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And I didn’t realize until the very moment of telling Iris I love you that I only loved the idea of a happy ending, not her.
There’s a moment. Where I’m staring at the door. And I think to myself, This is my rock bottom. But I might as well find out what the full depth of my rock bottom looks like. Maybe there’s something interesting down here, like my dignity.
He’s in a corded ivory wool sweater, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and I know its intent is to represent his home, but all I can think is that he’s trying to look like a ginger Chris Evans from Knives Out. He does look like a ginger Chris Evans from Knives Out. Motherfucker.
“Was that the apology you had in mind?” I whisper up at him. “Or should I go on about how all the rainbows in Ireland point to the pot of gold in your asshole?”
Wonder. That’s the feeling. Like all these books hold possibilities and if I pick the right one, I’ll get swept away somewhere better and righter and truer.
“Spare Claus Beefs It at Cork Race, Saved by Lucky Charms in Shining Armor.” Do I have a concussion? I think I’m babbling.
Guilt is tart and vile in my stomach and I take another drink to counter it.
It’s barely a kiss. It’s a question. It’s the start of something, one of those endless lines of possibilities that ripple out from me, only this one gleams and pulses and shows me the way until I get to that realization I’ve been fighting and I stand face to face with it. I want him. God, do I want him.
“Kris.” He morphs my name into a melody, lilting accent dripping from each letter he speaks into my mouth. “You’re all I’ve been able to think about for weeks. The only thought in my head is what your face will look like when I take you apart—like this, like this right now, you’re perfect.”
There are stars shooting all around, supernovas thrown into ruin by the way he works his lips across my jaw, laving, sucking, drawing an abstract curve with his mouth the way he paints them with his fingers. Those fingers. Those fingers—they’re tangled in my belt, tugging, and I rock my head back and I’m so drunk and he feels so right.
I know that his kiss tasted like all the dreams I waxed on about in the writing I don’t do anymore, the words I wove while trying to imagine Iris but all I imagined was a fantasy, an ending. He tasted like those fantasies. He felt like those endings. It’s him.
Goddamn those sweaters. Like he’s a sexy, mysterious lighthouse fisherman.
“You aren’t an awakening,” I whisper. “You’re the whole dawn. And I can’t believe I ever thought I’d seen the sun before you.”
