“Iris.”
There’s a hand on my shoulder, giving me a soft shake.
Drowsy, my eyes slowly open and I frown, confused, looking around.
But when I see who it is, I sigh, and press my eyes shut again, and turn over in the bed. “Go away, Christian.”
“Iris,” he says again, sterner this time, a sigh on his voice. “Come on, wake up. I know you didn’t eat anything and we have to talk.”
“How do you know I didn’t eat anything,” I mutter, pissed and wishing I was asleep again – a state in which I wasn’t so mad, where I didn’t have to think of the crap realities of this life.
“Because,” he says, a little humor in his voice now. “Frankie said you took a plate upstairs. And I saw – and smelled – that plate all over the floor a little further down the hallway.”
Something about how he says this makes
