her the secret that was weighing on me. I turned in the direction of Bobby’s and hauled my ass back.
Later, I wished I’d stayed, had told her the truth right then and there.
But by that time, it was too late.
Eight
Iris
I was getting ready for a date.
My first real date, if I was being honest with myself.
Because I was just discounting everything from the Frank Period in my life. A.D. and B.C., except I was going to more aptly call them, B.F. and A.F.—as in, Before Frank and After Frank.
Yeah. That.
And after was going to be so much better than during.
I slipped into my killer suede booties, arranged the cowl neck of my burgundy sweater dress to show just a little more cleavage.
Because why not?
I’d spent too much time in my life worrying about how things could go wrong, fluttering around, working my ass off to prevent them from happening, and . . . I was done, dammit.
I’d done everything possible to make things work with Frank, including making myself feel small, putting what I wanted on the back burner.
I’d wanted to rent a kitchen sooner, but he’d convinced me that I was going to fail, that it would be a risky financial decision to rent something. But then he’d used the money for a second Master’s degree, and while I appreciated him wanting to learn, had wanted to do my part to help build our future, to facilitate his dreams, I also knew now that I deserved to have some of my dreams come true, too.
And I was starting by going on a date with a funny, kind, gorgeous man and continuing by not questioning everything that didn’t seem to make sense between us—including but not limited to: he was beautiful, I was not; he was a ten, I was a six on a good day; he was hilarious, I could occasionally make someone chuckle—
“Enough, Iris,” I muttered.
No more denigrating when I should be lifting myself up . . . because just . . . enough.
It was funny—not ha-ha funny but strange funny—how I could proceed along a path without deviating, without seeing how fucked up it was for years, but that one conversation with Brooke had tipped me over the edge.
I’d been thinking a lot since I found out about Frank.
But I’d still been shouldering more than my fair share of the burden.
Then, two nights before, Brooke—and squee! I was somehow on a first name basis with Brooke Freaking McAlister, my favorite author—but what she’d said hadn’t necessarily been book-related. She’d been talking about Kace, about taking a leap with him and finding the courage to put her heart on the line.
“I realized I could either continue to live on the periphery,” she’d said, tucking a strand of her long, red hair behind one ear. “Or I could just live.”
I’d smiled, teased her, even though those words collided heavily with my soul. “You should write books or something.”
Brooke had grinned. “I’ve definitely got the or something part down,” she’d said. “At least, according to some of my readers,” she’d added when I’d given her a questioning look. “Oh, it’s nothing. I just got a lovely email this morning accusing me of writing filth, and the lady told me if she owned a car, she would use it to run over her Kindle, in hopes of it erasing the ‘disgusting tripe’ that had crossed its screen.”
Perspective.
The living or being on the periphery part from Brooke.
But also, the perspective that someone could think that the stories I so enjoyed, the slice of escapism and fun and, yes, occasionally the very steamy sex scene, were disgusting and horrible and something to be scrubbed out of existence.
I didn’t want to be scrubbed out of existence. Or live constantly on the sidelines.
“That would turn out to be a very expensive eBook,” I’d told Brooke. But inside I’d felt my realization like a punch to the gut. For so long, I’d seen myself in one way, seen my life moving in one direction . . . and I could change it.
So . . . perspective.
Then Brent had asked me out.
Officially.
And I was running with it.
I pulled in a breath then released it slowly, trying to imagine all the remaining, niggling doubts and worries being exhaled as easily as carbon dioxide. I deserved to be happy and right now, Brent made me happy. I was mentally editing out what would normally go through my brain in that moment: for some reason—because no, dammit, not for some