“It’s so much pressure being a star,” he said with faux exasperation. He rose, then leaned down to kiss my cheek before leaving the room.

I raised my eyebrows at Iris, who was grinning from ear to ear.

“What?” she asked as Merit disappeared.

“You are not allowed to have a crush on your mommune brother,” I whispered.

She scrunched her nose. “Do not ever, ever call him that again, please.”

“Fine,” I said. “But you understand what I’m saying.” I pointed at her bed and said, “And you two in each other’s rooms needs to end.”

“I wish Merit wanted to be in my room like that,” Iris said. “But I’m sorry, have you seen his girlfriend?”

I tried not to make a face. I had. With all her extensions and fake eyelashes and push-up bras. Shouldn’t one be a little older before she was laced with so much self-loathing that she had to totally change her appearance? But I was old, so what did I know?

“She is perfect,” Iris sighed, flopping herself back on the pillow.

What I loved, in this moment, was the resilience of teenagers. She had gone to visit her father in jail and had probably had one of the most traumatic days of her young life, but could still be most upset about her crush’s beautiful girlfriend.

“You, my darling, are perfect. And comparison is the thief of joy. Don’t get caught in that trap.” I paused, then whispered, “And stay away from Merit! You are playing with fire.”

She wriggled her eyebrows at me, and I tossed a pillow at her. “Fine, fine,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I’ll try to keep him from throwing himself at me. He’s so gross.”

We both laughed. “You okay? Seriously?”

She nodded. “Just tired.”

“I’m here,” I said. “One a.m., four in the afternoon. If you need a listening ear or a piece of advice—or someone to talk some sense into you about older boys,” I teased—“I’m always here.”

She smiled and leaned back on her pillow. “I know.”

“Good.”

I got up from the bed and turned out the light.

“Sweet dreams,” I whispered.

“Sweet dreams.”

But I knew I wouldn’t sleep. Instead, I walked outside, onto the beach, and watched the moon, the way it shone silvery and almost eerily beautiful on the water. I thought about Elliott. About our walk on the beach this week. About the coffee we’d sipped together. About how he wordlessly slipped into the pew beside me at morning prayer. No expectations.

I looked up at the stars and, as I usually did, thought about Jeremy, wondered if he was out there somewhere, if he could see me, hear me, feel me. And, maybe most of all, I wondered if, wherever he was, he could ever forgive me for moving on.

Iris Screw, Murder, Marry