“Oh, Sal,” she murmurs, her eyes welling again. “I love you. Both of you.”
“We love you too,” Sally answers wetly at the same time Ramon says, “Love you too, Iris.”
Then I hear Ramon clear his throat. “Landry?”
“Yeah?” I answer, already guessing what’s coming.
“Be careful with her.”
I have the feeling Ramon isn’t just talking about keeping Iris safe during the hurricane. No matter what, he’s got nothing to worry about.
“You have my word.”
“Beau?” Sally calls, still sounding tearful.
“Yeah?” I half-expect Iris’s best friend to issue some kind of warning of her own.
Instead, I hear her sniffle. “Thanks for looking out for her.”
My smile spreads slowly. “Anytime, Sally.”
Iris and her friends say their goodbyes, and she ends the call, her watchful eyes on me.
“What do—”
But she’s interrupted when her phone goes off again. This time, the name across the screen is her director’s.
“Shit,” she hisses. “Moira got to him. I’d better take this.”
She puts the phone to her ear, and I rise, wanting to give her privacy if she needs it. When she doesn’t look up at my departure, I know she’s got this under control.
“Hi Jonathan… I figured she did… No—no, I’m fine. She doesn’t represent me anymore…”
I step into the kitchen, but I feel my shoulders ease because she sounds more confident than she has since I showed up. Talking to her friends probably steeled her conviction that this is the right move.
I can still hear her voice in the kitchen, but I try to tune out her words and instead assess what we have to work with. The range is gas, which means we can cook without power. The fridge and the freezer aren’t exactly stocked, but there’s food. The freezer holds individually sealed salmon steaks, broccoli, and mixed berries. In the fridge I find eggs, two bags of kale, a head of cauliflower, romaine lettuce, a bag of organic apples, some Havarti cheese, deli sliced turkey, and milk.
I open the pantry to find a box of something called keto couscous—whatever the hell that is—two jars of marinara sauce, Mediterranean olives, marinated mushrooms, packets of tuna, coconut oil, applesauce, two bars of ninety-nine percent cocoa dark chocolate, and liters and liters of Perrier.
So the girl doesn’t own a single carb, but we won’t starve.
On the top shelf of the pantry, I hit the jackpot and find a working flashlight and a packet of tea candles. I open and close cabinets until I find a decent-sized pitcher, and I fill it with water. I store it in the fridge and go in search of the bathroom.
Iris finds me filling the tub. “What are you doing?”
“Just a precaution,” I say, straightening up. “In case the storm contaminates the water supply and they shut it off.”
She looks at the bathtub and wrinkles her nose. “We’re going to drink that?”
Sputtering a laugh, I shake my head. “No, it’s for flushing the toilet.”
She jerks her head back, surprise in her eyes. “I was not expecting you to say that.”
“Hurricanes are educational.”
She crosses her arms, leans against the bathroom door sill. “If you have the right teacher,” she quips, chafing her hands up and down her arms. “What else do we need to do?”
I nod toward her arms where her goosebumps are clearly visible. “Change into dry clothes, charge our phones, and make lunch.”
It’s only after we eat lunch and clean up the kitchen that I start to worry. Not about the storm. There’s no point in worrying about that. We’ve done everything we can do at this point, and now we just have to wait and watch.
But it’s what to do during the waiting and watching that has me concerned.
I should probably find a way to give Iris some space. And get some space for myself. I held her in my arms. I comforted her while she cried. But I can’t fool myself into thinking this is something it isn’t.
After I load the last dish from our cheese omelets into her dishwasher, I grab my bag that I set in the hall after I changed. “Where should I put my stuff?”
Drying her hands, Iris turns to me like I’ve taken her off guard. “Oh… um… Ramon’s room I guess.” She hangs the towel on a decorative hook over the sink. “C’mon. I’ll show you.”
I follow her to the front hall. She leads me to a bedroom at the front of the house. On a nice day, the windows would overlook her yard, but today, wet screens and driving rain obscure the view.
The double bed is made and other than a few hand weights in one corner, the room doesn’t look like it belongs to anyone.
“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 call Nonc. 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 get into her 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 hu
ndred 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.
Chapter Twenty-Four
IRIS
I’ve spent the last two hours tucked in the corner of the sofa with a skittish Mica pressed against my hip. I’ve tried to stoke my courage with the distracting power of Airpods because the house sounds like it’s about to splinter to smithereens right over my head.
And Beau is just chillin’ in Ramon’s room. Like we aren’t in the middle of a hurricane.
Surprisingly, refreshing the WeatherChannel.com page on my laptop isn’t helping soothe my nerves. Maybe this is why people have hurricane parties—to deal with the shit-curdling fear.
A blast of wind smacks something against the side of the house, and I jump two inches off the couch. Mica whimpers.
That’s it. I don’t care if I look like a scaredy-cat. I am a scaredy-cat. Too bad if Beau needs his alone time. I’m done sitting alone.
“Beau?” I call—at the exact second he fills the doorway.
“You okay?” he asks, seeing me huddled on the couch.
I shake my head. “Not really. No.”
Beau crosses the room and sits on the other side of Mica. He pats my dog’s head and runs a hand down his back. It looks like it feels good, and I scold myself for being jealous.
“Are you worried about the storm?”
“Maybe.”
Beau scratches behind Mica’s ears. Mica’s mouth parts gently, and he pants little wispy dog breaths before sighing audibly. By proxy, I sink a little deeper into the cushioned couch, easier now that Beau is nearby.
“We should do something to distract you.”
I blink, trying to school my expression to something believably neutral. Suggestions stampede to mind. I can imagine countless ways I’d like to distract myself with Beau. “Like what?” My words are innocent, but my voice comes out a little throaty.
Beau shrugs. “Teach me something.”
“Wh-hat?” Again, I don’t know what I expect him to say, but it’s not this.
“I teach you stuff four nights a week,” he says, one corner of his mouth lifting. “You teach me something now.”
A choppy, uncertain laugh leaves me. “I-I don’t know how to do anything.”
His brows become a flat line. “You’re a famous actor. You know how to do everything. You at least know how to pretend to do everything.”
I laugh.
He waits.
I gulp.
“First of all, I’m not really famous.”
Beau rolls his eyes. “Please. Strangers recognized you in the hospital the day we met. You have a Wikipedia page. That counts as famous.”
“You looked me up on Wikipedia?”
“Irrelevant,” Beau says, mouth twitching. “Suffice it to say you know enough about things I don’t to teach me something.”
My face heats. “Have you seen the show?” I hate how my heartbeat becomes an attention-seeking brat in my chest.
Do I want him to have seen the show? Yes. Yes, I do. But only if he liked it. If he saw it and thought it was dumb, I might burn to ash.
“Also irrelevant.” That’s a yes, but his expression gives away nothing, and it freaks me out. “Besides, I don’t own a television.”
“It’s streaming,” I mutter, sure he’s avoiding telling me he thinks my show sucks. And why wouldn’t he? He’s smart, cultured, world-travelled. And so serious. The show’s target audience was girls aged twelve to seventeen.
“Teach me something,” he says again. And now the look in his eyes reveals a hunger. A need. My bratty heart beats faster.
I swallow. “I could teach you how to make a fake wound using coffee grounds, glue, and face paint,” I say, shrugging. “Not very useful.”
Beau shakes his head. “I don’t care about useful. I want memorable.” The corners of his mouth turn down when he says this, his eyes clasped to mine.
He wants memorable.
I go very still, drinking him in. Is Beau asking to make a memory with me? Something to keep? To hold onto? Pain squeezes my unruly heart.
If he is, I don’t want it to be a memory of how to make a wound.
If he’s asking for a memory, I want it to be something that feels good. I want to remember it too. And I want to remember touching him.
“Do you ever get headaches?” I ask.
Surprise flits over his gaze. “Sometimes. If I’ve been grading too long or I go a day without coffee.”
I smile, loving the image of him bent over a stack of French tests, frowning down at his students’ poor conjugation, an empty coffee mug beside him.
“Have you ever tried acupressure to relieve your headaches?” I ask, my voice coming out somehow soft and rough at the same time.
He blinks twice. “No… You?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “My stylist on the show used to have to pull my hair in a tight bun whenever Raven Blackwell had to wear this ceremonial headdress—” I wave my hand to scatter the image of me in a crazy bandeau. I hope he never Googles that image. “Anyway, the bun and the costume were really uncomfortable, and I used to get these tension headaches, and my stylist showed me how to ease them with acupressure.”
I half-expect him to snicker and make fun, but his hungry look only intensifies. “Show me.”
His gaze makes my throat go dry. I swallow again. “T-turn around.” I shift in my seat and nudge Mica with my knee. He huffs in irritation and jumps off the couch, removing the barrier between us.
“Okay,” he mutters. I could be wrong, but Beau’s throat might be as dry as mine. He turns, giving me his back. He’s in a dark gray T-shirt and black athletic shorts, probably to keep cool if we lose power, but his attire is absolute crap at keeping me cool. The cotton of his tee stretches across his shoulders and hugs his back, doing little to hide his sculpted physique.
I inhale through my nose as quietly as possible. This isn’t about me. More than anything, I want to make Beau feel good. In the time I’ve known him, Beau has given me so much. So much. And he’s asked for nothing in return.
Except for asking you out. And you shot him down, my conscience scolds.
I shut my eyes and wince against the regret, glad Beau can’t see me. I grit my teeth and pull myself together.
“So… the trick is to find the right points that relieve the tension.” I lay my hands lightly on Beau’s shoulders, just at the base of his neck. He’s warm, and beneath my hands, I feel the slight lift of his shoulders as his lungs fill.
I glide my thumbs up his neck to the base of his skull on either side of his spine. His hair is short
back here, trimmed and tidy. His ears are perfect. Neither too big or too small. But from behind, they look vulnerable and new, the flesh just a little pink.
Are they sensitive? Would he shiver if I stroked them with my thumb? With my tongue?
Focus, Iris.
I position the pads of my thumbs. “This bony ridge,” I say, pressing into the dips in the bone at the base of his skull. I apply gentle pressure. “Right here. Feel that?”
“Yeah.” Beau’s answer is a rasp.
I hold the pressure steady. “Those are your occipital muscles.” While my thumbs stay firm, I allow my fingers to barely graze the sides of his neck. This isn’t technically part of the headache remedy, but it’s got to feel good.
When the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand up, I know it does.
Good. He deserves that. Even when I first met him—even when I was sure he didn’t like me—he gave me what I needed. He stepped between me and that vagrant that first night. He took over as my dance instructor. He fed me every damn class. He took me hiking so I wouldn’t go into the woods alone.
And today, my God, today, he kept me from losing my integrity with Jonathan and then he did the impossible.
He gave me the courage to stand up to Moira. Something I have never, never been able to do.
And now he’s staying with me through a hurricane.
This man. This smart, stern, serious, self-reliant, gentle, generous man, deserves more than to just feel good.
My voice is barely a whisper when I speak. “And the next time you’ve been grading too long, you just hold it here for a few minutes…”
Again, I picture him hard at work, late after a long school day. I’d love to come home and find him like that. Walk up behind him, plant a kiss to the very spots I’m attending to now, and take the stress away. Whisper a greeting and pull him away from his work.
I’d like to feel like this at home.
Longing, great and terrible, threatens to pull my bones from my body. When his school year begins, I’ll be gone.
Two-Step Page 25
