6. Iris

I'm taking in the droning sounds of today's political science lecture, but my brain's doing that annoying thing where it wanders off—straight to Lincoln. I imagine his smirking lips, the way his eyes flash with cockiness, and how that intense gaze of his can make every nerve ending in my body feel like it's on fire. It's infuriating how he invades my thoughts, uninvited.

The creak of shoes on the polished floor snaps me back to reality. The professor is beelining toward me, a new girl in tow. She's got this short blonde hair that bounces with each step, brown eyes scanning the room like she's already sizing up her competition—or conquests.

"Miss Shelby," Professor Hastings begins, that knowing look in his eye suggesting he's about to dump some extra workload on me. "This is Nicole Sullivan. You'll be helping her catch up; she's missed quite a bit."

Great. Just what I need. But I paste on my best fake smile—the one that fools everyone into thinking I've got it all together—and nod. "Of course, happy to help," I lie.

Nicole extends her hand, and I take it, feeling a surprising firmness in her grip. "Thanks, Iris. I really appreciate it." There's something in her tone, a smoothness that makes me wary. She's too put-together for someone who's just fallen into the madhouse mid-semester. St. Charles is a place where the wealthy can pay for whatever it is they desire, so I'm not surprised that a student would be allowed to pick up a class this far into the curriculum.

"Sure, no problem," I say, keeping my voice light, my inner sarcasm securely locked away. For now. I'll have to pull out all the stops later, maybe even break out the whiskey or something stronger to dull the edge off tonight. Another tutoring session to fit in my already jammed packed schedule isn't going to do anything for my nerves that are already shot.

But I've got a reputation to maintain, and if there's one thing I'm not, it's a quitter. Besides, it gives me an excuse to avoid thinking about Lincoln. It's not like I'm daft enough to think I'm on his mind. He's definitely out charming every girl that falls into his orbit and only locks in on me when he needs someone to take his rage out on. I feel my nipples tighten at the thought of just how he likes to treat his new stepsister. To my surprise, Lincoln stayed for my entire speech, which oddly spurred me on to not make any mistakes. I expected him to leave without speaking to me, but like most things with Lincoln Blackwood, I was very wrong. He met me backstage, fully prepared to intimidate me, but the curtain was pulled back, exposing us, and forcing him to keep some space between us. I don't know if his mother saw that we were arguing, but I really don't give a fuck if she did.

I lean back in my seat; the wood creaking under me like a tired sigh as Nicole claims an empty seat to my left. Professor Hastings adjusts his glasses and gestures toward Nicole with a flourish that feels more theatrical than necessary. "Nicole here comes to us under rather unique circumstances, so please show her some care and compassion," he says low enough that I know it's meant just for me. His voice tinged with a mix of sympathy and intrigue.

Unique circumstances, huh? I glance at Nicole, sizing her up. There's a story there, one that's probably juicier than the stale textbook drama we've been dissecting in class. I wonder if she's got enough spine to survive the social piranha tank this school can be. But hey, I'm nothing if not a gracious host—queen of the damned welcoming committee.

"Welcome to St. Charles," I quip with a smirk, hoping to break the ice or at least chip away at it because I can't be my true self in situations like this. "We've got fun and games, and by that, I mean late-night cramming and existential dread."

Nicole chuckles, a sound that's surprisingly genuine. "I'll take your word for it," she replies, her eyes scanning the room like she's memorizing escape routes.

"Stick with me," I say with a laugh and a tilt of my head. "I'll show you where they hide the good coffee in the cafeteria."

Our professor moves on, oblivious to our exchange, droning about some policy change that'll no doubt add another layer of hell to finals week. Not that he really cares about workload or setting us up for success. If that were the case, he would have asked if I was cool with this tutoring thing. He just threw Nicole my way like I'm some kind of academic life raft.

The familiar sting of resentment needles at me, a reminder of all the times Dad decided my path without so much as a ‘by your leave.' His shadow looms over my thoughts, that stern look in his eyes when he'd lay down the law, expecting me to follow it without question.

"Expectations are the pillars of success, Iris," he'd say, his voice as cold and unyielding as iron. And there I'd be, nodding along, because disappointing him was like inviting the apocalypse over for dinner.

"Hey, Iris?" Nicole's voice pulls me from the memory, her brown eyes holding a hint of concern. "You ok?"

"Fantastic," I lie smoothly, plastering on a smile that can't possibly reach my tired eyes. "Just thinking about the mountain of joyous reading I get to share with you."

"Sounds… thrilling," she deadpans, picking up on my sarcasm with ease.

"I'm definitely not a fan," I reply, biting back the bitterness. "But hey, my misery loves company, so let's dive into the glamorous world of political theory together."

Suppressing a sigh, I remind myself that this isn't Nicole's fault. She's just the unsuspecting newbie caught in the crossfire. And if I'm going to play the part of the dutiful daughter, might as well extend that performance to the role of helpful peer.

"Look," I start, softening just a bit, "I know this place can be overwhelming, but I've got your back, alright? Consider me your unofficial guide to surviving St. Charles University. Go Spartans!"

"Thanks," she says, and something in her gratitude feels warm, real—a sharp contrast to the usual chilly encounters I have with people just looking to use me for notes or a quick study session.

"Let's start with the basics," I continue, the reluctant mentor in me taking the reins. "Avoid the cafeteria meatloaf, never trust a frat boy's ‘homemade' punch, and never, ever, get on the wrong side of the library's head archivist."

Nicole laughs, a bright sound that cuts through the academic drone, and I can't help but think that maybe this won't be such a chore after all. Maybe.

I grab Nicole's textbooks, flipping through the pages with a practiced eye. My fingertip traces the edge of the paper, leaving faint indentations where I mark the chapters she needs to digest—political theories that make my head spin on sleepless nights. "I'll send you my notes," I murmur, the words tasting like a commitment I can't back out from. A promise to an almost stranger who has no idea how deep my rabbit hole of responsibilities goes.

"Really?" Nicole's voice percolates with a hopefulness that seems untarnished by the grind of college life. It's oddly refreshing, and it makes me feel something that might be a smidge of guilt for my earlier irritation. "That would be amazing, Iris. I know you're probably swamped…"

Her voice trails off as she takes in my haphazard bun that would never fly if my father saw me and the circles I'm pretty sure are playing peekaboo beneath my lashes despite the concealer's best efforts. I flash her a grin, all teeth and no joy, yet somehow she buys it. She always will; they all do.

I bat away her concerns with the ease of a cat flicking its tail. "Inconvenience isn't in my vocabulary." A lie wrapped in a smirk, but it quiets the worry lines forming between her brows. "Besides," I add with a half-cocked eyebrow, "helping you gives me an excuse to revisit this stuff and not look like a total fraud when I spout political ideologies at parties to impress the unimpressible." My lips twitch into a semblance of a smile, one that doesn't quite reach my eyes.

Nicole chuckles, a light and airy sound that flutters around the room like a butterfly in a jar. "Well, when you put it like that, I'm doing you a favor."

"Exactly." And for a moment, the tension rolls off my shoulders, eased by the simple exchange of playful banter. Nicole's alright—a bit too chipper maybe, but alright. And helping her? Well, it's a distraction. A reprieve from the chaos of thoughts that haunt me, the ones that whisper Lincoln's name with every heartbeat, taunting me.

I tuck a loose strand of hair back into the messy constellation of my bun and gesture for Nicole to follow me as class ends. I see Professor Hastings watching me and the look of approval that passes his features as I lead Nicole out of the classroom.

"I have a few free minutes if you want a quick tour," I say to Nicole as she tip taps, trying to keep up with my strides in her kitten heels. I reach down and straighten my dress and wait for Nicole to catch up and then lead her through the maze of St. Charles University's campus with a confidence I don't quite feel. The sun is a relentless spotlight, casting sharp shadows on the concrete as we weave between buildings.

"Over there's the library," I say, pointing at the monolithic structure of stone and glass. "It has the best nooks for studying—or napping. Trust me, you'll need both."

Nicole's eyes scan the building, her lips curving into an appreciative smile. "Looks peaceful."

"Only on the outside," I quip, my smirk a well-worn armor against the onslaught of academia lurking within those walls. Our footsteps echo in tandem as we approach the student center next, the scent of brewing coffee and the din of voices reaching out to us.

"Here's where you can drown your sorrows in caffeine and sugar," I gesture toward the bustling cafe, "or sweat them out in the gym upstairs."

"Sounds like my kind of therapy," she observes with a laugh, and I'm struck by how easy this feels. Her presence doesn't grate on me like I expected; instead, it's almost soothing, like she knows exactly what to say and when to say it.

We're traversing the quad now, the grass beneath our steps green enough to tell you it was bought and paid for handsomely, when Nicole leans closer, her elbow nudging mine conspiratorially. "So, any tips on landing a hot football player boyfriend like yours?"

The words hit me like a blitz attack, jarring and unexpected. For a split second, I'm lost, disoriented, wondering if the heat is getting to me, making me hallucinate conversations I never had.

"Boyfriend?" My voice sounds like a strangled note, played on a broken instrument.

Nicole's laugh peals out, light and teasing, a stark contrast to the sudden tightness constricting my chest. I blink, the world sharpening into focus as Nicole's words linger in the air like a bad aftertaste. "I don't do boyfriends," I snort, pulling my defenses tight around me. "Especially not ones with shoulder pads and the ego to match." The hint of sarcasm in my voice could etch glass.

Nicole cocks her head, a frown creasing her brow. She smells like citrus—a sharp, tangy scent that somehow makes her question feel more invasive. "Not to be weird and stalkery, but I noticed you at the ceremony the other day…" she trails off, her eyes doing a quick dance of confusion. "You were giving that killer speech, all confidence and badassery. Then there was him, Lincoln Blackwood? I asked this girl sitting next to me…I think that's what she said his name is. You two seemed…close. Anyway, he's really hot."

"Close?" It's a bitter laugh that escapes, a reflex. The memory of Lincoln's touch is a ghost on my skin. "Yeah, geographically maybe." I shove my hands into the pockets of my dress, the fabric crinkling under the pressure. "He's my stepbrother," I admit, the words tasting like vinegar on my tongue.

"Stepbrother?" Her eyes widen, and I can almost hear her thoughts click into place like puzzle pieces. "Oh, wow, sorry. I just assumed?—"

I cut her off, forcing a shrug that feels heavier than it should, "No harm, no foul."

My smile is a weapon I brandish, hiding the tremor that betrays me. Can she hear the way my heart stutters, an out-of-tune piano in a silent hall? I pray she doesn't notice the blush that threatens to bloom across my cheeks, hot and revealing.

"Anyway, enough about the campus king," I say, steering us clear of treacherous waters. My voice crackles with forced cheer, as if I'm tossing confetti over a minefield. "Let's focus on your hunt for Mr. Right—or Mr. Right Now."

Nicole looks at me expectantly like a cat on the prowl. I can't help but add fuel to her curiosity. "Lincoln's got an arm that could land a football in the next state, and a head so thick you'd think it's made of the same stuff they use in black boxes." I let out a laugh, but it's brittle, like thin ice over a winter lake. My fingers find my lip, biting down to steady the flutter in my gut. The last thing I need is to spill secrets that aren't mine to share.

"Sounds like a real catch," Nicole murmurs, one eyebrow arching in amusement. She leans back slightly, her eyes scanning my face like she's trying to read between the lines of a particularly spicy novel.

"More like a cautionary tale," I snark back, feeling the tension coil tighter around me. I'm dancing around the edges of truth and scandal.

"Hey," Nicole says, her voice slicing through my spiraling thoughts, "you look like you could use a break from all this… intensity." She sweeps a hand around, encompassing the musty lecture hall, the whiteboard littered with the debris of political theories. "How about we hang out sometime? No books, no lectures, just… fun."

"Fun?" The word feels foreign on my tongue, a language I've forgotten how to speak. I size her up, this enigma wrapped in a preppy smile. There's something about her—her eagerness, her bright-eyed boldness—that disarms me. People don't usually do ‘forward' with me; they retreat, wary of the barbs and jibes that lurk beneath my surface.

"Sure," I say before caution can claw its way up my throat. "Fun sounds like an endangered species worth preserving." An unfamiliar warmth bubbles up inside me at the thought of letting go, even if for a fleeting moment. Maybe Nicole's brand of carefree can leech into my veins, dilute the poison of obsession and yearning. Maybe I won't even need to get high.

"Perfect!" Her grin is infectious, and damn it, I feel my lips twitch in response. Who knew giving in to spontaneity could be less terrifying and more… thrilling?

My voice is casual as I slide my books into my bag, "There's a party this Friday. Interested in some real campus life initiation?"

Her eyes light up brighter than the strobe lights at those very parties. "Hell yes, I'm in! Do you think—?" She hesitates, biting her lip. It's an amateur move compared to my own perfected version. "Is it a football party?" She's fishing, her line baited with hope.

"Most likely. They usually show up and take over any event worth attending around here." I can't help but paint them in my mind—Lincoln at the center, his hair a stark contrast to the golden boys of the team, tattoos peeking out beneath his sleeves like art coming to play.

"Any of them single?" There's a tease in the way she speaks to me, but her interest smells as genuine as the desperation in a freshman during finals week.

"Pick one. They're like Pokémon; gotta catch ‘em all." I force a laugh, but inside, a coil unwinds. If she takes the bait, if she latches onto Lincoln's chiseled jawline and intense eyes, then maybe, just maybe, I can sever these gnarly roots of fixation that keep tripping me up.

"Then consider me Ash Ketchum." Nicole's grin is wide as she shoulders her bag, and I can't help but smirk back.

"Careful not to end up with a Psyduck." As we weave through the corridors, I feel lighter, a sense of relief seeping through me like whiskey on an empty stomach—warm, intoxicating, dangerous. With any luck, Nicole's charm will snag Lincoln's attention, and I can vanish into the background, fade away until I'm just Iris Shelby, future law student, not Iris, Lincoln Blackwood's favorite chew toy.

"Thanks for the invite, Iris. Really," Nicole says, sincerity threading her words together.

"Don't thank me yet," I warn her, half-joking. "You haven't seen St. Charles' wild side."

"Looking forward to it." Her excitement is palpable.

"Good," I say, but my mind is already racing ahead, to the night when bodies press close, music throbs against skin, and Lincoln is just another face in the crowd—not the ghost that haunts my every restless moment.