably would have mentioned it. Plus, she didn’t seem the type of woman to keep such secrets. It had to be the other reason, the one she didn’t want to think about. Perhaps a woman like Iris, occupying such a superficial place in the world, held no interest for a woman like Tori, who was so clearly grounded and self-assured. How could Iris prove there was more to her than pouting for the camera when, lately, she hardly believed it herself? She bit her lip, desperately needing the advice and support of her friends, but she would wait until they’d at least shared the traditional basket of fried mozzarella sticks and ranch dressing.

  Then she’d spill her guts.

  They ordered, dabbled in a little small talk, and soon the cheese sticks and margaritas—two on the rocks, one frozen—arrived.

  Paloma, who at a diminutive four foot eleven always had trouble with the tables being too tall, slipped her foot beneath her like a booster chair. She reached across the dark oak table for a cheese stick, emitting a low yummy sound. “Nothing like fat, deep-fried in fat, dipped into more fat to launch the perfect best friends’ luncheon.”

  Emie laughed. “Wouldn’t be the same without them.”

  They both watched Iris, who usually pounced on the appetizer. When they’d each reached for their second stick before she’d lifted a hand, Emie sighed. “Okay, Iris. Forget this ‘let’s eat first’ stalling. You aren’t eating anyway.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “No,” Paloma said. “You aren’t.”

  Emie pinned her with a level gaze. “What’s going on?”

  Iris reached for a cheese stick in a small, pathetic sign of rebellion. After dunking it in the dressing, biting into it, chewing, and swallowing, she took a long sip of her cocktail, then said, “Okay, fine.” A beat passed. “I met a really great woman.”

  “What?” Paloma shrieked. “And you were going to make us wait for that story? It’s red ink for you tonight, Iris.”

  Her tiny friend scowled, and Iris laughed. Paloma had kept extensive journals since they were kids. When she wrote about you in red ink, you were number one on her shit list.

  “Whatever happened to that ‘if I need to snuggle, I’ll get a dog’ mantra you’ve been chiming since Mel took off with the groupie?” Emie asked.

  Iris groaned, pulling the turquoise paper umbrella out of her drink and sucking foam off the end of the toothpick. “Well, I guess she happened.”

  “Who?” Paloma said.

  “This…incredible woman she met,” Emie answered, glancing to Iris for confirmation. “Right?”

  Iris nodded.

  “So? Not a good enough answer. Who is she?” Emie asked.

  A tight pause ensued while Iris imagined their reactions. “Geraline’s new gardener.” She watched their faces, which remained open but inscrutable. They’d made a pact in high school to reserve judgment on any potential dates until they’d heard the whole story. Twelve years since they’d graduated, and the pact still held. Iris smiled, feeling suddenly cocooned in the solidarity of their…forever-ness.

  “Her name is Torien Pacias. She’s Mexican—”

  “News flash: so are we,” Paloma said.

  “I mean from Mexico Mexican. Like Emie’s parents.”

  Emie smiled.

  “Anyway, she’s here on a permanent work visa. She’s tall—”

  “Tall?” they asked in unison, knowing that Iris was usually the tall one in her relationships.

  “Yep. Tall, dark, and drop-dead…just…I don’t know. Freaking hot. Not to mention, sweet. But not too sweet, if you know what I mean. Always kind and caring enough to make you want to rip your clothes off and beg, but she’s definitely got a sexy brood to her, too. Without all that moody baggage stuff that often goes with the dark, sexy, brooding type, thank God.”

  “So, basically perfect,” Paloma said.

  “Yep.” Iris fidgeted into a more comfortable position, then looked from woman to woman. “So?”

  “What do you mean, ‘so’? What else?” Paloma asked, wrapping her hand around the base of her gargantuan margarita glass. “If you met a great woman, end of story, your expression wouldn’t look like someone drop-kicked your kitten into its tenth life.”

  Iris released a little huff of astonishment and glanced at Emie for support.

  Emie shrugged. “Sorry. Pea has a point.”

  “Okay, you’re right. This time it’s not so easy as, met a woman who personifies perfection, cue romantic music—”

  “Is it ever?” Emie asked.

  Iris scoffed. “Only for Paloma.” She quickly explained how they met, that they’d been gardening together, and all about Torien’s volunteer work. Then she twisted her lips into a derisive grimace and added, “There’s only one problem.”

  “Problem? What?” Emie asked, nudging her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “She sounds great so far.”

  “She is great. The most amazing, real, honest woman I’ve ever met.” Iris sat back, her gaze on the table, fingers twirling the paper umbrella. “Alas, she doesn’t want me.”

  “Ah. So, she’s straight?” Paloma said, not missing a beat. Emie smacked her, and Paloma scowled. “What?” She indicated their famous friend across the table. “She’s Iris Lujan, for God’s sake. If the woman isn’t interested in her, gardener chick’s either dead-set heterosexual, or she’s got the kind of baggage I don’t even want to open.”

  “Paloma, be serious. I’m not interested in women who want to date Iris Lujan”—Iris bracketed the statement with finger quotes—“and you damn well know that. I want a woman who wants me. The real me. The me you guys know. Actually…to be more specific, I want Torien to want that me. But it’s just…not happening.”

  Paloma pursed her lips and took hold of Iris’s other hand. “We do understand, honey. I didn’t mean to be flippant.”

  Iris glanced down to stanch the raw sting of impending tears, and her tone lowered. “I want this more than anything I’ve wanted in a long time. I don’t know what to do.”

  They paused while the waitress served their entrees,
and when she left, Emie asked, “How can you be so sure Torien’s not interested?”

  Worried what the food might do to her churning stomach, Iris pushed her plate away. “Because she told me.”

  Emie blinked, startled. “Just…straight out?”

  “Pretty much.” She made a shooing motion with her hands. “Go ahead and eat. Don’t wait for me.” She waited for them to settle the jade cloth napkins on their laps and dig forks into their respective entrées before asking, “Okay”—she sighed—“where should I start with the whole ‘she doesn’t want me’ tale of woe?”

  “Tell all,” Emie said, steak knife in her hand. “We’ll ferret out the good parts.”

  Iris brought them up to speed with everything that had happened the previous evening. With a shrug, she added, “That’s it. The woman isn’t interested in dating me. She and her little sister are supporting their family in Mexico, and I guess that takes up all her time. I don’t know.”

  “Does she know who you are?” Emie eyed her. “Is she intimidated?”

  “Uh, trust me. Torien isn’t intimidated by anything. She knows about my job but doesn’t seem to care.” Iris unfurled her cloth napkin and listlessly extracted the fork. She bounced it against her hand beneath the table. “That’s one of the main reasons I like being around her so much.”

  “Because she accepts you,” Paloma said.

  “That, and she doesn’t treat me…differently.”

  “Probably because, as a foreigner, she understands what it feels like to be a loner amongst many,” Emie murmured.

  Iris’s gaze jerked toward her. How’d Em get to be so smart? Well, besides that decade-plus she spent in college and grad school. Emie, a renowned research scientist, never failed to analyze situations in the most logical manner. And, as usual, she had an astute point. Being well-known and recognizable kept Iris more isolated than she preferred. Torien seemed kind of isolated, too. So, why couldn’t they isolate themselves together and do what nature intended? “It does feel like she gets me, you know? If I could just—”