She’d seen her press in close.
She’d seen her rest her chin on Stevie’s shoulder.
Which was all fine.
Whatever was going on between Stevie and Adri, it was complicated. Iris knew it wasn’t really about her—it was about six years of emotions and togetherness, and there was no way Iris could really relate to that.
There was no way Iris could compete with that.
Not that she was even trying. She was here to help Stevie. She was here for a play, a play Iris herself wanted to do.
After she came back inside the room and closed the sliding balcony door, she decided to focus on Beatrice. She washed up and then settled in her tiny twin bed and tried to read through the revised script Adri had given her before dinner. But she couldn’t concentrate. She kept seeing Stevie, wondering about Stevie, worrying about Stevie. Finally, she tossed her script aside and took out her iPad, opening up a folder now labeled “S & I.”
In the last week, she’d been drawing a lot. She’d written a lot too, her novel finally taking on somewhat of a shape, enough that she could breathe a little bit when thinking about her deadline. But she had a lot of illustrations too—a scene of Iris tucking Stevie into her bed the night they met, the shock of seeing each other at the Empress, their conversation backstage. The Belmont. Her friends’ incredulous expressions as she introduced them to Stevie.
Their lessons that night.
She nearly opened up that file, her finger hovering, her mind already re-creating their mouths on each other, Stevie’s fingertips as she dragged Iris’s bra straps down her arms.
But she didn’t.
In fact, she hadn’t gone back to review any of the scenes she’d drawn, and she couldn’t really explain why. She started a new file and started sketching Stevie sitting on the beach, alone, a closer view than Iris could actually see. She drew the details of her hair, curls in the wind, the uncertain roll in her shoulders. She was deep into adding details to the twilit ocean when the door opened, revealing Stevie in the doorway.
Iris honestly hadn’t expected Stevie to come back to their room tonight, but seeing her here now, she couldn’t stop the flare of . . . something in her chest.
Relief?
Confusion?
Maybe both.
Iris let herself exhale, told herself she was just glad to know Stevie was safe.
“Hey,” she said, clicking her iPad to dark and sitting up in bed as Stevie closed the door. “You okay?”
Stevie looked at her. Really looked at her. Her hair was a mess—wind-tossed and frizzy from the humidity, and her cheeks were a little red. Stevie didn’t wear makeup, so there were no telltale mascara streaks, but Iris could tell she’d been crying.
“What happened?” Iris asked.
Stevie shook her head and came to sit on the end of Iris’s bed. Iris pulled her feet up to make room.
“Nothing,” Stevie said. She was breathing heavily, her fingers shaking.
“Hey.” Iris reached out and tangled their fingers together, an instinct. “It’s okay. Just take a breath.”
“I’m fine,” she said, pulling her hand back. “I’m fine. Really. Do you think we could have a lesson?”
Her words were coming fast; so fast it took Iris a second to register them.
“A lesson,” she said.
Stevie nodded. Tears glimmered in her eyes. “I need one.”
“Now?”
“Yes, fucking now.”
Iris reared back. “Okay, what’s going on?”
Stevie swiped at her eyes. “Nothing. Everything. I don’t know. I just know that I have to move on. I have to move on now, and if I don’t figure out how to be with someone else, I’m going to . . . Adri and I will . . .”
The tears spilled over, and Iris scooted closer to her. “Hey. Just stop for a second.”
“No,” Stevie said, standing up. She crossed her arms, her whole body vibrating with . . . what? Iris couldn’t really tell. Energy, sure, but there was something else there. Something that looked like panic.
Iris shoved her covers back and stood up too. “Stevie. Let’s just slow down.”
“I don’t need to slow down, Iris. If I slow down, I’ll think, and if I think, I’ll never go through with it. I’ll talk myself out of it, like I talk myself out of everything that scares the shit out of me, and then I’ll be stuck. Or worse, I’ll go back to someone who doesn’t even want to actually be with me because . . . I don’t even know why. Because it’s easy, because it’s safe.”
She stepped closer to Iris, slid her hands up Iris’s arms. “What’s my next lesson? We can do something super romantic tomorrow, okay? But can we . . . for tonight . . .”
She trailed off and Iris shifted to take her hands, lacing their fingers together. She stared at Stevie and Stevie stared back, and goddammit, Iris wished she could give Stevie what she thought she wanted.
But she couldn’t.
Call it lessons, call it preparation or exposure therapy or whatever the hell they wanted, but it was still physical, bodies pressing together, impossible to separate completely from the mind, and Iris couldn’t do that with Stevie shaking like this. She couldn’t do it with tear tracks on Stevie’s cheeks.
“Stevie,” she said gently, tugging on her hands. “Come sit with me.”
Stevie shook her head, didn’t move. “Iris, please.”
Iris sighed. “We’re not doing that tonight. I’m sorry, but not like this.”
Stevie’s expression fell and she pulled her hands free. “Not like what?”
“Not with you this upset. Let’s just talk, okay? Or go to sleep. It’s been a long day, and I think you just need to—”
“Fuck, you too?” Stevie’s tone was sharp.
“Me too what?” Iris asked.
“Someone else telling me what to do, telling me what’s right for me. Because Stevie’s just a useless sack of skin on her own, right?”
“What?” She reached for Stevie’s hand, but Stevie stepped back. “No, that’s not—”
“Forget it,” Stevie said. She hauled her suitcase onto the other bed and unzipped it.
“Stevie, hang on. Talk to me.”
But Stevie didn’t answer. She simply grabbed her toiletry bag and disappeared into the bathroom. A few minutes later, the shower turned on, and Iris was left standing in the middle of a room in Malibu, wondering if she and her fake girlfriend had just broken up.
IRIS COULDN’T SLEEP.
Normally, she slept like a baby, nothing to keep her up, nothing to keep her heart and mind churning deep into the night. But now she felt too hot, then five minutes after kicking off her covers, the ceiling fan set her skin to shivering.
She didn’t seem to be the only one having a hard time, as Stevie kept shifting around on her bed too, flopping onto her back to stare into space, then onto her side, facing away from Iris.
Well past midnight, Iris was still awake to see Stevie sit up and take a deep, shaky breath. Iris didn’t move, lying on her side and watching as Stevie fiddled with a loose string on her sheet in the moonlit dark, the ocean a quiet lullaby outside their open balcony door.
Finally, Stevie turned to look at Iris.
Their eyes locked and Iris felt her breath catch. Stevie looked wrecked. Small and scared and exhausted, so Iris didn’t even stop to think through what she was doing when she propped herself up on one elbow and peeled her covers back. She shifted to the left, placing her hand on the now open space in her tiny bed.
Stevie followed her movements, only hesitated for a moment. She got out of her own bed, wearing a thin tank top and black boxers with a rainbow waistband, and slid in beside Iris.
She laid down immediately on her side, tucking both hands under her head, her back to Iris. Iris waited for a beat, just to make sure Stevie really wanted to be there, before she covered them both with the sheet.
Iris settled on the mattress slowly, her front pressing inevitably to Stevie’s back in the small space. Stevie was warm, her breathing calm and even, and she smelled like the sea, like sun and salt and something else uniquely Stevie.
“Is this okay?” Iris said quietly as she wrapped her arms around Stevie. There was simply no other place for her arms to go.