*Excerpt*
Iris Barton learns that there is 'life after divorce' when she embarks on a journey of self-discovery. With her five-year-old son in tow, she begins to pick up the pieces that her cheating husband left behind. Her shattered confidence lies...
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After hauling umpteen rolls of fabric into Iris’s cramped dining room, I ambled around the labyrinth of boxes to find my way to the kitchen. The layout of her house mirrored mine, but they had their differences and unique quirks that set them apart. This house had been modernised, whereas mine had all the original features, cast-iron fireplace, and working chimney. Her landlord had put in French doors that open out onto the garden, plastered the walls, and replaced the fireplace with an electric one, just for aesthetics.
“Would you like a cup of tea or coffee, Liam?” Iris called out.
I followed the hissing sound of the kettle boiling and then found her arranging mugs on the countertop.
“Tea, please. No sugar,” I replied, having already had my morning caffeine fix.
“Ahh, a fellow tea drinker. I’m sorry the place is in such a mess,” she excused. “You never know how much junk you have until you move houses.”
She turned and handed me a mug of hot tea, and I thanked her. Iris tucked her auburn hair behind her ear, her blush staining her pale skin a rosy shade of red and turning her ears pink. She had the look of a Celtic princess, a true Irish beauty with curly hair and freckles. Maybe she had Irish roots and would explain my attraction. This wasn’t like me; my palms shouldn’t be sweating like a schoolboy, but they were, and my heart rattled inside my chest like a pebble in a tin can. I could thank her for the tea and leave, go back to my workout and pretend I wasn’t interested. But my feet refused to budge, and I was standing there, thinking of a way to talk to her without letting my guard down. The sleeves of her chunky cardigan partially cover her hands so that her long pale fingers were poking out—she’s vulnerable too, and the knitted wool and the pottery mug she’s holding in front of her won’t protect her from getting her heart broken again. Our guards are up on both sides of the invisible wall. She’s not looking at me as if she wants to jump my bones; she’s just looking at me like I’m an average Joe. It’s enough for me to feel a spark. This is it. She’s genuine, just like I hoped she’d be.
“Where did you move from?” I asked, making conversation.
Iris curled her fingers around the mug, leaning back against the kitchen counter. Her cardigan hung from her slender shoulders as if it was two sizes too big, either that or she’d lost weight. The dark circles around her eyes suggested she hadn’t been sleeping so well. She bore the stains of stress like a woman who was plagued with worry. I mirrored her stance, facing her on the opposite side of the counter. Boxes cluttered the small table and chairs, taking up the space. That was the worst part of moving—the upheaval. There was no indication that a male lived here other than her son—I checked. But I did spot a white mark on her wedding finger where the ring ought to have been. I wanted to ask her if she was seeing someone, but it didn’t seem appropriate. It was none of my business; I was just her neighbour. The indelicate question pivoted on the tip of my tongue though, threatening to slip out and reveal my intention. Despite my distrust of the opposite sex, I craved the company of a good woman. I missed having someone to do nothing with. Someone to come home to. Talk to. And form a deeper connection with instead of just fucking.
