Black Iris

Breathe normally

Iris

"Are you ok? Do you need a... hand or something?"

The voice pulled me back to earth, drawing me out of the slump I was in. I was curled next to a doorway in the dank alleyway I had hid in when running from Blake. The voice had come from the doorway, a young cafe worker holding a bag of trash, peering down at me with a look of disdain.

I sniffed and wiped my face. "Yes, sorry... I, sorry, I can go..."

Their face softened a bit. "Hey, it's okay. Do you need to call somebody? Or like... the police?"

I quickly shook my head. "No! I mean... yes, if I could call someone. But it's ok, I understand if..."

"No, it's fine. Come in, we're just closing up in about twenty minutes but as long as you're quick, my manager should be fine with it."

I nodded, and climbed to my feet, following the worker inside.

The coffee shop was nice, a bougie new place with concrete counters and dark grey walls. There was a sign beside the register that said only legal drugs here. It was pink.

"Hey Em, just letting this chick borrow the phone," the worker I was following called out, presumably speaking to the girl wiping down tables at the front of the shop. She glanced up then shrugged and kept wiping.

"It's just here," the worker said, pointing at a faux retro phone hanging on the wall. I was grateful, not wanting to switch my own back on and deal with the barrage of messages and calls.

"Thank you," I said. They glanced down at my shirt, a dress shirt I'd put on that morning, which was slightly torn from my tumble out the car.

Before they could voice concern, I picked up the phone and dialled the only number I knew off by heart.

It rang out, what felt like a ghostly echo in the empty store, then someone picked up.

"Hello?" Her familiar voice echoed. I bit my lip to bite back a sob.

Collecting myself, I spoke. "Hey, Ma, it's me."

"Evie," she breathed. "My baby, are you okay? There was a clip on the news, but it was blurry, no one knew-"

"I'm okay," I breathed. "Ma, I need you."

"Where are you? I'll come get you, mi vida."

I knew that she was upset when she started speaking Spanish. A childhood in the Midwest as the only child in a barcelonian immigrant family had trained her out of Spanish, and marrying a farmer from Colorado meant that the few words she still recalled only came out when she was particularly emotional. It used to upset me that she never felt safe speaking her parents language around us.

Now, I understood. Even when it was just Jackson and I, I never felt safe.

It wasn't the same, but also, it kind of was.

"I'm at a cafe," I said, looking at the worker, who was towel-drying some dishes beside me. They pointed at some business cards beside the till. I picked one up, "a place called Dose, on 321 south street."

There was a pause, then moms voice again. "Got it. I'll be there in half an hour. Hang tight, my love."

The drive into the city from my parents farm was easily over an hour. But I didn't say that. My mother when she was on a mission was a different woman.

"I love you," I choked out.

"I love you more than words, my Iris."

I felt a lump rise in my throat, and hung up before the sob escaped. I took a shallow breath and clenched my eyes shut.