Iris speared her last strawberry with her fork. “Isn’t New York the theater capital of the world?”
Stevie licked her bottom lip, looked out the window. “Ren’s always pushing me to move there. Or somewhere. But . . . I don’t know.”
“That’s a big step,” Iris said.
“Yeah,” Stevie said, turning to look at her. “It is. Maybe too big for me.”
Iris frowned. “I don’t think so. I think you could—”
“Can I have a bite of your moon pie?”
Iris nodded, then pushed over her plate. She took a bite of Stevie’s chocolate mint moon pie, and soon they were on to other topics, other things that were clearly easier to talk about for both of them, which was exactly how Iris liked it.
She had to admit, it was a perfect date.
A date she wasn’t sure she could actually re-create on paper, because she could barely make sense of it herself. As they walked back to Iris’s apartment, she felt overwhelmed, like she needed to cry or scream or pull Stevie immediately into her arms and kiss her senseless.
When they reached her apartment door, she settled on the last option. She needed to un-romanticize this night a little, help her heart return to its usual rhythm. Sex would do the trick, and Iris would be lying if she said she hadn’t imagined getting Stevie back into her bed a million times in the last couple of days.
So she kissed Stevie at her door.
Pulled her into her arms and slid her hands down Stevie’s ass, pressing her leg between her thighs so Stevie would know exactly what she was thinking.
But Stevie pulled away, resting her hands on Iris’s hips.
“Still too much?” Iris asked, looking up at Stevie through her lashes.
“That’s not what tonight was about, Iris,” Stevie said, her expression soft yet serious.
“I know that,” Iris said, laughing. “But don’t most romantic dates end with a nice round of fucking?”
Stevie flinched, but just barely. In fact, Iris thought maybe she’d imagined it as Stevie’s expression smoothed out, head canted as she watched Iris. Finally, she smiled, leaned in, and kissed Iris lightly on the mouth—once . . . twice—before stepping back and shoving her hands in her pockets. She walked backward toward the stairs.
“Good night, Iris,” she said, then turned around and was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
IRIS KELLY WAS at the end of her rope.
For the last two weeks, she had gone on more “dates” with Stevie than Grant had taken her on the entire last year they were together.
They went to dinner in Portland.
They went to brunch in Bright Falls.
They went to a winery in the Willamette Valley, a day trip that ended with Iris so sloshed, she didn’t even remember how she ended up tucked into her bed.
They played boozy mini-golf at Birdie’s with her friends.
They took a hike through Lower Macleay Park to the Pittock Mansion, Stevie’s legs completely covered in bug bites by the time they reached their destination.
Most recently, Stevie had shown up at Iris’s apartment at ten o’clock at night, blankets and pillows in her hands, so they could watch a lunar eclipse from the roof of Iris’s building.
And after each and every date, Stevie kissed Iris on the mouth and said good night.
That was it.
She never even tried to slide into second base, much less cop a feel below the waist. By mid-July, just two weeks before Much Ado opened at the Empress, Iris was ready to pull every single hair out of her body. She had more than enough content for her book, her progress with her cranky vintner and cinnamon roll wine critic inching toward the last act at this point. Still, Stevie kept asking her out, kept driving her crazy with slow dances in the middle of the forest and on hole eighteen.
And Iris, inexplicably, kept saying yes.
“Winner!” a man cried from inside a lit booth, plucking a plush purple frog from the row of stuffed animals and handing it to Stevie.
They were at the Bright Falls Summer Fair, an annual event that included a fluorescent Ferris wheel and a rickety Tilt-A-Whirl, games and cotton candy and corn dogs, vendors selling local honey and handmade jewelry and art out of cloth-draped booths.
“For you,” Stevie said, presenting the frog to Iris. She’d just looped three rings in a row around old 7-Up bottles, winning Iris the prize.
“Forever grateful,” Iris deadpanned, taking the frog. “What should I name her?”
“Peppa.”
“I think that’s a pig.”
“Okay, Wilbur.”
Iris laughed. “She’s a frog.”
Stevie laced their fingers together, kissed Iris on the back of the hand. “Says who? Her identity is her own.”
Iris smiled and stuffed the frog under her arm. They walked along the crowd, people waving at Iris every so often, and a silence fell over them that caused Iris’s heart rate to pick up.
This had been happening a lot lately, the closer they got to Much Ado’s opening night. The play would run for the month of August, and then . . .
Her deal with Stevie would be done.
They’d have no reason to keep up their charade, and Iris didn’t think she could take many more of these dates anyway. They were fun, sure, but they were also confusing, leaving Iris scribbling out each encounter on her iPad late into the night, analyzing every word the next day, tormenting herself over why Stevie didn’t seem to want to sleep with her again.
She knew she had to bring up their inevitable end. They had no exit strategy so far, no plan for how they’d break up their fake relationship for Stevie’s friends and the play’s cast and crew. She knew Stevie always did better with a plan, even if the idea of everything just stopping made Iris uncomfortable in a way she couldn’t explain.
“Hey, you two!” Claire called from River Wild’s booth. She and Ruby were working, selling the summer’s hottest reads for the store. Delilah was around here somewhere, taking photos for a National Geographic project she was working on—a book about liberal small towns—and Astrid and Jordan were both working at the Everwood Inn tonight, as they were fully booked with visitors for the fair.
“Hey,” Iris said, pulling her hand away from Stevie’s and kissing Claire and then Ruby on the cheek. “Selling a lot?”
“Oh, yeah, summer romances,” Claire said holding up a yellow paperback. “This one’s about fake dating and a bisexual disaster. Selling like hot cakes.” Here she winked at Stevie, a move she didn’t even try to hide from Iris, and Stevie cleared her throat, making a pretty huge show of inspecting a book on the flora and fauna of Central Oregon.
“Okay,” Iris said. “What am I missing?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Claire said, waving a hand.
“I think she’s calling you a bisexual disaster, Aunt Iris,” Ruby said.
Stevie choked, hitting her chest with her fist, and Iris popped her hands on her hips.
“Oh, your mother is one to talk,” she said to Ruby. “Let me tell you a little story about a cranky photographer and a little bet that she—”
“Okay, okay,” Claire said, literally pressing her hand to Iris’s mouth. “She knows the story.”
“Clearly not,” Iris said when Claire released her.
Claire just shook her head.
“Isn’t Stevie your fake girlfriend?” Ruby asked.
“Yes,” Iris said, pulling Stevie in close. “Yes, she is.”
Ruby just frowned, those hazel eyes she got from her father, Josh, narrowing in on Stevie. “Still? Even after—”
“Ruby, honey,” Claire said, “text your dad for me, will you? See if he’s still coming to pick you up tomorrow at nine.”
“Hang on,” Iris said, glancing at Stevie before frowning at Ruby. “After what?”
Ruby just shrugged. “Like, you know, all the wooing and—”
“Ruby,” Claire snapped. “Go. Text. Your father.”
Ruby rolled her eyes, then stomped off to the back of the booth, her phone in her hands.
“Teenagers,” Claire said, laughing, but Iris wasn’t looking at Claire.
“What is she talking about?” she asked Stevie. “Wooing?”
Stevie and Claire looked at each other, a quick glance and then away, but it was enough to set Iris on edge.
“Okay, someone better tell me what the fuck is going on right the hell now,” Iris said.