Page 3 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

Before my thoughts spiral into the dirty fantasies that make me wish I could like a man enough to let him near me, let alone my vagina, I shoot my best friend a text.

Maeve: So… I rage quit my job like a caffeinated goblin 🙄

Iris: You bloody what? 😂

Maeve: Some woman was acting like I poisoned her coffee, like I had the energy to even make it in the first place.

Iris: So you just walked out mid-shift?? So much for saving for the next trip lol.

Maeve: Yeah yeah, I know. I’m gonna regret this later but I will sort something out. Maybe I’ll sell my body. 😏

Iris: Probably make you more money than the coffee shop to be fair looool.

Maeve: You bet. I’ll be home later for wine and a full-on meltdown. See you then babe.

With Iris updated on my latest “do it for the plot” moments, I wander the forty-minute walk back to Shoreditch, lost in thought about what to do next. No job means no income. No income means no travel. The panic in me rises from the depths of my soul. I laugh about it in my head because the alternative is sitting down on this pavement and not getting back up. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt.

By the time I push open the door to Iris's flat my legs ache, and the smell of burning incense and a hint of cinnamon wraps around me. I drop my bag by the front door, heading straight for my half-unpacked suitcase still splayed open in the small bedroom that Iris keeps free for me when I return.

It's been three weeks since I've been back, and I still haven't fully unpacked. I never do. The open suitcase is like a promise that I won't be here for long. Or maybe because unpacking means admitting the search is over, and I’ve just got to settle for whatever this is. How depressing.

I grab something a little comfier and a lot less coffee-and-sweat scented to change into before heading to the large corner sofa that’s as threadbare as my life choices. I practically throw myself down, letting my body sink into the worn misshapen cushions. The book that's been calling my name all day is finally in my hands, offering the escape of fictional tension and perfectly-timed orgasms. That is, until the sound of the front door swinging open breaks the fantasy.

Iris backs in through the door, not one but two bottles of red wine under one arm, her deep copper curls wild from the outside world. As she twirls around, her eyes lock on me, and the biggest grin stretches across her face.

“Oh my god! It’s the runaway barista!” she playfully exclaims, like I’m a headline in some gossip tabloid.

“Get the glasses, will you?” she says, kicking off her shoes. “We need to get some of this in you asap.” She shakes one of the bottles for emphasis.

I unfold myself from the sofa quickly—because I do need wine pronto—and take the few steps to the kitchen, reaching instinctively for the cabinet where the glasses have always been, only to find jars of spices staring back at me. I stand there for a moment, opening and closing doors like an idiot in someone else's home. I suppose I am, no matter how many times Iris tells me it's my home too.

“Oi girl, where are your glasses?”

“Oh, I moved them!” she calls breezily from across the room. “Cabinet above the kettle now.”

Iris is already back on the sofa; legs tucked beneath her. Didn't take her long to get comfy, already stripped down to just her baggy t-shirt and underwear. Her bare legs are pale against the emerald, green material, the greyscale ink sprawled across them on full display. One bottle is already open in her hand, the other waiting patiently on the table beside her.

She grabs the glasses from me and pours very generously before handing one back. She lifts hers toward me. “To poor life decisions and the plots they create!”

We clink our glasses and I take the first sip. The warmth of the wine dulls the sharp edge of the day, but only slightly. With a low sigh, I slump back onto the sofa.

“Iris… what have I done?” I say, staring mindlessly into my glass.

She waves her hand dismissively, shifting positions until her legs are stretched out over my lap and her head rests on the armrest. “Pfft. I don’t know babe, but it will work out.” Her hands gesture wildly, her wine forming a tsunami in her glass. “Things happen for a reason, Maeve. Maybe the universe is telling you something’s coming.”

Her words are so casual, so assured. Iris is a free soul with no care in the world, probably because she was raised by a loving, hippy mother who taught her to be unapologetically herself. Meanwhile, I spent most of my childhood being told I wasn’t enough. Maybe that's why I love Iris so much. Her carefree, open-hearted nature makes me feel a little less broken. Or at least, less aware of how broken I actually am.

I take another sip. “Maybe the universe is telling me I’m an idiot,” I mutter under my breath, half to myself, half to Iris, but she doesn't seem to notice.

After hours on the sofa, drinking wine and laughing about all the questionable life choices we somehow survived, I decide to retreat to my room to get some sleep, hoping a new day erases today’s poor choices.

But sleep does not come.

Instead, I am left staring at the ceiling, studying the glimmer of streetlights that have filtered through the thin curtains. My traitorous mind screams at me to solve my panic here and now, as if the middle of the night is the perfect time for existential intervention.

I shift to my side, cocooning myself tightly into the duvet, hoping that the tightness will soothe me to sleep. But it doesn’t. The loud thoughts act as a barrier to the temporary release that rest could bring, each one bouncing off the walls of my skull.

In line with my eyes, my phone lays on the bedside table, offering the empty promise of distraction. Ten minutes won't hurt, I think, already knowing it's a lie. It’s never just ten minutes. It's an hour. Maybe two.