“He had a tart and maybe an STD.” She barks a laugh and sets her project down on her lap. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
I shrug, though my throat tightens with emotion. “Death happens,” I say, and I mean it. Grandpa wasn’t the first person I lost. My parents both died when I was young, and he was all I had left.
Something in Miss Iris’s stare softens the longer we stare at one another. The critical way she looked at me before morphs into pity.
It’s something I can’t take. Because if I let her soften me, then I’ll break.
And I’ve done so well holding myself together since Grandpa’s death.
I’ve kept myself busy finishing my studies and getting relocated. I don’t need to be getting close to anyone again.
I clear my throat and push away from the counter. “What are you having for lunch with your meds?” I ask, moving to the fridge. I open the door and breathe in that stale, refrigerator smell. It turns my stomach in the same way the old one at the cabin does. “You’ve got some pre-made meals here. I see fettuccini, meatloaf, and something with chicken.”
Miss Iris groans; the armchair creeks as she rises, drawing my attention back to her. She’s bone thin from the cancer wrecking her body. She’s not sick enough for hospice, which is how she’s decided to go, but I get why she can’t stay in her own home alone. Here, at least, she’s safe. There’s staff checking in twenty-four-seven, alert buttons everywhere, and after she broke her hip—when shewasallowed to live at home—she had to come here.
I go to take a step towards her, but she waves a hand. The walker is right by her armchair, but she ignores it as she makes her way to the dining table.
“I could have warmed it and brought the lap table over,” I tell her, keeping my voice soft.
She grunts, sitting at the table. “I will not admit defeat,” she replies without looking at me. “Give me the thing with chicken. I won’t complain.”
I press my lips together and pull the container out. As I do, a knock sounds at the door to her apartment.
“Your date?” I ask, glancing at her, then the door.
A smile unfurls across her face. “Get the door,” she says. “We’re eating good today.”
THREE
CALDER
As per Ma’s request, I have a bouquet of knitted flowers for Miss Iris. I don’t know the story behind their friendship, but Ma likes to say she and Iris have a special kind of bond. Happened after Foster was born or something.
But I bring my fist to the door again, ready to knock—praying I haven’t just woken Iris up from a nap or something—when it swings open.
The old lady isn’t the one standing there, walker in hand.
A beautiful brunette stares up at me, brows raised. Her dark hair is pulled up in a bun, strands framing her heart-shaped face. A pink flush blooms across her full cheeks, and her eyes, the same shade of brown as her hair, darken.
I tip my hat at her, mouth suddenly dry. She has on nurse’s scrubs, which tells me immediately who she is. Iris’s new, younger nurse. I can’t tell how old she is, but she can’t be much younger than I am. Maybe a little older than my sister, Lydia.
She doesn’t nearly look old enough to be a nurse. The nurse is at least five inches shorter than me, making her look smaller despite the curves hidden behind her pink scrubs.
“Yes?” She rests a hand on her hip, the other still holding the door open.
I must look like a damned fool. “I, uh, I’m here for Iris,” I manage, clearing my throat.
From the room, Iris cackles. “Told you, sweetheart! My date’s here.”
The nurse’s eyes narrow. She wears a tag on her chest with her name in bold:IMOGEN WATTS.Imogen. Damn.
At first she doesn’t appear inclined to let me in. Her hand stays on the doorframe, but she doesn’t move.
Time to bring on the charm.
“Can’t stop me from kidnapping her, I fear.” I take a step towards Imogen, who holds her ground. “But you could always join us.”
Imogen presses her lips together, but the flush deepens. Maybe she’s more into me than she realises.
