Page 12 of Crystal Iris #1

Nine

“The greater the artist, the greater the doubt. Perfect confidence is granted to the less talented as a consolation prize.” – Robert Hughes

L ara’s words are still echo in my head as I arrive on campus. As expected, the buildings look haunted by the absence of people.

I pause my search for the catalog and pull my phone from my purse.

I type: Hoyt Locklear. I don’t want to know, yet I can’t help myself.

There are no social media accounts—though I wasn’t expecting any.

He doesn’t seem like the type. My heart races when I spot his photo in an article.

He looks younger, with a shorter haircut.

The article briefly mentions that he took over his dad’s business and lands.

John Locklear died of heart failure six years ago.

From what I can tell, the lands span several states, including North Dakota, Idaho, and Montana—the latter being where I guess the mountains I saw are located.

There are numerous reports about sales and purchases of estates, acres, and ranches, but nothing personal about him. A different girl at every party. I hate the thought of him with... anyone. I want to slap myself—it’s ridiculous. I don’t even know the guy. I shove the phone back into my purse.

I’m about to give up on my search in the library when I hear Darion’s voice. I freeze. The last thing I need is this. I duck behind the bookshelves and wait for him to move. All I can see is the top of his head.

“There has to be something you can do. I never missed a class, not until…” he says to someone hidden by the shelves.

“If they say there’s nothing they can do, then I’m sorry,” comes the second voice. George. The English professor. My colleague.

“I think it’s time you pay the debt. I would hate for them to find out how you got this job,” Darion says, his voice now cold, like a dog on a tight leash, just waiting to be freed.

“I don’t know what I can do,” George’s voice trembles.

“Figure it out!” Darion snaps, walking away.

I exhale. Why hasn’t Darion replied to my email?

I leave campus immediately. I have no desire to run into him, especially with no one else around.

On my way to update Akira on what Lara said, I check my phone and see three missed calls from Aaron, followed by a text: Call me ASAP.

“Hey, I was in the library…”

He cuts me off. “My parents are here.”

“Here? As in Boston?”

“As in the apartment. I didn’t want you to show up here unprepared.”

“What are they doing here?”

“They want to… apologize?”

“What? I don’t want?—”

“Can you come home? They won’t leave until they talk to you.”

“Fine. Have a glass waiting for me.”

This day quickly becomes one of my worst. I barely realize I’m home when the driver parks.

“Good afternoon, Ms. De Loughery,” the doorman greets me .

“Hi, Nelson. How are you?”

“Doing well, ma’am.”

“I heard I have visitors, huh?” I glance at the elevator, hesitating to press the button.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Wish me luck?”

“I’m sorry to hear you need it, ma’am.”

Aaron is sitting on the armchair to the left, while his parents sit on the couch in front of him, each holding a glass.

I don’t know where things stand between them since we left their house.

His mom tried to apologize right then, but I was too angry to listen.

I knew we’d have to talk eventually, even when Aaron threatened to never see them again.

It’s enough that I don’t have a family, but I don’t wish the same fate on him, even if his parents are… these two.

Don speaks first, getting up to kiss me hello. I hold up my hand. He sits back down. I pour myself a double and take a seat in the second armchair.

“Let’s hear it,” Aaron says, looking at his mother.

Maria is wearing a black dress with a sweater draped over her shoulders.

“Iris, I’m sorry about… what I said during Christmas. I took a couple of pills, and with the drinks, I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t mean to…”

I look at both of them. “There’s nothing you can say to make me forget.”

Don starts to apologize again, but I interrupt him.

“I don’t want to cause trouble in your relationship with your son—God knows I’ve tried with you two—but from now on, I hope we stick to… pleasantries. Leave me alone, and I’ll do the same.”

I’m still sipping my whiskey when Aaron finds me in the kitchen.

“That was a little harsh, don’t you think?” he asks, opening the fridge and pulling out the cheese tray .

“Really? After everything they’ve done?”

“Well, they came to apologize…”

“Did you ask them to come?”

“No! Of course not, but they’re still my parents, Iris. How are we going to?—”

“I don’t care who they are, not anymore. You need them in your life, not me.”

“Iris, they’re going to be your in-laws. How are you planning on keeping them away?”

“I don’t know. I’ll… manage.” I rub my temples. Shitty day, indeed.

When Aaron tries fooling around later that night, I stop him with, “Sorry, not tonight. I’m just not in the mood.

” He turns around like the gentleman he is.

Perfect little prince. I’m obviously still angry.

Angry that I can’t make myself love him the way he loves me.

Angry that he’s too perfect to walk away from.

Not only does he adore me, he’s kind, hardworking, good-looking, and even donates to charity.

I can’t come up with any good reason to leave him. Not a real one, at least.

I get out of bed and text Akira from the bathroom.

A re you up?

Hey, she texts back. Everything okay?

Yeah, no… Did I wake you?

Nah, just watching something with penguins. What’s going on?

I talked to Lara, I write. Hoyt is a douchebag, apparently.

Sorry, Iris.

Whatever. It’s not like I know him.

What are you going to do about it? she asks.

I don’t even know what options I have, I write.

You could tell Aaron you aren’t ready to get married yet .

Maybe… though we’ve been together for fifteen years. I don’t think asking for time is going to fly.

He’ll understand, she texts. He loves you.

Maybe. I feel so stressed.

You know what you need? Spiral.

I write back: Tomorrow night?

See you then.

Night x.

I spend the day searching online for any more information on Hoyt, but find little. I learn his brother died when he was seventeen, but the cause of death is vague. Besides obituaries and land deals, there’s nothing else.

It’s noon when I finally notice I smell and realize I haven’t showered yet.

I’ve spent the day in bed, on the computer.

At least I’ve done something productive.

I emailed Elena, asking her to send pictures of the catalog pages—waiting for the post office isn’t an option.

Maybe it’s the PMS or yesterday’s conversations, but whatever the reason, I’m in a grumpy mood. Getting ready helps a bit.

I’m not sure Spiral will fix me, but as soon as I step inside, I feel a little better. The music drowns out my thoughts, and it feels great to give myself a break from them.

“To us!” I say, clinking my glass against Akira’s.

We’re moving with the music when I feel my prism warm against my skin.

I’m sweaty again, just like last time, and I don’t want to put on a show.

I walk to the bathroom to dry off my necklace.

Akira follows me. She hands me another paper towel, and a few people glance at us for a second. Nobody cares.

“Why do you think the”—she gestures to the necklace with her eyes—“made you see him? ”

“No clue. At first, I thought it meant something, but now I’m leaning toward it being a stupid coincidence.”

“Seriously?”

“I don’t know. Any ideas?”

“No, but…”

“I told you what Lara said.”

“So?”

“So I don’t have any desire to be just a number on his list,” I say.

“Maybe you shouldn’t go trusting Lara without double-checking yourself.”

“You’re the one who told me to ask her.”

Akira scoffs. “I didn’t say trust her over your intuition.”

“More like common sense.”

She’s reapplying her lipstick, her movements deliberate as always.

“What would you have me do?” I ask. “Are you really saying you’re going to help me again?”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” she says, glancing at me in the mirror. “Maybe you can get his phone number?”

I raise my eyebrows. “And say what? Hi, this is me, the girl who burned your hand at the party. Want to meet up?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Very funny.”

“Didn’t you say Aaron has another event to attend next week? Maybe Hoyt will be there.”

“I’m not planning on going.”

“What if I go with you?”

“Seriously?”

“I’m curious too.”

I smile at her. “It’s a date, then.”

Across the kitchen island, Aaron asks, “Want a piece of toast?”

“Just one slice, please.”

He pours both of us a cup of coffee, his brow furrowed as he glances at me. “Any plans for today?”

“I have some paperwork to send. I can’t believe classes start next week already.”

“I thought you’ve been bored.”

“Yeah, kind of.”

“How many classes are you teaching this semester?”

“Four,” I say, surprised by his interest.

“That’ll keep you busy.”

“Oh, and I need another ticket for the SMPS Awards.”

“Are you going?”

“Akira too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, she’s single again.”

“Okay.” He laughs, processing the information.

Minutes later, he’s out the door, leaving me with the mountain of work I have to tackle.

The stack of papers to sign and submit seems endless—the same routine every year.

At least it’s giving me something to focus on other than Hoyt.

I glance at my students’ list, already feeling the annoying rush of anticipation.

Though many names are familiar, one is conspicuously missing—Darion.

Has he dropped out? Two of the classes I’m teaching this semester are mandatory for his major: HAA 310A – Methods and Theory of Art History and HAA 233G – The Body and Embodiment in Greek Art.

I can’t stop thinking about the conversation I overheard in the library.

How does Darion know how George got his job?

Something feels off about it, and I can’t shake the suspicion.

I search for him online, hoping to find something—anything.

His social media accounts are almost entirely pictures of books, art, and the occasional food diary—no friends, no people, actually.

I start to feel pathetic as I scroll through everyone’s online lives, my own existence fading into the background. I’ve become obsessed with these searches, living through the online profiles of strangers. I need a life of my own. I shut my laptop with a heavy hand.

I grab my phone to text Akira, but before I can, I see that Elena has texted me—dozens of pictures. I feel guilty for giving her the task; it would’ve been easier for her to just mail me the book.

I reply, THANK YOU VERY MUCH, sorry for the loaded favor.

She replies immediately: No worries, you are welcome.

I start going through the pictures right away, zooming in and out.

They’re heavy on text, and I regret having to read on such a small screen.

I decide to transfer the images to my computer.

On the third page, I see a mention of alchemists.

It describes the alteration of properties in an object, and something about the topic sparks my interest. I keep reading about the classic myths of turning matter into gold when I spot the fine print: Physical alchemy relates to the transformation of physical matter, while spiritual alchemy is the art of freeing the spiritual self from inner fear, limiting beliefs, and lack of self-acceptance. I make a note to research more.

There are also photos of the jewelry displayed in the exhibition—delicate and exuberant—but, of course, there aren’t any necklaces that resemble my prism.

I’m starting to think mine is a one-of-a-kind pendant.

It has to be. Perhaps I hold the only information on it, tucked away on my bedside table, in an envelope.