“Iris.” John’s voice is dry as he surveys the scene: my table tipped on its side, papers scattered across the rug, his daughter on the floor with her crumpled model. I wait for him to ask if she’s okay, but it doesn’t come. His expression shifts to one of impatience as he demands, “What on earth are you doing?”
“Nothing,” she mumbles, not meeting his gaze as she gathers her papers from the rug.
John sighs. “You know, when I said you’d be assisting Brooks, I didn’t mean literally getting on your knees for him.”
Heat creeps up my neck, and I turn away. Thank God he doesn’t know how close to home his words have hit. Iris keeps her head down, but I can see the scarlet on her face from here.
“I was just…” Her voice comes out small. “I thought I’d draft a few layout options to help visualize—”
John cuts her off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Iris, for God’s sake. You’re wasting your time, and his. You don’t need to play architect. Leave it to the people who know what they’re doing.”
The words hang there, crueler than I think John intended, and I cringe. It’s exactly the way I spoke to her on Friday, but hearing the words from her father cuts differently. Or maybe it’s because I’m reminded of my own father.
Hurt flashes across Iris’s face before she can hide it. She rises on wobbly legs, clutching the papers and crushed model to her chest. Her chin lifts in defiance for the briefest moment, but John’s brows rise, unimpressed, as if already anticipating what she’s going to say.
She falters, color staining her cheeks. “I’ll…” She swallows, as if struggling to get the words out. “I’ll get your coffee, Mr. Brooks.” Then she hurries from the room, head down.
“Kids,” John mutters once she’s gone. “You give them an inch, they take a mile.” He rolls his eyes, turning to his own office.
I stare after him, unsettled in a way I can’t quite name. Iris has made things harder for me since day one. She’s messy, inefficient, and combative. That’s before we get to the way I’m continually distracted by her, the way I keep imagining doing inappropriate things to her at inappropriate moments.
If anything, I’d be better off without an assistant. John’s right. Sheiswasting my time, and in more ways than one.
But that doesn’t explain why my sister pops into my head again, the way she’d shrink into herself when teachers would yell at her in front of the class. Why, every time I replay John’s words, I see the hurt on Iris’s face and feel an uneasy twist in my gut.
Why guilt hangs over me like a cloud when Iris doesn’t return for the rest of the day.
12
IRIS
Ineed to get out of here. Maybe it’s proving Dad right—stupid Iris, always fucking things up—but I don’t care.
I dump my model and papers into the wastepaper basket by my desk, then flee the building, desperate for air. Tears press at my eyes as I hurry along Fruit Street, shivering for reasons besides the cold. I don’t think as I clamber down the steps to the subway. All I know is I can’t go back to the office.
My mind races as I speed through the tunnels under the city, the screech of the subway against the rails making my head ache. But that’s better than the words I keep mentally replaying on a loop:You’re wasting your time, and his. You don’t need to play architect. Leave it to the people who know what they’re doing.
Who was I kidding, drawing those sketches, making that model? I hadn’t meant to take things quite so far, only to draft a potential floor plan and see if Aidan might deign to look at it.
But what started on Friday as a Pinterest dive for inspiration became hours of watching studio apartment tours on YouTube that night. By Saturday morning, my head swam with possibilities, and before I knew it, I’d drafted multiple layout options and constructed a model with some materials Ihad leftover from school. Without the pressure of deadlines, the looming critiques and assessment, it was actuallyfun. And the more time I sank into it, the more energy I had. And the more ideas I generated.
This happens sometimes when I’m excited about something, and I can’t explain why. I lose hours in the blink of an eye, researching and exploring and creating, with virtually no effort, forgetting to sleep, forgetting to eat, so consumed by whatever I’m working on. Like my brain forgets anything else exists.
The problem is, it doesn’t always work. Sometimes I desperatelywantto do something, but for reasons I cannot grasp, I can’t seem to make myself start. And itdefinitelydoesn’t work for things that actually matter, like school, or work, or, you know, clearing my inbox. It’s like a weird superpower I can’t access when I need it. Unless there was a looming deadline for one of my classes. Then I’d work like a demon for two days straight, and collapse in a heap afterward.
But this weekend was different. There was no pressure, no deadline, only the pure excitement of possibility, and when I carried my sketches and model into the office early this morning, I buzzed with anticipation. I know Aidan told me not to get involved, but I couldn’t help but hope he might see them and consider… I don’t know… that this project isn’t the nightmare he thinks it is. That he could do something good with this space.
It wasn’t until he held my model in his hands that I realized I wasn’t only hoping to contribute to the project. I had hoped to impress him. Hoped he might see that I’m notcompletelyuseless.
But I am.
Dad made that very clear. He’s always made it clear.
And not only him.
As I exit the train at Queens, throat tight and hands clammy despite the cold, I can’t help but think of classes in high school. College, too. Teachers and professors telling me I’m “bright but lazy,” that I could really succeed if I only “applied myself.” As if that’s some kind of compliment.
As if I wasn’t trying my hardest.
