A laugh burst out of Simon. He slapped a hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he said through his fingers. “It’s just . . . wow. Talk about a hell of a meet-cute.”
“I didn’t mind the puke,” Iris said. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t the best of times, but she couldn’t help it. She was clearly mortified, and I was happy to help. But yeah, it wasn’t the greatest hookup I’ve ever had.”
“Yeah, but now you’ve got an amazing start to your novel,” Simon said, then spread his hands out like he was displaying a title. “Tegan McKee Doesn’t Vomit.”
“You know, sometimes I wonder why we’re friends.”
He just laughed even harder.
Iris tried to laugh too, but the memory was still too visceral. She had no idea where she and Stefania had gone wrong. Maybe the woman really had been sick, but two days after tangling tongues, Iris still felt fine. The real conclusion to draw here was that Stefania couldn’t stomach sleeping with Iris.
Literally.
“It’s fine,” Iris said, waving a hand. “It is funny, I guess. Maybe in about twenty years, when my pride has recovered and I learn how to use my tits for good and not evil, I’ll laugh too.”
That just made Simon laugh harder.
“What’s this about your evil tits?” Delilah said. She and Claire approached the table, holding hands and looking like they just spent a weekend under the spell of a forty-eight-hour orgasm.
Then again, they probably had.
“Oh, nothing,” Iris said. “Just a hookup gone bad.”
“Jesus, I’m so glad those days are over,” Delilah said, settling one ankle on her gray-jeaned knee and leaning back as she perused the menu. Her dark curly hair was particularly voluminous today. “I used to hate leaving in the middle of the night. That was the worst.”
“You? I’m shocked you didn’t stay and cuddle,” Iris said.
Delilah flipped her off.
“I don’t see how you do it, Ris,” Claire said, sipping on her water. She had on a sky-blue sundress and cognac sandals. “I was always terrible at one-night stands.”
“Because you’re so good at forever-night stands,” Delilah said, leaning over to kiss Claire’s neck.
Claire giggled, and the two commenced whispering to each other and kissing.
Iris caught Simon’s eye and he made a face like he was going to puke.
“Don’t,” Iris said. “I’ve had enough of that.”
He busted up laughing again. Meanwhile, Claire and Delilah remained oblivious. Iris couldn’t help but smile at them, despite their saccharine display of affection.
“Hey, we’re here, we’re here,” Astrid said, hurrying toward the table in a pair of wide-legged linen pants and a loose black tank top, pulling Jordan Everwood by the hand behind her. Jordan, as usual, was clad in a printed button-up shirt, this one featuring tiny yellow suns. “Sorry we’re late. Explosion in the kitchen.”
“A food explosion while trying out a sauce recipe,” Jordan said, sitting down and smoothing a hand down Astrid’s arm. “Our new intern turned on the blender without the lid.”
“Yikes,” Simon said.
“Pumpkin puree everywhere,” Astrid said. “Even on the ceiling.”
“And in your hair,” Iris said, reaching over and plucking a piece of soggy pumpkin from Astrid’s shaggy blond locks.
“Oh god,” Astrid said, raking a hand over her head.
Jordan laughed. “It’s okay, baby, we’ll get it out in the shower later.”
Astrid blushed, twining her fingers with Jordan’s. Iris, for her part, was quite proud that she refrained from teasing her cotillion-trained best friend about bathing with another person.
“Let’s order, shall we?” she said instead.
“Yes, let’s,” Simon said brightly, probably eager to get off the topic of his twin sister’s sex life.
The server—a woman named Bria with a gold hoop in her nose—took their order for a pitcher of Bloody Marys, duck confit eggs Benedict, mixed fruit, and a basket of Astrid’s freshly baked blueberry oat muffins.
“So,” Claire said lightly after Bria left. “We have some news.” She looked at Delilah, her cheeks going red.
“Oh?” Astrid said, but something about the way she said that one syllable word made Iris think she already knew.
And Iris realized that she knew too. Her gut did, at least. Of course, they had all talked about Delilah and Claire getting married. Everyone knew it was going to happen. Iris had even conspired with Delilah about what sort of ring Claire would want—vintage yellow diamond surrounded by smaller stones, platinum band—but Iris had no idea Delilah was actually planning to pop the question.
Her throat went all achy and her chest felt suddenly tight like she was about to cry. She reached under the table and grabbed Simon’s hand. It was the only thing she could think to do, the only person she could hold on to right now so she didn’t float away.
He tilted his head at her, but she just smiled.
Smile, smile, smile.
“Well,” Claire said. She took Delilah’s hand, kissed her fingers. Iris could swear Delilah’s eyes were actually glistening. The whole scene was so sweet, Iris felt a surge of affection for all of them, even as her grip on Simon tightened.
“I asked Delilah to marry me,” Claire said, her eyes on her fiancée, “and she said yes.”
The table erupted in shouts and cheers. Astrid clapped and leaned over to kiss Claire’s cheek. Jordan squeezed Delilah’s shoulder. And Iris . . .
Iris promptly burst into tears.
“Oh, honey,” Claire said, getting up and hurrying over to Iris.
Simon tried to squeeze her hand tighter, but she yanked it out of his grasp. “Shit,” she said, grabbing a napkin and pressing it to her eyes.
“Sweetie, are you all right?” Claire asked, now kneeling next to her.
Iris fluttered her napkin around. Everyone was staring at her, eyes wide, mouths open. “I’m fine. I’m just happy!” She hooked her arm around Claire’s neck and pulled her in for a tight hug, forcing herself to get her shit together.
Iris had never been that little girl who dreamed of her wedding day. She’d never played with dolls as a kid, rocking tiny bald plastic babies to sleep. She’d never envisioned wearing white and walking down the aisle. Of course, she knew how monumental the Marriage Equality Act was, that people like her weren’t always able to spend the rest of their lives with their partner, legally speaking, anyway. And she wanted that for every queer person in her life who wanted it for themselves.
She wanted it for Delilah and Claire.
And while Iris prided herself on being the best kind of friend, she couldn’t help but feel a tiny swell of fear at how everything was changing. How her two best friends were experiencing something—and were going to continue to experience all sorts of things with marriage and family and kids—that Iris wasn’t going to be a part of.
She was the single friend.
And she always would be.
Iris wasn’t built for long-term. She’d been with Grant, her ex, for three years. She’d loved him and he’d loved her, but in the end, they’d broken it off because Grant wanted kids. Lots of them. He wanted a wedding in a church and matching Christmas sweaters for holiday pictures and a front porch crawling with grandkids someday.
Iris didn’t.
And while their parting was amicable and she’d agreed wholeheartedly as he explained that they wanted different things, that he needed to follow his own dream, there was a part of the whole experience that left her feeling like there was something inherently wrong with her.
Like she wasn’t the right kind of woman.
Then there was Jillian, who ended up being married—and not in an ethically nonmonogamous sort of way—a fact Iris only discovered when their phones had gotten mixed up and Lucy, Jillian’s wife, had called trying to locate her. A call Iris had answered. Jillian had used Iris, lied to her, and while none of that was Iris’s fault, she’d had a hard time shaking off the aftereffects of being an unwitting mistress.