Page 73 of Two-Step
“Conneries complètes,”I hiss.
Iris laughs, and I’m grateful for the sound. “What doesthatmean?”
I shake my head. “Nothing good.”
She bubbles over with laughter again, and her hand lands on my arm. She gives my bicep a squeeze before letting go, still laughing, but I’ve stopped breathing.
Just from one surprise touch.
It was nothing. Nothing. It lasted a second. And I’m out of my head.
I swallow. Grip the steering wheel. Try to pull myself together.
Iris sighs. “Yeah,” she says, her tone commiserating. “This was back beforeHexed,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 yourmom?
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’tnotlook 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.
