peering back out at me.
Tightness behind my breastbone pulls at me sharply and I close my eyes, humming “Killing Me Softly” by The Fugees. Iris had a thing for 90s hip-hop. She made me listen to it all the time.
I miss her so much that it’s a constant ache, like an old injury that never really stops hurting. You learn to put it into the back of your mind until the weather turns, and suddenly the pain cuts through you, reminding you it’s always going to be there. Iris wasn’t supposed to die before me.
When I first got to Portland, every time I got a Skype notification or a text, I expected it to be her. It took months of me refusing to answer for anyone to stop trying. Eventually all the communication dwindled until only my parents were left, calling dutifully every two days. That was fine. I owed Kimber better, probably, but she has a life of her own to worry about. She doesn’t need to deal with my shit. I wonder if she’s still with the same girl.
I comb the last of the tangles out of my wet curls and twist my hair over one shoulder. Since I’ve already gone this far, I might as well put on something besides yoga pants. My drawers are nearing empty – I really need to do laundry – but I manage to find a long tunic and some leggings. They’re like pajamas that you can wear outdoors without getting pitied stares.
Once I finish dressing, I look at the drawings of Iris on the wall. They’re watching me, smiling, laughing, crying. I pull in a deep breath and hold it in my lungs until it’s warm, then release it.
I’m so tired of being haunted.
The first piece to come off the wall is the one of the both of us watching the salmon run through Puget Sound when we were kids. The water sprays around us and the fish leap through the air, all pink and green from the spawning. Next come the ones with her sad eyes, then those of her laughing. As I pull each drawing down, I feel the memory seep into my skin along with the graphite and charcoal. Their job is to remind me, but do I need reminding when the tragedy never escapes me?
They’re too personal to let anyone else see, and people have been getting too close lately. It’s only a matter of time before someone finds their way past my door. When Iris watches me from these pages, she’s just mine, exactly the way I want to remember her.
Exactly the way I need to remember her.
Ever since Damien showed up at the shop, my mind has been repeating the night I lost her, playing and replaying like a broken record. She never should have been in that car with him. I swallow the lump in my throat.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the stack of drawings in my hand.
A clatter at my window startles me so badly that I almost drop my pages everywhere. I ignore it at first, but then it happens again. And again. It’s too rhythmic to be accidental. As I watch, a pebble strikes one of the panes and I realize someone’s throwing rocks at my window like I’m in a teen rom-com.
I slide the drawings under my bed before pulling open my blinds and opening the window.
Far down below, Ezra grins up at me and my heart leaps to my throat.
“Good,” he says. “I got the right window this time. The woman a few doors down isn’t super happy with me right now, sorry to say.”
I gape at him. Stupidly, the first thing that comes out of my mouth is, “This isn’t the 90s, Ezra. You could have texted me.”
Ezra looks bemused. “I did,” he says. “About twenty times.”
He’s right. I look back at my neglected phone guiltily. I’m grasping at straws here. “What… how did you know which apartment I’m in?”
He stuffs his hands in his pockets, the hint of a laugh lighting up in his eyes. “I may have called in a favor from your roommate. She gave me her number in case I needed it.”
“Audrey doesn’t give her number out,” I say automatically.
“I guess she thinks you’re worth it,” he responds. “I can relate.”
Silence stretches between us like a
Tightness behind my breastbone pulls at me sharply and I close my eyes, humming “Killing Me Softly” by The Fugees. Iris had a thing for 90s hip-hop. She made me listen to it all the time.
I miss her so much that it’s a constant ache, like an old injury that never really stops hurting. You learn to put it into the back of your mind until the weather turns, and suddenly the pain cuts through you, reminding you it’s always going to be there. Iris wasn’t supposed to die before me.
When I first got to Portland, every time I got a Skype notification or a text, I expected it to be her. It took months of me refusing to answer for anyone to stop trying. Eventually all the communication dwindled until only my parents were left, calling dutifully every two days. That was fine. I owed Kimber better, probably, but she has a life of her own to worry about. She doesn’t need to deal with my shit. I wonder if she’s still with the same girl.
I comb the last of the tangles out of my wet curls and twist my hair over one shoulder. Since I’ve already gone this far, I might as well put on something besides yoga pants. My drawers are nearing empty – I really need to do laundry – but I manage to find a long tunic and some leggings. They’re like pajamas that you can wear outdoors without getting pitied stares.
Once I finish dressing, I look at the drawings of Iris on the wall. They’re watching me, smiling, laughing, crying. I pull in a deep breath and hold it in my lungs until it’s warm, then release it.
I’m so tired of being haunted.
The first piece to come off the wall is the one of the both of us watching the salmon run through Puget Sound when we were kids. The water sprays around us and the fish leap through the air, all pink and green from the spawning. Next come the ones with her sad eyes, then those of her laughing. As I pull each drawing down, I feel the memory seep into my skin along with the graphite and charcoal. Their job is to remind me, but do I need reminding when the tragedy never escapes me?
They’re too personal to let anyone else see, and people have been getting too close lately. It’s only a matter of time before someone finds their way past my door. When Iris watches me from these pages, she’s just mine, exactly the way I want to remember her.
Exactly the way I need to remember her.
Ever since Damien showed up at the shop, my mind has been repeating the night I lost her, playing and replaying like a broken record. She never should have been in that car with him. I swallow the lump in my throat.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the stack of drawings in my hand.
A clatter at my window startles me so badly that I almost drop my pages everywhere. I ignore it at first, but then it happens again. And again. It’s too rhythmic to be accidental. As I watch, a pebble strikes one of the panes and I realize someone’s throwing rocks at my window like I’m in a teen rom-com.
I slide the drawings under my bed before pulling open my blinds and opening the window.
Far down below, Ezra grins up at me and my heart leaps to my throat.
“Good,” he says. “I got the right window this time. The woman a few doors down isn’t super happy with me right now, sorry to say.”
I gape at him. Stupidly, the first thing that comes out of my mouth is, “This isn’t the 90s, Ezra. You could have texted me.”
Ezra looks bemused. “I did,” he says. “About twenty times.”
He’s right. I look back at my neglected phone guiltily. I’m grasping at straws here. “What… how did you know which apartment I’m in?”
He stuffs his hands in his pockets, the hint of a laugh lighting up in his eyes. “I may have called in a favor from your roommate. She gave me her number in case I needed it.”
“Audrey doesn’t give her number out,” I say automatically.
“I guess she thinks you’re worth it,” he responds. “I can relate.”
Silence stretches between us like a
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