Page 22 of Iris
“It’s important for Iris to be herself,” she says. “I know Sophine and what’s she’s looking for in a Luxe. She’ll respect Iris more if she’s not pretending to be someone else.”
When Violet glances at me, I mouth a silent “thank you” to her. How she knows how to weave sentences to somehow be polite and firm is beyond me. It’s a real talent, or maybe a superpower would be more accurate.
Mom smiles. “I’ll be right across the way,” she says. Then she kisses us both on our cheeks and heads out.
The moment the door closes, I let out that groan and sink on the plush velvet pink sofa, Violet joining me.
“Damn,” I say, waving a hand at her. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Know exactly what to say.”
“It comes with being the oldest, I think,” she says.
“Then what’s Heath’s excuse?”
“He’s a man,” she chuckles. “They’re always hopeless.”
We both laugh.
“Man, I’ve missed you,” I tell her, and the tears threaten to come up again. I knew I missed her, but I didn’t realize how much until she was here. “Videocalls are not the same.”
“I know. I miss you, too. All of you,” she says. “I’m not used to all the silences with just me and Stephan in our home.”
“You’re probably going to eat those words once the baby comes,” I say.
“Maybe.” She grins. “But for now, let’s try on some dresses, just to make Mom happy.”
There she goes again, knowing just what to say. But I can’t say no to her either.
But I do it, modeling some horrible concoctions and a couple I sort of like. We chat, drink tea, and through it all, I can’t believe how different Violet is. The girl glows.
I’m not talking pregnancy glow. Although that’s there, too. It’s something else, like she’s found herself… No, not that. She’s never been lost. I mean, she’s got a confidence now, a calmness. That edge of anxiety that used to always cling to her is gone.
As sad as I am that she’s left me behind in a way, I’m glad she found her happiness. And Stephan—despites all his faults—treats her like a princess.
Which she deserves.
I’m in the last dress from the pile—a plain satin number, A-line, just shy of boxy—when she stops me.
“Wait. Turn.”
I do, my gaze on my image in the mirror. The dress isn’t me, but it’s the most me out of all of the ones I’ve tried on.
“That one,” she says.
“This?” I frown. “Why would I get this?”
“Because you have to getsomething, and this is a blank canvas for you. This one has potential. Don’t you think you could work with it? Style it your way?”
I stare at my reflection, and the ideas start flowing. “Shit. You’re right.”
“Of course I am. Pregnancy makes you wise.”
“And fat.”
We look at each other and burst out laughing.
