Page 36 of My Secret Snowflake
“No, Mom. I’m sure she has plans.” Sebastian turns to me. “She wants to invite you to our family holiday celebration. It’s December 14.”
Chapter eight
Sebastian
Irisisdefinitelytipsy.Her glass looks like it is filled with orange juice, but apparently it’s not without alcoholic content. She’s dancing with her sister in the back of the bar near the stage, waving her hands and singing at the top of her lungs. She keeps reaching down to fix her prosthetic pregnancy belly. It looks lopsided once again, like she really is carrying an octopus who slid sideways. The tables have all been cleared to the sides. A happy haze has enveloped the bar.
I sit next to her great-aunt, taking a break. She is very stylishly dressed, looks to be about eighty, and seemed sweet. Not a smart move. She can drink me under the table. I’m definitely feeling the effects of too much alcohol.
As she sips the second vodka gimlet she’s ordered since I’ve been sitting here—I said “no more” for me—she says, “Darling, we used to have martinis at lunch and go back to work. Your generation has no idea.”
Iris is back.
“Sebastian!” Iris grabs my hands.
“This one is a very good one, Iris,” her aunt Viola says. “You should hold on to him.”
Iris leans into me, and her soft hair brushes against my cheek. I can smell the flowery scent of her shampoo. I put out my hand to touch a strand but pull back just in time. I blink. I need to order a coffee or something.
“Shh,” Iris whispers loudly. “Sebastian is not mine. Sebastian is a monk.”
“He’s a monk?” Viola’s eyes widen, and she looks at me in horror.
Iris nods very seriously. Very exaggerated. And she leans in. “Why are you a monk, Sebastian?”
“Why are you hanging out with a monk, Iris?” her aunt says. “There are so many men in the sea. Go enjoy your youth. I’m worried about you. You’re pretending to be pregnant. You’re here with a monk. Darling, what’s going on? Don’t give up on men just because of one bad apple.” Viola now has her hands on Iris’s cheeks.
“I’m not a monk,” I say.
“He’s not a monk, Iris.” Viola slips off her stool. “I’m going to let you two talk. Give me that pregnancy pillow. It’s not doing you any favors.”
“I’m not taking if off in public.” Iris leans back against my leg. And I want to pull her onto my lap.
“A coffee. Strong,” I say urgently to the bartender.
“And I’m wearing it because Dahlia asked me too. Although I think all her friends are thrilled to be aunties.”
“He says he’s not a monk. I’m sure he’s seen a stomach before.” Her aunt has that pregnancy pillow off in a matter of seconds. She winks at me. “I used to sell clothes. I’m very good at undressing and dressing women—and men.” Her aunt sashays over to a table of older men in the corner.
Iris is still leaning against my leg, but then she plops down on the bar stool left vacant by her aunt.
She drops her elbow on the bar and rests her head on her hand and stares at me. “Who broke your heart?”
“My best friend.” I rest my head on my hand, mirroring her position.
She frowns. “That’s not a very nice best friend.”
“Right?” I ask. “I thought we were perfect for each other, but she didn’t.”
“Did you date?”
“We dated for about six months, and then Melody said she just wanted to be friends. That she thought we worked better as friends and she wanted to keep me as her friend.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“I still don’t understand. We had the best time together. I felt like we were completely in sync. How could she think there was a relationship out there that would be better?” I pause and take a deep breath. “Still, seeing her choose Wim as her fiancé definitely made me realize we werenotquite as in sync as I thought.”
I also am not quite sure why I’m telling Iris all this, but it seems safe somehow. And it feels better to get it out. It’s not like I want to discuss it again with Zeke and Rupert. They’ve heard it all before. Once. When she first broke up with me. And we all got drunk at my place.
