pull myself together.
Iris sighs. “Yeah,” she says, her tone commiserating. “This was back before Hexed, but she said that comedy is for those who…”
Again, she trails off, and I hear more than just embarrassment in her voice. There’s disgust too.
“Are a seven or lower,” she finishes, her words hollow.
At first, I don’t get it. “A seven or lower?”
Silence.
And then it hits me. Oh fuck. This from her mother.
“And she said you were—” but I stop myself before I finish, anger heating my neck.
“Don’t make me say it,” Iris murmurs, sounding lower than I’ve ever heard her.
A ten. I’ve never ranked a woman—or anyone—based on looks. That’s dehumanizing and objectively wrong. But to grow up hearing that applied to you? From your mom?
A memory from our first lesson comes roaring back. Iris, pale and dizzy, sitting with shaking, clammy hands. Talking about Moira.
You know I can’t eat in front of her.
Damn.
And just like that, I’m so glad—so fucking glad—I brought breakfast. My pulse speeds up, and I have the ridiculous desire to feed her every day. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Angry words crowd my throat, and I have to clear it and breathe in and out for a good ten seconds before I can tell Iris exactly what she should hear—what she should have heard for years.
“She’s wrong.” It’s a pronouncement. A declaration. An objective truth. “You’d be amazing in a comedic role.”
I look over at her because I can’t not look over at her. The smile she flashes is huge, but I can see she fights to keep it under control.
“You think so?” she asks, and it’s not false modesty. A nagging doubt or disbelief tightens her voice.
“Hell, yes.” I pound the steering wheel lightly. “You’re quick. You say the funniest things. Your timing is spot-on. And you make these hilarious faces.” I crack up when I say this, thinking of her wilder expressions.
She lets the smile break free.
“After this movie comes out,” I say, seeing it clear as day, “They’re going to offer you a guest spot on Saturday Night Live, and when you crush it—because you will crush it—the offers from Seth Rogen and Judd Apatow and Melissa McCarthy are going to pour in.”
Iris is laughing again, and I love it.
A minute ago when I made her laugh, she touched me. She doesn’t do it again, and I’m not gonna lie. I’m disappointed.
Maybe it’s my turn to touch her.
But I shouldn’t touch her. Not when she’s trapped in the car with me. Not when that isn’t what this is supposed to be about. She can touch me all she wants, but I need to keep my hands to myself.
God, let her touch me again.
Instead, she catches her breath and sighs. “So, I’m guessing your mom didn’t tell you you were too good looking to become a French teacher, right?”
I choke on my laughter. “Uh, no.” Even though I’m facing the highway, I can feel her eyes on me.
Did she just say I’m good looking?
I rerun her question. “I think Mom would have loved for me to join a ballet company after high school instead of going to college.”
“Shit, were you that good?” She sounds awed.
I was that good. Val and I both were. But neither one of us wanted that life.
I shrug.
“That’s a yes!” Iris swats me on the shoulder. “Holy shit. Do you know how rare that is? Do you know how many kids take ballet thinking they’ll grow up and be some prima ballerina compared to how many actually make it?”
“Um, probably about as many who grow up wanting to act compared to those who actually make it on television?” I give her a teasing grin and catch her eye roll. But she’s right. “My mom was that good. She was leagues better, honestly.”
And I feel it. The stinging in my chest that always sears me when I think about her career.
Even though it’s not my fault, I still feel guilty.
“Really?” Iris asks. “Like famous?”
“She could have been,” I say with certainty.
Silence falls over the cab. “What happened?”
My asshole dad, I want to say. But instead, I start from the beginning.
“Mom grew up here, studied ballet, and did it all. She found the best teachers she could in the area and then took Greyhounds to study in other cities. New Orleans. Houston. Dallas,” I rattle off. “She spent every summer in high school at ballet workshops all over.”
I look over and find Iris wearing a knowing smile. Yeah, she probably knows all about that kind of dedication.