Page 13 of Guarding the Star

“Uh… no, no, I didn't say that. You made that up. Also, that word doesn't exist. Don't say it.”

“Damn!” the kid repeats.

“Oh man, Zoe is going to kill me. Shh, I'll tell you another story, but don't say that word again,” she says, covering his mouth with her hand.

Then she kisses the top of his head. Closes her eyes. Buries her nose in his hair and breathes in slowly.

“You smell good, boss,” she murmurs, and then she tickles him.

I can't help smiling. Wesley leans against her chest, total trust. He knows Iris loves him like he's her own.

***

At dinner, I sit next to her, Zoe Méndez, and Tessa, though the three of them are deep in conversation and barely notice me. Wall at my back. Full view of the room.

A tray lands in front of me. Lucía sits down without asking.

“Sorry, this seat's free, right?”

“You already sat down.”

She just smiles and offers me a small bottle of reddish sauce. I drizzle some on the rice. The heat climbs slowly through my chest. Reminds me of my grandmother's kitchen.

“How's it going with the blonde?” she asks, lowering her voice while she cuts a piece of chicken.

“Pretty well, I guess,” I say, not wanting to give anything away.

“She's loud and kind of a mess. She's late to everything, and occasionally you want to strangle her,” she jokes. “But take care of her. Under all that noise, there's someone who still hasn't learned how to sit with the quiet.”

“I will,” I tell her.

“And if you hurt her, I swear there won't be a corner in the world where you can hide from me,” she warns, switching to Spanish so nobody else at the table understands.

Dead serious. No wink. No smile. Same calm she had yesterday when she asked if I spoke her language.

“You can keep the sauce if you want. My mom sends a few bottles every month.”

Next to me, Iris is telling another story. Her ponytail swings every time she waves her hands, and the whole table laughs.

And I catch myself thinking that maybe Lucía is right. Iris Vance is more fragile than she looks.

***

At 11:47 p.m., I walk past her room. The blue-white glow appears under the door. TV on. Volume low, same as every other night.

I stop.

There's another sound. Footsteps. The bed creaks. More footsteps. She gets up. Lies down. Gets up again.

Iris Vance is not sleeping. She walks her room at midnight with the TV on and the volume down because the silence crushes her.

I press the notebook to my chest and keep walking.

In my room, I change into pajamas, lie down, and close my eyes. I think about walls with no photos. About clothes thrown everywhere. About a TV left on and a woman who buries her nose in the hair of a kid who isn't hers like it's the only thing that matters.

I think: this is just a job.

Chapter 5