We Loved Until We Couldn’t Novel – Chapter 4
He smiles. “It’s Adrian,” he says. “Dr. Adrian Voss.”
I sigh, sinking into myself. “That’s a really great name.”
“Why do you sound sad about it?”
“Because I’d give anything for a great name.”
“You don’t like the name Iris?”
I tilt my head and cock an eyebrow. “My last name… is Hale.”
He’s quiet. I can feel him trying not to pity me.
“I know. It’s awful. It sounds like the name of a fairytale heroine, not a twenty-three-year-old woman.”
“A name doesn’t lose its meaning with age,” he says simply. “It grows with you. Names aren’t something we outgrow, Iris Hale.”
“Unfortunately for me,” I mutter. “But what makes it worse is that I love gardening. Flowers. Plants. Growing things. It’s my passion. It’s always been my dream to open a flower shop — but I’m afraid people would think it’s too on the nose. Like I’m trying to capitalize on my name instead of following a genuine dream.”
“Maybe so,” he says, “but what does that matter?”
“It doesn’t, I suppose.” I whisper, half to myself, “Iris Hale’s Flowers…”
I can see him smiling faintly.
“It really is a great name for a florist,” I admit. “But I have a master’s degree in business. Opening a little flower shop feels like a downgrade, don’t you think? I work for the biggest marketing firm in Boston.”
“Owning your own business isn’t a downgrade,” he says.
I arch an eyebrow. “Unless it flops.”
He nods in agreement. “Unless it flops,” he repeats, grinning. “So what’s your middle name, Iris Hale?”
I groan, which makes him perk up. “You mean it gets worse?”
I drop my head in my hands and nod. “Rose?”
I shake my head. “Worse.”
“Violet?”
“I wish.” I cringe and mutter, “Blossom.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then he says softly, “Goddamn.”
“Yeah. Blossom was my mother’s maiden name, and my parents thought it was fate that their last names were synonyms. So of course, when they had me, a flower name was their first choice.”
“Your parents must’ve been real comedians.”
“One of them was,” I say quietly. “The other… not so much. My father died this week.”
He glances at me. “Nice try. I’m not falling for that.”
“I’m serious. That’s why I came up here tonight. I think I just needed a good cry.”
He studies me for a moment, as if testing whether I’m telling the truth. He doesn’t apologize for the misunderstanding — instead, his eyes soften, curious now, genuine.
“Were you close?”
That’s a hard question. I rest my chin on my arms and look down at the street again.
“I don’t know,” I say with a shrug. “As his daughter, I loved him. But as a human being, I hated him.”
He watches me quietly for a while, then says, “I like that. Your honesty.”
He likes my honesty. I can feel heat rising to my cheeks.
We’re both silent for a long moment. Then he asks, “Do you ever wish people were more transparent?”
“How so?”
He picks at a piece of chipped stucco with his thumb until it breaks loose, then flicks it over the ledge.
“I feel like everyone fakes who they are,” he says. “When deep down, we’re all equal amounts of screwed up. Some of us are just better at hiding it than others.”
Either his high is setting in, or he’s just very introspective. Either way, I don’t mind. My favorite conversations are the ones with no clear answers.
“I don’t think being a little guarded is a bad thing,” I say. “Naked truths aren’t always pretty.”
He stares at me for a moment. “Naked truths,” he repeats. “I like that.”
He turns and walks toward the middle of the rooftop. Adjusting the back of one of the patio loungers, he lowers himself onto it. It’s the kind you recline on, so he folds his hands behind his head and looks up at the sky.
I claim the lounger next to him and adjust it until I’m lying back the same way.
“Tell me a naked truth, Iris,” he says.
“Pertaining to what?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Something you’re not proud of. Something that’ll make me feel a little less screwed up on the inside.”