Page 15 of Pretty Obsessed

He lifted his shoulders. "Maybe I won't be able to sing."

"You don't really want that." I took a moment to look at him. He seemed to have sobered up, and I hadn’t seen him sober in a long time. Strange. Maybe the walking was good for him.

"You know, there was a point in time I thought success was what I wanted, but it only served to intensify my misery."

I'd always wondered if his brain really put words together so poetically, or if he thought about them before he said them, letting them marinate until they were perfect.

No wonder his lyrics were so lovely and heartbreaking.

"You didn't answer." He slid his metal cigarette case from his pocket, extracting a joint from it and heading towards the expansive balcony.

The rain had cleared leaving the night crisp.

"No luck at all. Not like online stalking famous people is easy." I got up to follow, taking my laptop with me.

"Our fans make it look easy. Famous?” he asked.

"Touché." This time I took one of the seats that circled a small fire pit, next to the mini pool. “A writer.”

“The plot thickens.” Iris sat on the edge of the pool with his back to me.

"How was your walk?" I tried one last search, but all I could find was a PO Box in NYC. Had to be his agent's.

“Good. Helps when I can't sleep."

"When was the last time you slept?" I asked fearing the answer.

"Been a bit." He shrugged, holding up the joint for me.

I tossed the laptop aside and joined him next to the pool, rolling up my jeans to stick my legs in the cool water. "Nah, straight edge, remember?"

"Right, right. I didn't think weed counted."

"I don't know what counts anymore."

"You're really obsessed with finding this person, aren't you? This isn’t like you.”

"Not obsessed…" But wasn't I? We'd made out in a club, I should have been able to enjoy the situation and walk away, but I couldn't stop thinking about him. I wanted to call it something else, something less creepy, but maybe obsessed was the word for it.

"It's okay to be obsessed. Embrace it." Iris stripped off his boots and tried to push his skinny jeans higher on his legs.

A useless task. Those things were painted on him. He gave up, submerging his legs with them on.

"They probably write under a pen name. I searched it, but there isn't anything but press stuff."

Iris tapped his fingers on his knee, as if music ran through his mind all the time and he had to let it seep through the cracks so he didn't explode. He was always playing something with his hand. He let it build and build in his mind until it poured out of him in pure album form. I wrote some, but nothing like he did.

"Smart. I sometimes wish I'd used a pen name."

"Your name is too cool to change. Iris Black." I laughed. He really had been born to be a rockstar.

He rolled his eyes. "Have you thought about going back there?"

"Sure… Sure. You don't think they’d be there?"

"Didn't you say she wrote in the club?" Iris took another long drag then laid on his back, stubbing the joint out on the back of his hand without wincing.

I tried not to cringe every time Iris said ‘she.’ He must not have caught on to me using ‘they.’ Probably for the better.

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