Chapter 55

Iris & Arthur

Iris

I stare at Arthur’s outstretched hand, and the way it reminds me of the first time we shook hands all those years ago isn’t lost on me.

“Well?” he asks. “Care for a dance?”

I hesitate, looking up at him. A dance sounds intimate, and dangerous, and a whole slew of other things. It feels too close to the ‘good old days’, too close to giving in when I’ve made it clear that I have no intention of getting back together with him.

As if reading my mind, Arthur tilts his head. “It’s just one dance, Iris. I’m not asking you to marry me.”

Yeah, I think wryly. That’s sort of the point. If things were different, then maybe he would have asked me five years ago, the very moment I found out I was pregnant with his child. He never would have gotten engaged to Selina and people might have judged us for our relationship, but he would have unapologetically loved me, and we could have been happy.

But he didn’t. And he won’t. We won’t.

Still, I can’t deny him, especially not as he grabs my hand and hauls me to my feet. His palm is rough and familiar beneath mine, and I set my half-finished glass of wine aside, shaking my head.

“Fine. Just one dance.”

Arthur smiles slightly, pulling me into the center of the room. His left hand curls around mine, the other coming to rest on the small of my back. My throat bobs as I place my right hand on his shoulder, resisting the urge to move it toward the nape of his neck and trace my fingers through his hair like I used to.

We begin to sway to the music, turning in a slow circle. I stare over his shoulder, at our feet—anywhere but his eyes.

But truthfully, the movement is so easy and familiar that it makes it even harder not to gaze at him. Before I know it, I’m meeting his eyes, and he’s holding my gaze as if he never intends to let go.

“When was the last time you danced?” he asks, pulling me just a touch closer.

I sigh, knowing that he’s trying to butter me up. “Arthur—”

“I’m just curious,” he says.

I shrug. “It’s been a while,” I admit. Five years, actually. Unless you count dancing with Miles, which I’ve done plenty of. But dancing with a man… I haven’t done that since we broke up.

Thankfully, Arthur doesn’t press the subject. But his grip does become firmer, and he begins moving us faster around the room, our feet tracing familiar paths across the carpet. The floorboards creak beneath us, and we narrowly miss a stack of books, which makes a small smile stretch across my lips.

“You really are drunk,” I say.

Arthur smirks slightly, then suddenly spins me with one hand. I twirl outward, my right arm outstretched, and then he spins me beneath his arm and hauls me flush against his body once more.

The movement is so natural that I don’t even realize it’s happened until it’s over, our chests now pressed together, rising and falling with sharp breaths.

Before I can say anything else, he whirls us around again, faster this time in tempo with the bridge of the music. Then, before I know it, we’re twirling around the living room, and I’m… laughing.

Truly laughing. That head thrown back, chest aching, cheeks sore kind of laughter. And I think Arther is laughing, too, although it’s hard to make out his face amongst the blur of our movements.

Finally, the dance comes to an end, and we’re pressed impossibly close. Arthur dips me gracefully, his abdomen pressed to mine, his arm holding my waist with ease. His eyes flick to my lips.

For a moment, just a moment, I almost consider letting him kiss me. Like last night, I know it would be easy—we’re so close, close enough that our noses are nearly brushing. We could close the remaining distance in half a heartbeat, and I could taste him again, and never stop tasting him.

And I almost do just that. My eyes begin to flutter closed as his head moves toward mine, and then—

“Mommy!”

I startle at the sound of Miles’ voice echoing from upstairs, which is followed by a raspy cough. It pulls me back to reality, and I quickly extricate myself from Arthur’s arms.

“I should give him his medicine,” I say, moving away from Arthur. I hurry upstairs before he can say anything, where I find Miles sitting up in bed, coughing and rubbing his eyes. His kitten is sitting beside him, mewing and pawing at him as if in worry.

“Mommy, I don’t feel good,” Miles moans.

I let out a soft sigh and sit on the bed beside him, spooning his medicine out. “I know, sweety. It’s just a cold from the water. Take your medicine, okay?”

Miles winces at the flavor of his medicine and refuses at first, but finally relents. Within a few minutes, he’s settled again, drifting off to sleep with his kitten in his arms. I sigh again and scratch the kitten behind the ears, then kiss Miles on the forehead and get up, making a mental note to call the doctor in the morning.

But I don’t go back downstairs all night. Rather, I make my way into my studio, where I spend the night working on a painting inspired by memories that I’ll never forget.

…

Arthur

Iris doesn’t come back downstairs all night, and I don’t blame her. I probably scared her away, in my stupid drunken state, trying to woo her with wine and dancing and old songs.

I feel like a fool as I sit in the living room, finishing my drink. It suddenly tastes like ash on my tongue, and I think back to what Iris said about drinking alone.

She’s right, of course. I never used to drink alone, but then she left, and it became almost a nightly occurrence. Never enough to make me sick or hungover, but always enough to dull the pain, to make it easier to sleep.

Truthfully, I can’t sleep without her by my side. Not unless I’m inebriated.

Around two in the morning, I finally decide to call it a night. I head upstairs, but pause halfway down the hall, seeing a light still on in Iris’s studio. Curious, I quietly open the door and peek inside.

Iris is fast asleep on the small daybed against the wall, curled up in a half-fetal position. She looks peaceful like this, but also uncomfortable. I take a step further into the room, careful not to wake her.

That’s when my eyes catch the easel in the corner, and my heart stops in my chest.

It’s a painting of the diner. The place where I met her, rain pouring down, neon lights spilling across the asphalt. If I lean close, I can just barely make out two figures inside, one wearing a dripping wet trenchcoat and the other in a baby blue diner uniform.

It’s the moment when I realized, right away, that Iris was my fated mate.

The moment when I looked into her eyes and I just knew.

I recall that night like it was yesterday—the way we talked for hours, the way the dress of her uniform swished around her legs, a few pieces of her hair coming loose from her bun. I intentionally left my keys on the counter, just to see if she would come after me, and she did.

She wrote her number on a wet piece of paper and I almost couldn’t contact her because I could hardly read the smudged ink, although I would have just gone back to the diner to find her anyway.

I remember it all, and it hurts. And what hurts even more is that the woman sleeping on the daybed looks no different than the night I met her.

Without thinking, I carefully scoop her up and carry her down the hall. She doesn’t stir the whole time, too exhausted to wake. But I don’t take her to the guest room.

I take her to my room. To our room. I do it without even meaning to, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Carefully, I set her down on the bed, on the right side where she used to sleep. Then, quietly, I crawl onto the other side and pull her close. She whimpers softly in sleep, nuzzling against me just like she used to every night, and my heart breaks all over again.

That night, just for one night, I fall asleep with her wrapped in my arms.