Page 3 of Crystal Iris #1

Two

“Life beats down and crushes the soul and art reminds you that you have one.” – Stella Adler

I waited until I was home from the party to open my dad’s gift.

I wanted to throw the box against the wall, I wanted to yell at it, to tell it to go to hell.

Instead, I tugged on the gold ribbon that enclosed the box, and it slid off like silk.

My hands shook as I lifted the lid. The note inside read: For Iris on her thirtieth birthday, not a day earlier, from Mom.

Relief flooded me knowing I didn’t just throw it away.

This wasn’t from him . I would treasure whatever it was inside, just like I did with everything I kept from her.

We didn’t have much, so there wasn’t much to keep.

I have her favorite coffee mug, a pair of earrings she got from Grandma on her wedding day, and a handful of her favorite novels.

I found the necklace inside a black velvet bag, but it was what lay underneath that took my breath away: a letter.

If the letter was also from Mom, I couldn’t open it.

I could barely remember her voice. My childhood videotapes would soon have to be packed up—where were they?

It had been a while since I watched them.

Only a letter… that was something else. New words from her—my skin tingled at the thought.

I had never been more curious in my life.

The expectation matched the intensity. Did I want to know wh at she had to say?

What if the letter was actually from Dad?

I didn’t want to give him the chance to explain himself.

For all I knew, it could be a damn receipt inside. Whatever it was, it was best unread.

A couple of weeks go by, and I let myself forget about the letter, only to be reminded as soon as my head hits the pillow. Dreams and nightmares about all the things the envelope could contain fill my nights.

Aaron can’t stop talking about the wedding. Every day, he adds something new or someone else to the guest list. If it were up to me, we’d simply elope. Only he’s always had this need to prove himself to everyone. I cringe at the thought of what’s becoming a massive event.

“You should invite George and the department chair lady,” he suggests as we order food.

“I don’t know them that well,” I reply from the couch.

“What about your aunt?”

“Maybe. I’ll call her.”

Despite the wedding plans, we are having a nice time. Aaron picked up sushi, and we laugh as we reminisce about our childhoods.

One of my most cherished memories is the Christmas Aaron surprised me with a dog.

I named him Benny; he was a mutt, and I loved him the moment I saw him.

He was a little shabby, a little dirty. Turns out, Aaron had just brought a stray dog into my house.

I didn’t care. Benny was mine. All he wanted was to cuddle in bed, which made it very easy to persuade my grandparents to let me keep him.

“As long as nobody claims him, he can stay,” Grandpa said that day. And so, Benny did.

Sometimes, like any untrained dog, Benny would get into trouble—chewing on furniture or a shoe.

My grandma would blame Aaron and even demanded he pay for the damage once or twice.

We never took him to the vet. He never seemed sick.

He didn’t look like a young dog, but my grandparents assured me he was fine.

We couldn’t afford a vet anyway. He lived with us for three years and died months before I left for college.

I was determined to bring him along, even if I had to hide him in my dorm.

Benny took care of me, not the other way around.

I grieved him the most. I think my heart was still numb from the loss.

Those are my favorite moments with Aaron—casual nights, just the two of us, talking about the past. They’re rare .

He’s turned into a full-blown businessman, constantly attending social events.

He followed in his dad’s footsteps, taking over the firm, and making it much bigger than his dad ever thought possible.

He’s always busy, angry, and tired from all the parties.

Yet, he says yes to even more events the following week.

He’s addicted to the lifestyle. He has more friends than I can count, and I can’t stomach them for long.

I’m always coming up with excuses to avoid the dinners.

If Aaron knows they’re lies, he doesn’t say.

I tell myself there are nice times between us.

There could be more. Still, nice doesn’t scream marriage, I know that.

Even the sex with him has always been…nice.

He was my first, but not the only guy I’ve slept with.

We split during our first couple of years in college, only to reconnect after coming home for the holidays.

My grandparents moved to a home for the elderly that year.

I couldn’t believe it when they told me my father had sent a check for that.

What kind of person leaves their family and still pays for things?

I almost asked Aaron to help me track the money, but then again, what could my father say that would matter?

He hadn’t even shown up for their funeral.

Aaron and I have been together since. And the sex has always been that, nice.

Much better than with the guys I dated in college.

Even so, sometimes I wonder if ‘nice’ is all that’s in the cards for me.

“I love knowing you’ll be living here. We can do this every night,” he says, pulling out the duvet .

“Tonight, it was nice, staying in,” I say, knowing well this won’t happen again anytime soon.

“Do you need help packing?” he asks again.

“I don’t think so. I like taking my time, going through my stuff. A lot needs to be donated,” I say, lying through my teeth.

“Okay. Let me know if you do.”

“I will.”

“I have to show my face at Arnold’s tomorrow. You can join me if you want, but don’t feel obligated; the plus-ones weren’t exactly invited.”

“Okay. I think Akira wanted to do something anyway.” Another lie. They roll off my tongue easily these days.

I struggle to get out of bed—at least it’s Friday.

I bribe myself with coffee twice just to get going.

I never sleep well; my anxiety always finds a way to creep in at night.

But I can feel myself extra tense lately.

I’m not sure if it’s due to the wedding or the prism; both things are constantly on my mind.

It’s especially during moments like this that I wish I had my mom around to talk to.

I put on the simplest outfit and head to work.

“Remember, you’re not being graded today.

This is an exercise. I’ll pull a different art piece for each of you randomly, and I want you to try to describe it.

Let’s talk about the time period, the material used.

You can talk about the artist if you know it.

You can mention the style, describe the subject matter, the symbols you recognize.

If time allows, you can bring up meaning; however, let’s leave that for last, as it tends to get complicated. ”

I have to work extra hard to pay attention to what the students are saying; my mind is scattered by the time they’re done. I’m in desperate need of a break.

No sign of Akira at the coffee cart.

C offee? I text her.

C an’t right now, Spiral tonight ? she replies.

Aaron has plans. Anything to avoid his stupid dinner. Still, there’s a hint of guilt as I text her back, Sure . I know it would make him look better if I went to those events, especially now that we’re engaged. I won’t be able to avoid them forever, and a part of me thinks he deserves better.

It’s a crisp night, and I wish I had waited a little longer before getting out of the cab.

I’m meeting Akira at the corner of Melrose and Fayette.

As I wait, I eye the long line of people waiting to get in.

Spiral isn’t a large club, yet somehow, all of those people will fit inside.

We know the guys at the door by now, so we don’t have to wait.

Still, I always feel weird skipping the lines.

I hear the usual words shouted from strangers watching us enter: “slut,” “whore,” and “bitch” among them.

Akira is wearing leather pants and a shirt that leaves her stomach exposed.

With her body, I would too. From behind, you can see a couple of her tattoos.

Her hair is loose, strands of different colors catching the light.

She’s hot. And all the guys around notice.

I envy her confidence—she doesn’t hide behind any masks—not the professor one, not even the genius one.

She owns herself with such ease, it’s hard not to compare.

I opted for my usual combo of jeans and a tank top. My inherited red hair is in a top bun, mostly for lack of time. It took me an hour to do my makeup with the new eyeliner I decided to try out. I broke a sweat getting both eyes even.

“Can you believe that guy?” she asks, gesturing to a young man blowing her a kiss.

“Just ignore it,” I say, as we wait to make eye contact with the bartender.

“Thanks for dragging me out here tonight. I think I really needed this,” I tell her .

“Yeah, it usually takes another round of begging,” she replies, still bothered by the guy across the bar. She raises her glass. “To us,” she says, as we click our champagne glasses. Our habitual toast.

The first time I came here, Aaron was with me.

Turns out, dancing wasn’t his thing. He just stayed in the corner, on his phone, drinking.

I managed to drag him onto the dance floor a couple of times, but he was ready to go soon after.

It was also an important night for my career—my first praise in the papers—and we were out to celebrate.

I puked on the way home. Aaron said something about us being too old to be clubbing, and I never insisted he come again.

So now, whenever I find myself either free of plans or hating the ones he has for us, I come here.

Akira started coming soon after we met, and it’s been our thing for the past three years.

We both agree it’s the music, the lights, the letting loose we crave.

Some nights, I don’t even drink. My body moving with the beat is enough to set me free.

Other nights, I drink more than I should.

I made a point to stop doing the latter.

We have a great time dancing, and after a couple of drinks, I start to finally feel at ease.

The music’s doing it for me… W ho’s the DJ in the house tonight?

I glance up at the top of the iconic spiraling steps.

I find him with his eyes closed, his body moving perfectly synced to his own beat. DJ Jaxx is always a treat.

I’m on my way to the bathroom when I overhear bits and pieces of a conversation that make me feel relieved I’m not single.

With everything that’s happened lately, I really need this night to help me release some stress.

I hear someone snorting something in the next stall.

Drugs are not my thing, but who the hell am I to judge?

Back on the dance floor, the song changes and I recognize it.

One of my favorites. I’m not sure where Akira is, but I know she’s around.

We have one rule: If either of us wants to leave, the other has to go too—unless we have other friends here.

Not that I’ve kept in touch with many. I was the kind of teen who liked being left alone.

Not much has changed. Our number-one rule is: never stay by yourself in the club.

We both know that’s a recipe for disaster.

I close my eyes, letting the music move me. I let go of everything—the wedding, my family issues, my job… all of it.

Minutes later, Akira’s hands are on my shoulder, shaking me. “Iris!” she yells.

I open my eyes and realize that a lot of people have moved out of the way and are staring at me. I see the violet light reflected in her eyes, and I look down. My prism is floating in the air, like an invisible hand is holding it up. As I reach for it, it falls back down.

“What the fuck!” Akira says, her voice sharp with disbelief. She’s looking at me for answers, but I don’t have any to give.

People start to move closer again, quickly forgetting what they just witnessed. That’s the allure of the club: The harder you try to stand out, the more invisible you become. I don’t need to impress anyone here; I can just be myself.

“You should take that off!” Akira almost yanks it off me as we head for the door.

I can’t. Not only because it was a gift from my mother, but because there’s this strange, instinctive urge to protect it. “It was my mother’s,” I plead.

“Iris, this thing is possessed. I saw it. Everyone saw it.”

How many people had seen it? From now on, I have to keep it concealed.

“You’re telling me that you, Ms. Science Girl, believe in that stuff?” I ask her, surprised.

“Hell yeah,” she says, her voice shaky. She looks genuinely freaked out.

“Akira, relax. It’s just a necklace. I’m not sure what you think you saw—maybe they put something in your drink.”

She shakes her head, unconvinced. I finally manage to get her into a cab, reassuring her that everything is fine.

I think about going to sleep at Aaron’s, but the guilt of having bailed on him again weighs on me. I text him, saying I need clothes—I’m sleeping at my own place tonight.

But sleep is the last thing I get. I toss and turn, restless and hungover. At least now I know—wicked or not— something is going on with my necklace.