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She held up her fist and Trystan hesitated for a second before pounding it awkwardly.
“Is Iris home?” he asked, feeling like a child calling at his friend’s house and asking if they could come out and play.
“Iris? No. She’s not. She left early this morning. Said something about going to her parents’ place. Why don’t you try there? So this is it, huh? You’re finally grand-gesturing?”
“What?” Trystan asked, wanting to get the hell out of here now that he knew Iris wasn’t home, but not wanting to be rude to her flatmate. He was trying to mend fences here. Alienating her friends wouldn’t be the way to do so.
“You know? Like at the end of every romcom when the guy—or girl—runs barefoot through the city, to the airport, bus station, train station, wherever… and proclaims his, or her, or their, love to the object of their affection? I must say as grand gestures go, merely knocking on her front door is a bit of a letdown.”
“She’s at her parents’ place?”
“Yep. Nice to meet you, by the way, I’m Nora. I’m not into movies all that much, but yours aren’t that bad. Night of the Killer Wetas was bitching. My mates and I have a viewing every Halloween. We’re all allocated different roles and recite the lines while watching.”
It sounded fucking horrendous.
“Yeah? Maybe I’ll join in on the next one and read Adam’s lines,” he offered—Adam was his character in the movie—and cringed inwardly when her face lit up. Shit. Well, he might as well try and ingratiate himself to the people within Iris’s most intimate circle. It could all form part of his not-at-all-thought-through Grand Gesture.
“That’s cool, man. You’re not too bad. I hope she takes you back. Although… I can’t say I’m hopeful.”
Neither was Trystan. But after her last message, which he’d seen two who days after she’d posted it, he had to try.
“Iris, we need refills on the dolmades and spanakopita. They’re flying,” Jason Hughes called across the bustling kitchen. It was organized chaos. Everybody knew their place and worked together like a well-oiled machine. Iris, who hadn’t helped out since before leaving for South Africa, had simply slotted back into the flow of things, familiar with the routine and the rest of the kitchen and waitstaff.
She was getting stares and a few rushed questions about him though, but for the most part she’d simply kept her head down and got the work done. There was some tension between Robbie and his girlfriend, Chloe, or Khlo—with a K and a haich—a seventeen-year-old with thick smudged black eyeliner around her vibrant blue eyes and badly dyed straight, limp black hair. She was constantly chewing gum and popping bubbles, which was both annoying and unhygienic. Iris’s father had reprimanded the surly girl several times about the bubblegum, and each time she made a big, sulky show of spitting it out, but the discarded gum was always replaced with a fresh stick mere minutes later.
Robbie kept staring at her like a sad little whipped puppy. They’d clearly had an argument and Khlo was giving him the cold shoulder. It was pretty pathetic watching her lanky brother trail after the girl. He insisted on doing her work, and she wanted nothing to do with him, which meant that neither teen’s work was being done and the rest of the team had to pick up the slack. Iris could tell that her father was getting annoyed by the way he constantly barked orders—uncharacteristic of him—at the pair of them.
Speaking of which… a kerfuffle broke out at the dessert workstation.
“Let me,” Robbie pleaded, trying to grab a tray of kataifi from Khlo.
“No,” the girl protested. “I can do it myself.”
“Khlo… you…” She made a sharp movement away from him and the kataifi went flying off the tray in all directions.
Everybody froze for an instant and all eyes flew to Jason Hughes. Normally mild-mannered and an awesome boss, the man had zero tolerance when it came to incompetence in his kitchen.
Iris watched her father’s jaw clench in that familiar way that said he was trying very, very hard to rein in his temper, and she winced.
“Robinson Burke Hughes,” Uh oh, full name. Robbie was in deep shit now. “You and Chloe need to clean up that mess and then I want you out of this kitchen. You’ve both been useless today anyway!”
“But Dad,” Robbie began, in his whiny I’m-so-misunderstood voice.
“No buts. We’ll have to make do without you.”
“Mum…” Robbie tried, swinging his gaze over to their mother who stood with her arms folded over her chest, her expression entirely unsympathetic.
“You heard your father. Clean this up and go home—straight home—right now.”
Khlo glared at Robbie who gave her a surly look in return.
“You made the mess,” she said stubbornly. “You clean it up!”
Oh bravo, Iris heartily agreed with that sentiment. Robbie was wholly responsible for the mess. He should have left Khlo alone when she gave him clear signals that she was angry with him. Iris would have a talk with her little brother later about respecting a woman’s boundaries. If her parents didn’t get to him first.
Khlo whipped off her white apron before flouncing out of the kitchen, nimbly sidestepping the sticky mounds of ruined kataifi scattered all over the floor. This was definitely not how Jason and Rosa Hughes ran their kitchen.
“F’fuck’s sake,” Robbie muttered beneath his breath and Iris grimaced. Their mother did not condone profanity. Even Robbie froze after saying it and slanted the woman a wary glance. Her expression had gone murderous. He uttered a hasty sorry and, showing more wisdom than Iris had ever given him credit for, meekly bent to clean up the sticky mess on the floor.
