David learned Iris used to nanny, but it’d been hell with school, and she didn’t need the money that badly. David learned she could get angry sometimes, about the strangest things. “I can’t stand girls who wear those fucking rubber boots.” The multicoloured boots, the boots with polka dots. “You are a grown woman,” she said. “Act like it.”

They fucked, a lot. Never in kinky-fun gonzo ways, just steadily in a bed, often early in the evening. David got lost in her body, her acres of hair, a hill of her above him. He wrapped her in his long arms every time and closed his eyes, ending with torsos fused, heads resting on upper backs. David liked to think about this the mornings after, him staring up at her, wrapping himself around her body before he closed his eyes and came. And he liked to think about being on the couch beforehand, when they’d stop making out and get up, like, Okay, who are we kidding, let’s go do this, and lead each other into the bedroom with filled bellies and staticky heads.

No memory would he ever recall of the sex that first night, though. Maybe he’d been too nervous or drunk. David was never much of a serious drinker, but boy, did he drink with Iris.

“We went through five bottles of wine last night?” Iris’s voice came from the kitchen.

“I guess we did.” David yawned, emerging from the bedroom to see Iris looking down, standing over the recycling in a thin brown sleep shirt. “Holy shit.”

“Because we had the two with dinner,” she continued. “And then we went to the Plaid and got two more. And then we found that red in the cabinet.”

“Well, we started at six,” he said timidly, fastening his robe. David was that kind of boy whose default attempt at comfort was a squeaky-voiced it’s-not-that-bad routine. He would’ve cooed in an earthquake. It was just how he’d always been. “And we went to bed at one?” he said. “That’s not too bad.”

“It’s still five bottles of wine,” she snapped. “Jesus, Iris.” She opened her dishwasher for mugs as the coffee burbled.

“Consider it a life well lived?”

“I am committed to decadence.” David’s eye caught on the bottles in the recycling. Lined up so neatly. He heard the sound of the fridge door. “But tonight, we’re eating kale! Only kale. Nothing but kale.”

It was later that night, when Iris was cooking, drinking sparkling water, and insisting on no help—“No way. You sit tight; Mama’s making a spread”—that David knew he had to tell her. He was sitting at the kitchen table in huge black jeans. Iris was all arms at the stove when his eyes fell to the curve of her stomach and he thought, Fuck.

He didn’t say it right then, though. David was not someone who could have consequential conversations unplanned. Capital-T Talks had to be internally scheduled and required anxious preparation. David did not understand chatting about feelings off the cuff. How could you take care to express your feelings truthfully if you didn’t think about them first?