Page 78 of Iridescent
I reach over and flick her forehead.
“What was that for?” she grumbles, rubbing the spot, a pout tugging at her mouth.
“You were being dramatic.”
She shrugs. “I learned from the best.”
A tired laugh slips out of me. “Then you should be better at it.”
She smiles at that, but only a little. The shadows in her face do not fully lift, so I reach for her again and start tickling her before she can see too much in mine.
Althea lets out an outraged shriek and twists away, shoving at my shoulder, which spurs me on further. Within seconds, we are tangled in sheets and limbs, half wrestling, half trying to smother each other, laughing so hard it stops sounding like laughter and starts sounding like relief. By the time she snorts, I lose whatever dignity I have left and collapse beside her, breathless.
Warmth moves through me in slow, disorienting waves, loosening something I had not realized was clenched so tight—an almost painful reminder of what happiness feels like when I am not bracing against it.
Eventually, the laughter dies.
The room quiets by degrees, the silence settling around us until I begin to think she has finally fallen asleep.
“Did he tell you?”
The wind rattles the glass, the sound sharpening my confusion.
I turn to her. “Did who tell me what?”
Time crawls. The hush thickens.
Moonlight skims her face, catching the slope of her cheek and the faint sheen still clinging to her lashes, but it yields nothing.
Her eyes lift to mine, as though she has only just realized she said it aloud. “Nothing.”
“Althea.”
“It’s nothing, Yara.” Her voice is softer now, blunted by sleep or the performance of it. She turns onto her back and throws an arm over her eyes. “Forget I said anything.”
I lie there another minute, staring at the shape of her in the dark.
Althea has never been good at pretending something is wrong when it isn’t. The problem is that she has always been very good at pretending nothing is wrong when it is.
The old instinct rises immediately—the one that wants to pry, press, and wear her down until the truth gives. But the day has already held too many tears, too many swallowed questions. I came home carrying enough for the whole house. She is too frayed, and I am too tired to start a conversation that will not stay contained once it begins.
I let it go for now.
Within minutes, her breathing evens out.
Two hours later, I am still awake.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to shake the unease needling at the base of my spine.
Thunder rumbles somewhere beyond the windows, and every so often the wind sets the glass rattling. Moonlight slips through the clouds in thin silver bands, laying pale strips across the room.
Beside me, Althea is dead asleep and somehow getting more violent about it by the minute. At some point in the night, she has thrown half her body over mine, as though brute force is the only thing preventing my disappearance. One leg over my thighs. One arm across my ribs. Her hand dangerously closeto my throat.
It is honestly impressive that she has not crushed my windpipe yet.
Carefully, I untangle her from me. Moving her leg off me takes an unfortunate amount of effort because she fights it even in sleep. She makes an annoyed sound, rolls onto her stomach, and drags half the sheet with her.
Once I am free, I switch on the bedside lamp, then lean over and nudge her mouth closed before she soaks the pillow clean through.
