Page 50 of Iridescent
It is barely eight, and I haven’t thought that once, but correcting her feels unwise.
She pops open one of the cans and slides the other across the table. Our fingers graze when I reach for it, and a sharp current travels up my arm, precise and startling. My hand jerks back from the can.
She clears her throat and tucks a loose silky strand of hair behind her ear. Even in the dim glow of candlelight, I see color climb into her cheeks.
A perfect reflection of the chaos under my skin.
“It’s my little ritual after a long day. The rain is just trying to make it cinematic.” She adds. “Ramen, yuzu soda, and bad decisions. Elite combination.”
Back home, my mother would’ve suffered an aneurysm if anything like this came within ten feet of our table. She considered instant noodles an indictment of character, proof of poor breeding and weak discipline.
After I left home, started juggling three part-time shifts and school, and learned that hunger did not give a damn where I came from, instant noodles became less an indictment and more a necessity. My stomach objected at first. Eventually, it adapted.
I nod, choosing to remain quiet. I’d rather listen to her talk than risk interrupting whatever spell her voice has put over the room.
“So, Xavier.” Her mouth tips with mischief while she rolls the chopsticks between her palms. “Since we’re doing this, I’d prefer to know the man I’m about to torment twice a week.”
I imitate the motion before thinking better of it.
Her smile widens.
Christ.I like that smile. Far too much.
“We’ll start easy.” She digs into her noodles, unbothered by my silence. “I’m Yara Markakis. From Kriti. Crete, if we’re being English about it.”
Yara.
“I know Crete.”
“Good.” She points her chopsticks at me. “One less emergency.”
The corner of my mouth defects.
She tells me her family is enormous, loud, and constitutionally incapable of minding their business—the antithesis of mine. Her yiayia plays old Greek songs too loudly, hoards recipes she swears are secret, and believes rain is a sign the dead are gossiping in heaven. Her younger sister paints on anything that will stay still long enough. Yara likes rain. Art galleries. Quiet storm R&B. Stargazing, though she says it with such reverence that I suspect she means something more devotional than looking at the sky.
“Sade,” she says, nodding toward the music murmuring from the speaker. “By Your Side. All-time favorite.”
I pause with my chopsticks halfway to my mouth. “This is Sade?”
Nothing in the room has registered properly except her, which makes failing to recognize one of my favorite artists less surprising than it shouldbe.
Her brows lift. “You know her?”
The excitement in her voice is unmistakable.
“Of course. Sade got me through more three-in-the-morning financial models than caffeine ever did.” I glance toward the speaker. “But I don’t know this one...”
I trail off, certain I have bored her with the most unromantic explanation possible, but Yara only smiles, not the least bit put off.
“I like how your mind works, Xavier.”
“You do?”
“A lot, yes.”
Heat blasts up my neck. My toes might as well curl. Fuck me, I am one compliment away from twirling.
“My parents used to slow dance to this song,” she whispers, her eyes moving to the rain-streaked glass. “I’d see them laughing and being disgustingly romantic, and it used to creep me out.” A faint smile softens her face. “Now I listen to it whenever I miss them.”
