Marked By My Best Friend's Dad

BACK AT IT

~Alice

I swallowed hard, the words sticking in my throat like glass shards.

Iris stood there, arms crossed loosely, waiting for whatever I had to say.

I stared at my plate, fork pushing noodles around in circles.

“I don’t have a good excuse,” I said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “There isn’t one.”

She didn’t interrupt, she waited patiently for me to pull something together.

I forced myself to look at her.

“You started pulling away,” I said, hating how defensive it sounded even to me. “Little things at first. You’d flinch when I touched you. You stopped kissing me back like you used to. You were gone half the night, saying you needed space, or you were tired, or whatever.”

Tears welled up again. I didn’t bother wiping them.

“I felt you slipping, Iris. And I got scared. Angry. Lonely. All of it.”

I took a shaky breath.

“Sandra was just… there. She was flirting like always. And that day I was drunk and hurt and stupid, and I let it happen. I hated myself the second it started, but I didn’t stop it.”

Iris’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes darkened.

“I know that doesn’t make it okay,” I rushed on. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t push me to it. I did this. I broke us.”

“I love you,” I said, voice cracking completely now. “I’ve loved you since the first time you kissed me in that stupid library study room. I don’t want Sandra. I don’t want anyone else. I just… I panicked when it felt like I was losing you.”

She looked away, jaw tight.

“I don’t know if you can ever trust me again,” I whispered. “I don’t even trust myself right now. But I need you to know I’m sorry. And I’ll spend however long it takes trying to fix this, if you’ll let me.”

Iris was quiet for so long I thought she might just walk away. Then she sighed, heavy and exhausted.

“I don’t know what I feel right now, Alice,” she said. “Hurt. Angry. Confused. All of it.”

She stepped closer, close enough that I could see the faint red in her eyes from crying earlier.

“But I loved you too,” she said softly. “Enough that it’s killing me to look at you and remember what I saw.”

I nodded, tears falling freely now.

“I know.”

She reached out, hesitated, then brushed a tear from my cheek with her thumb.

“I’m not sure I'm ready to forgive you,” she said. “Maybe I never will be. But I’m not ready to walk away either.”

My heart stuttered.

“That’s… something,” I whispered.

She dropped her hand.

“Don’t push me,” she said. “Don’t ask for more than I can give right now.”

I nodded fast.

“I won’t.”

She turned back to her plate, picked up her fork again like the conversation had drained her.

I was surprised when I was laying the bed, smoothing the sheets, fluffing the pillows, trying to make my room feel less like a prison and more like a peace offering when the door opened behind me.

I turned.

Iris stood there in her nightgown, the soft, oversized one she’d left here months ago, pale blue cotton that hung loose on her frame but still clung just enough to remind me how beautiful she was.

She looked exhausted, her hair wet from a shower, eyes still shadowed.

I froze, hands mid air over the pillow, staring like an i***t.

She raised an eyebrow.

“Stop staring like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said, voice quiet but with that familiar dry edge. “I’m going to sleep here. On the bed. With you.”

My heart stuttered.

I opened my mouth, closed it, then managed a nod.

“Okay,” I whispered, like I was afraid that she’d change her mind.

She walked past me, pulled back the covers on her usual side, then I climbed in without another word.

I stood there a second longer, then turned off the light and slid in on my side, careful to leave space between us.

The mattress dipped slightly. The room smelled faintly of her shampoo.

We lay there in the dark, both on our backs, staring at the ceiling.

I closed my eyes, listening to her breathe, and let myself hope just a little that tomorrow might hurt a little less.

“Morning… It’s Saturday, let’s do the cleaning.”

The voice was soft, teasing, close to my ear. I opened my eyes slowly, blinking against the sunlight streaming through the curtains.

Iris was hovering over me, hair tousled from sleep, that old blue nightgown slipping off one shoulder. She smiled small, but real, and leaned down to peck my lips.

It was just a quick, gentle brush. But I wasn’t letting her get away with that.

My hand slid to the back of her neck, pulling her down before she could straighten. I kissed her deeper, slow at first, then hungrier, tongue tracing her bottom lip until she parted them with a soft sigh.

She melted into it for a moment, body settling against mine, fingers curling into my hair.

When we finally broke apart, both a little breathless, she rested her forehead against mine.

“You’re supposed to be helping me clean,” she murmured, but there was no real complaint in her voice.

I grinned, thumb brushing her cheek.

“Cleaning can wait five more minutes.”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t move away.

“Ten,” she corrected, and kissed me again.

And just like that, the morning felt a little less heavy.

A little more like us.

Iris tasted like strawberry, soft and warm, and for those few seconds I let myself believe we could rewind, back to lazy Saturday mornings where cleaning meant dancing around the kitchen with music blasting, stealing kisses between folding laundry.

She pulled back first, eyes searching mine, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“Cleaning,” she reminded me, voice light but with that edge of caution still there.

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.

“Yeah. Cleaning.”

We moved through the house like a careful choreography, her in the kitchen wiping counters, me vacuuming the living room.

Every so often I’d catch her watching me, or she’d catch me watching her, and we’d look away fast.

By noon the place was spotless. We collapsed on the couch, bottles of water in hand, legs stretched out.