Page 8 of Iridescent
Heat flamed across my cheeks. I rarely blushed. My body preferred violence, sarcasm, and the occasional ill-advised sprint toward danger, but apparently Xavier Navarro calmly keeping death off my plate was where my composure chose to expire.
We were only four months into our relationship, and he never once treated the allergy I’d mentioned in passing like a joke, a burden, or some delicate flaw I should apologize for having. He carried an EpiPeneverywhere.
Even to the National Gallery on our first date, where the most dangerous thing I planned to consume was bottled water and other people’s questionable opinions about art.
I’d watched him secure one into his jacket on the ride to the restaurant, the gesture so casual it nearly undid me.
I tucked my hair behind my ear and crossed my legs, suddenly feeling so absurdly ladylike that I half expected someone to hand me a fan and a scandalous secret.
Thank God I had decided to make an occasion of myself that night.
Xavier worried, at first, that I was dressing for him. Conforming to some fantasy I thought he wanted. The first time he said it, careful and almost guilty, I lifted an eyebrow and asked if he truly believed I was the sort of woman who could be coerced into becoming a man’s preference.
That shut him up.
The truth was simpler. I liked trying new things with him. I liked discovering that my body could look powerful in a dress too. That softness didn’t make me smaller, and femininity wasn’t surrender unless I made it one.
My mouth watered when the food arrived. I tried to eat it with appropriate financial resentment. Truly, I did. But then I took the first bite—peppers, tomatoes, wine, and braised chicken so succulent it made my entire argument with the price collapse—and I made the mistake of closing my eyes.
“That good?”
“No,” I lied, shoving another mouthful past my better judgment. “I'm furious.”
Xavier chuckled, took one bite of his own, and by the time dessert arrived, he had decidedMaison Verrewas no longer just a restaurant. It was a tradition waiting to happen.
Every year after we married, we went back to London for it. Maison Verre, our table, the same dish, the same ridiculous argument over the price even after the number no longer mattered.
This year was supposed to be restorative. After London, we were flying to Seychelles for our fourth wedding anniversary: a private villa perched above the water, an infinity pool spilling toward the Indian Ocean, no phones, no meetings, no interruptions. Just us, the sea, and time to remember how to breathe around each other again.
He had been so excited about it once, planning every detail and marking the days off our countdown calendar with me.
Last month, he postponed everythingindefinitely.
A crisis with the acquisition, he said, in that peremptory, businesslike tone that brooked no argument. It was the first time he had ever upended plans we made together, so I let it go. If he was willing to postpone something that mattered to us, then it had to be serious.
Since words kept failing us, I needed effort to count for something. A surprise dinner seemed like a reasonable place to start. Unfortunately,poulet basquaiseappears to require more emotional fortitude than I possess.
I make a blind turn toward what I hope is the sink.
“Left, ma petite. One more step and you are washing your hands in the fruit bowl.”
I correct course with as much grace as my streaming eyes allow, then wash my hands thoroughly before splashing cold water over my face.
“Go sit,” Collette adds from behind me. “I will handle the rest.”
When my vision clears a little, I accept the towel she shoves into my hand and dab at my eyes. “Thanks, Lettie. You’re the best.”
She scoffs at the nickname, the one I use purely because it annoys her, but when I peck her cheek, the slight tip of her mouth betrays her. She acts all steel and vinegar, like my Yiayia, but beneath it, she is soft as meringue.
Collette has been with us since Xavier and I moved into this house four years ago. She isn’t family, not technically, but on the days my husband is too far away to reach and my own mind turns inhospitable, she is the one who finds me. A cup of tea placed beside my hand. A blanket dragged over my knees. A sharp French rebuke delivered with the tenderness of a woman who would rather die than admit she is worried.
I am grateful for her in a way I try not to examine too closely, because gratitude has a habit of exposing the empty spaces around it. I’ve never been good at making friends. My bluntness ruins first impressions, and my inability to flatter anyone through obvious bullshit usually finishes the job. College gave me classmates. Boxing gave me sparring partners and rivals. For a while, some of them lasted. Then life happened. Careers happened. Countries happened. Slowly, the messages thinned into birthday reactions and apologies that began withI’ve been meaning to call.
After my injury, I became someone I barely recognized. I used to know what to do with pain. Now I cry too easily, flinch too often, and blame myself for every weakness my body refuses to hide.
There are versions of me my family wouldn’t know what to do with, and this is one of them. I left Crete at sixteen and have avoided going back ever since. Distance is easier than letting them see what grief and forced inertia turned me into.
Without Collette, I don’t know what I’d do.
