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 hundred 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.