13. Iris

13

IRIS

ONE MONTH LATER…

Seattle in the winter is miserable. In fact, it’s miserable all year round. If it’s not cold, it’s wet and cold, and on the few days it’s bright and sunshiny, I can’t even get outside because I’m stuck working.

I hate my job. I do.

I’m biding my time, trying to survive and make it through so that I can get on the other side. I want to prove myself and get ahead to make my own games. I don’t want to work some soulless job during the day and do my passion projects at night.

But being in the industry can sometimes be one step forward, two steps back.

I work long hours and by the time I have free time, I have to catch up on stupid life shit. And sleep. Don’t forget sleep.

I’ve been living on energy drinks and takeout since I returned from Chicago. I haven’t even unpacked.

Not that I want to go through my suitcase and remember all the outfits I wore in Chicago. The dresses Trevor tore off me, the underwear I didn’t wear so he could have easy access.

The only thing that’s really changed is my hair. I’ve gone from blue to a lilacky purple which got me snickers at work since my name is Iris. I’m not going to put a whole color off limits just because people think it’s funny I’m named after something purple.

My latest project sits on my computer unfinished. I have zero inspiration to go through it for the umpteenth time and refine the prototype for something that will be ready for beta testers.

It’s the same shit, different day. A fighting game full of microtransactions that relies on people getting hooked on something and giving the company ninety-nine cents over and over again until the end of time.

Becca, one of the only other woman in the office, swings over with a fresh cup of coffee, perching on the edge of my desk. Well, it’s more like a table.

We have one of those open concept offices which is an eyesore given all the fucking equipment everyone has on their desks here.

“Hey, rockstar.” Her hip bumps my Croft award on the corner of my desk. “How’s the work going?”

I readjust my Croft, the golden diamond shape I keep on my desk to remind everyone that I’m kind of hot shit.

Crofts are given to women in STEM every year, and I earned mine a couple of years ago back in Chicago for a short form game I created with an all-female team.

Of course, people don’t run after Croft award winners the way you’d hope they would. If anything, male dominated industries just get more prickly when they see us coming.

“Could be going better. I just can’t focus.”

“Mm. That time of the month?”

We might be in Seattle, but the dudes still get weirded out when the women in the office talk about their periods.

“No, just…kinda tired of this shit.”

“I hear ya.” Her eyes blink form behind the lenses of her thick glasses. “Working here in the winter is always the worst.”

“Is it?” On one hand, great, at least I can chalk up my fog to the weather rather than being heartbroken. On the other hand, fuck , all winters are going to suck as long as I work here.

“Yeah. Especially because all the dudes who usually like to hike are all cramped up and start getting pissy about everything. And they give us a hard time for being hormonal. I swear, they’re even worse.”

“Hear fucking hear,” I grab my coffee mug and clink it against hers.

From over my other shoulder, Tad, the office manager, calls out. “Gift for Iris.”

My eyes roll so far back in my head I want to puke.

“Girl, don’t give me that look. If I had a guy sending me flowers here every other day, I’d be over the moon.”

Tad places the bouquet right in front of me and continues on his trajectory through the office. Not the most friendly guy, I’ll say that.

Today’s bouquet is all red, pink, and white. Perfectly arranged, fragrant, expensive-looking. And, oh, look at that. A card. Another one.

“It’s getting close to Valentine’s Day…” Becca waggles her eyebrows. “Great time of year for forgiveness.”

I pluck the card out of the bouquet. These started arriving about a week after New Year.

Two to three times a week, Trevor sends flowers to the office. I guess it’s his way of trying to show me he cares without running after me. A loophole in the boundary. Of course.

I unfold the card and, again, the same message.

I’m sorry. I love you. I’ll wait.

Always with a little unique addendum.

A year ago today we stayed out until two am playing board games at Guthrie’s.

Fuck him for all the memories. For all the wonderful times I have to remember now every time he sends the flowers.

The first time week, I tossed the cards out without reading them. Then Becca pulled one out of the trash, said it was romantic, and…I guess I’m a sucker.

“God, I hate him.” I shove the flowers to the side, trying to focus yet again on my work.

“Have you told him to stop?”

“No.”

“So, do that.”

I press my lips together.

Becca smiles, deviousness in her expression. “ Because you don’t want him to.”

I glare at her.

“Don’t glare at me! You’re the one still in love with your ex-fiancé.”

I sigh and rub my hands over my face. “Sure wish I wasn’t.”

“Girl, he loves you. Literally, there’s nothing stopping you from–”

“He wants things his way .”

Okay, that’s not totally true. At least this time he was open to making something work. “That’s triggering for me. He had never been controlling until I took this job.”

“Without talking it through with him.”

“You don’t even know him! Why are you defending him?”

Becca’s sass softens. “Because I think you’re self-sabotaging. He admitted he made a mistake. And you did too, you know that.”

“I admitted it as soon as it happened. Well, after I had to reveal it to him, but–”

“When you’re in a couple, you have to make sacrifices, right?”

I stare down at my keyboard. “Maybe I’m not meant to be a part of a couple, then.”

“Don’t say that.”

Since I left Chicago, I’ve been haunted not only by memories of Trevor, but memories of my past. Of my ex.

Trevor knows there have been men before. But he doesn’t know about the man. And though it’s been a decade since I’ve been with him, I can’t shake the fear of not measuring up. Of trying so hard to fit someone’s mold and falling short and being rejected because of it.

“Becca, I appreciate your perspective and support, but–”

“Galletto!” a harsh voice barks across the room.

I look up, finding myself frozen under the icy stare of our boss, Cole. We all go by first names here, but Cole acts like we should be calling him Mr. Jerkoff.

He wasn’t that way when he hired me.

He’s leaning out of his office door. Yes, he’s the only one with an office. It’s encased entirely by windows, but when he takes a private meeting, he can make them frosted with a push of a button. It’s some weird James Bond shit, if James Bond had an eyebrow piercing and thinning hair.

“Let’s chat.” He waves his hand toward me before disappearing into his office.

“Let’s chat” is a call out. It’s like being sent to the principal’s office.

The windows turn frosted a moment later.

I feel all eyes on me even if everyone is buried in whatever slave labor they’re doing in the name of fucking video games.

“Fuck me.”

Becca gets up. “Be chill. You’re good.”

“I’m not good, you know that’s not good.”

“Well, unless you’ve done something offensive, the worst that can happen is a slap on the wrist.”

I push myself up from my desk and smooth out the front of my overalls. “Pray for me.”

“In the name of the father, son, and Lara Croft.”

I squeeze my hands at my sides, trying to keep my nerves at bay.

It’s just a meeting, it’s no big deal. Just feedback. Just work. It has nothing to do with the person you are or your worthiness to the company. Relax .

Telling myself to relax does the exact opposite, though, and by the time I’m seated across from my boss, I’m close to shaking. “What’s up, Cole?”

He leans back in his chair, something that should feel casual, but doesn’t. “The latest prototype isn’t meeting our expectations. What’s going on?”

I take a breath, knowing I need to be honest but feeling the weight of his disappointment.

I don’t have the luxury of being honest. I’m struggling because my heart’s not in it. It’s stuck in Chicago with a man who loves me, who I don’t know how to love back despite every nerve in my body needing him. “I thought I had a solid concept, but the mechanics… they just aren’t quite clicking. I thought we might be close to a product we can build off of, but I’m trying to refine the storyline and, well, yeah.”

That’s a whole lot of bullshit nonsense.

Cole raises an eyebrow, skepticism etched on his face. “Trying isn’t enough. We need results. The team is counting on you.”

“I know!” I snap before I can stop myself. The frustration bubbles over. “I want to deliver, but the pressure is– It’s not like I’m slacking off. You know the hours I pool.”

He straightens, his expression hardening. “The hours don’t mean much if they’re not spent wisely.”

I gawp. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing other than what I said. If the time you spend working on the game isn’t meeting the benchmarks we agreed on, then the project might be better in someone else’s hands. If you can’t get it together, we’ll have to make some tough decisions.”

The air between us thickens.

My pulse speeds up. “You mean, you’d fire me over this?”

“No, not without getting you on a performance plan.”

“A performance plan?” I’ve been gutted. I’ve never had my work questioned like this. “I just need a bit more time to refine it. That’s all. And maybe we can sit down and go through exactly what isn’t clicking for you.”

“To be honest, Iris, you seem checked out.”

I can’t even fight him on that. It’s the truth.

“You know, the holidays are over. There’s no time for slacking.”

“I’m not trying to slack, and I’m not trying to–” I clear my throat, trying to suppress the heartbreak. “I care about this project.”

His gaze softens for a split second before the steel returns. “Caring isn’t enough if you can’t deliver. We’re on a tight timeline.”

My chest tightens. “I’m trying, Cole. I just need a little more time, some feedback—maybe even a fresh perspective.”

He studies me, the tension palpable. “Time isn’t a luxury we have. I’ll give you another week to get things under control and if you can’t, I’ll hand over the project to someone more capable.”

“More capable…”

“And we’ll find you a position on a team that makes more sense for you. See if we can work things out.”

I stare at Cole. His dark, beady eyes lack any sort of emotion. “And if we can’t?”

“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”

I inhale. I’ll be fired. If I don’t get it together, I’ll be fucking fired.

I’m good at my job, I know I am. “I’m just going through something right now. I’m sorry. It won’t impact my work any further.”

“Don’t make promises. Just keep your head down, do the work, and leave the shit at home.”

I nod, though my insides roil.

How can I leave the shit at home when I’m working every hour of the day? I work at the office, I work at home. I work and work and work and there’s no time for anything else. “I understand.”

“Great. Let’s meet top of next week to see if we’re on the same page.”

I can’t sit another moment in this office. “Thanks, Cole.”

I shoot up out of my chair and rush out. But I don’t go to my desk. No, it would be embarrassing to cry there. I go to the bathroom where the second the door closes behind me, the tears spill forth.

Hands over my eyes, I weep.

I haven’t cried since returning to Seattle. Haven’t let myself. Haven’t had the fucking time.

I’ve been trying to be so focused on work and pushed everything aside to do so and apparently, it’s not fucking enough! I’m still falling short of Cole’s expectations.

I can handle feedback. I’ve handled it before. But the tears won’t stop coming.

My life is falling apart.

Returning to Seattle, I might not have had Trevor, but I knew I had my work. I would always have my work. If I wasn’t meant for a relationship, I was meant to work .

Now, here I am. Failing at that too.

What the fuck do I have but me?

The sobs pulse through me without signs of stopping. Shit, maybe Becca is right and part of this is hormonal. Even in the utmost turmoil, I’ve never been quite so inconsolable. Even when Trevor broke my heart the first time.

Even when my ex…

I pray no one walks in on me. It would be embarrassing to say the least.

Eventually, I’m able to at least push the tears away to see straight. I pull my phone out of my pocket and pull out my period tracking app to see if maybe everything is out of sync and I’m PMS-ing hardcore.

You’re late. That’s okay! Periods are unpredictable .

I blink. I’m late? How late?

I go to the calendar portion of the app.

It’s been forty-five days since your last cycle.

“Forty-five?!” There must be a mistake. I must not have tracked some days. I was traveling, I got all turned around.

Forty-five. I’ve never been that late. I’ve always had a regular period, especially when I’m on birth control.

I fly into one of the stalls and yank my overalls down, the straps clinking against the tile.

Maybe my period’s already started, and I have nothing to panic about.

Nope. My underwear is clean.

It’s possible my birth control is fucking with my cycle. Possible the stress of work and Trevor is throwing things out of whack too.

I stare ahead at the stall door.

It’s also possible that the reason I’m late is because the period isn’t going to come.

Because I could be pregnant.

Shit. I could be pregnant. With Trevor’s baby.

For a second, the stress alleviates. It fucking lifts . Like this is a good thing.

The idea I could be carrying Trevor’s baby right now calms me down . Why? How? An accidental pregnancy should do the exact opposite of call somebody down. That’s reason for peak stress.

Yet, I can’t control it. My heartbeat slows, my face cools, tears start to abate.

I smile.

This is crazy. But I can’t help it.

Don’t get ahead of yourself, Iris. There’s plenty of reasons you could be late. One step at a time .

I can’t do this on my own. But I don’t have any friends close enough to me here in Seattle to help me out.

I pull my overalls back on, walk up to the mirror, and watch myself pull my phone out of my pocket again and dial Red.

It rings. And rings. I wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t pick up. We haven’t spoken much since I returned to Seattle. I haven’t been able to handle facing her after the date went so sour.

I didn’t want to explain it and look like a fool, much less disappoint Red and Oliver after they nearly got their wish of Trevor and me working things out again.

Before the phone can go to voicemail, she picks up.

Thank god .

“Violet, hey! What’s up?”

“You have a minute?” My voice croaks.

“Well, I’m at work but… Is everything okay?”

I open my mouth to apologize. To tell her I wish things had been different. To ask for her help. But instead, what comes out is, “I think I’m pregnant.”

* * *

“Are you still there?” I say into the phone as I push open my apartment door.

“I’ve been on the phone with you for an hour, Vie, I’m not going anywhere,” Red says into the phone.

“Okay, what do I–what do I do?”

“Go to the bathroom and pee on the test, honey.”

She’s been having to instruct me on every step to take since I called her.

Leave the bathroom, grab your stuff, stop at the drug store, go home. It’s like she’s here with me and boy, do I need her.

The last thing I should be doing after being told I’m slacking at work is leaving early, but this is more important. Way more important.

Red, to her credit, has been cool as a cucumber the entire time. I can’t tell if she’s happy or disappointed, but that’s just fine. My emotions do enough work for the both of us.

I follow her latest instruction, heading to the bathroom. “I’m keeping you on speaker phone, I’m sorry you’ll have to hear me pee.”

She giggles. “That’s okay. Do what you need to do.”

I place the phone on the counter, then rip open the test box.

The test flies out, nearly crashing into the toilet bowl and ruining the damn thing.

“Take some deep breaths. Relax,” Red says.

She must have been able to tell the mess I made was from my abundance of nerves. “I’m trying. It’s hard.”

“I know. These things are.”

Red’s pregnancy was also an accident. Of course, hard to call it that when so much beauty has come from it. Her marriage to Oliver, her soulmate, their perfect little girl. But she understands the anxiety that comes along with not knowing.

“Take a breath. Come on. In…out…in…”

I breathe with her until I’m steady enough to take the test. I place it on the counter away from me and stand against the bathroom wall. “How am I supposed to wait?”

“It’s only going to take two minutes tops.”

I tap my foot as I wait. “This is hell.”

“What’s the worst-case scenario? You’re pregnant and you need to evaluate what to do with it?”

“No, that’s not…” I can’t believe what I’m about to say. “The worst case scenario is I’m not pregnant.”

Red hesitates. “You…want to be?”

“I know, I’m surprised too. But I left Trevor again for a job that doesn’t give a shit about me and…” Though tears fill my eyes again, I smile. “This was what life was supposed to be anyway. We were supposed to be married by now, trying for babies, building a life.”

“There’s no supposed to be about life.”

“I know, but–”

“Listen, Vie. Nothing is promised. Things happen and…you live. You survive them or your thrive in them. And if you want to embrace this as a moment to thrive, you know I’m right here to support you.”

I glance down at my stomach. Wondering if there really is a baby there. “But I lost him.”

“You haven’t lost Trevor. You know that. He’s right here, waiting for you if you want him back. And you know he would make a great dad.”

“Of course, he would.” Tears slide down my cheeks. “Red, I suck at everything. I’m not good for anyone.”

She tsks. “That’s ridiculous. You are Iris. You are incredible. And whatever you do turns to gold.”

“Tell that to my boss.”

“Fuck him.”

I giggle, wipe at my tears.

A moment passes.

“It’s probably done,” she says softly.

My muscles tense. “I’m not ready.”

“Yes, you are. I’m right here if you need me.”

I wish she was here in the room with me, but no such luck.

I have to do it alone.

I take a step forward, knowing everything might be about to change.

And I look.