She felt Stevie smile against her skin. “She hasn’t been too bad lately.”
“Only because she’s too busy planning for tonight. Last week, she told me my Beatrice was too sentimental. Can you believe that? I, Iris Kelly, have never been accused of such crimes.”
Stevie squeezed her tighter, slid a hand up to cup Iris’s bare breast. “Well, maybe my dashing and irresistible Benedick is having more of an effect on you than you thought.”
Iris turned in Stevie’s arms, tucking a wild curl behind her ear. “Maybe.”
“There are worse things in the world.”
“There are.” Iris leaned in to kiss her.
The kiss soon turned heated and desperate, and within fifteen minutes, they were gasping every breath, whispering yeah and fuck and god as their fingers rubbed each other’s centers until they both came fast and hard.
“Jesus, woman,” Iris said as she returned to herself. “I think I’ve lost five pounds since we started all this, just from the sex alone.”
Stevie laughed, sliding a hand down the outside of Iris’s soft thigh. “I’ll have to feed you some cake, then.”
“Astrid is a great baker, and my favorite is her caramel dark chocolate seven-layer.”
“Noted.”
Iris smiled, then grabbed her phone and glanced at the time. “Shit. What time did you tell Adri?”
Stevie groaned and flopped back on her pillow. “Noon. What time is it now?”
“Nearly eleven.”
“Yeah. I need to go pretty soon.”
Stevie had promised Adri that she’d help set up for the night’s dinner and auction, which was taking place in the private back room of Nadia’s, a swanky, queer-owned Portland restaurant not even a block from the Empress. Iris would join them later, but her deadline for Fiona’s edits was in two days, and she had to work a little this afternoon before heading over for the show.
“Hey,” Iris said before Stevie could escape the bed. “What’s next for you? I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
Stevie’s eyes went a little tight. “Next?”
“Yeah. After tonight, Much Ado is finished. Do you have any auditions lined up or plays you know are happening around the city?”
“Oh,” Stevie said, then pressed her mouth together.
“I know you don’t want to do community theater again,” Iris said, then nudged Stevie’s arm. “You do need to get paid.”
Stevie nodded, but just blinked up at the ceiling. She’d been doing this a lot lately, or at least, anytime they talked about the play, or the plays Stevie had done in the past, her dream roles and goals for the future. Iris was always the one to bring up Stevie’s career, and Stevie was usually the one to shut it down. Iris let her, because she understood the uncertainty of your next step—in the few months after closing down Paper Wishes, before she decided to give writing a try, she’d burned through her savings, a constant panic simmering just under her skin. Sure, Iris knew Stevie needed a plan, but she certainly didn’t want to insult Stevie’s abilities to figure out her own shit.
“I don’t know,” Stevie said quietly. “I guess we’ll see.” She heaved herself out of the bed, turned to kiss Iris on the forehead, then headed toward the shower.
IRIS WAS SITTING cross-legged on Stevie’s bed, completely entrenched in Tegan and Briony’s world, trying to figure out how to address Fiona’s note about Tegan’s too-weak motivations in the third act breakup, when there was a knock on the door.
At first, she ignored it. This wasn’t her apartment, and her brain was right on the cusp of a breakthrough, she could feel it. She knew not all romance readers liked the quintessential third act breakup, and Iris had read her share of novels that didn’t feature it and enjoyed the change immensely, but for her, she loved that drama-filled split. She loved the pain of it, the emotions, the obstacles the characters had to face in themselves and their relationship to truly be together, all of this followed by the couple’s blissful reconciliation.
She’d just started to type, planning on adding to Tegan’s interiority, when the knock sounded again.
“Iris?”
Iris froze at her name.
“It’s Ren,” the person said.
Iris closed her laptop and hurried toward the front door. “Sorry,” she said when she unlocked and opened it, revealing Ren in a slim gray suit, black dress shirt and tie, and bright red heeled oxfords. “Shit, you look amazing.”
Ren smiled. “Thanks. Big night and all.”
Iris nodded as Ren stepped inside. “Stevie’s not here.”
“I know.”
Ren walked farther into the apartment, their hands in their pockets.
“Oh,” Iris said. “You’re here to see me, then?”
Ren turned to look at her, their heavily lined eyes a little glassy. “Yeah.”
“Is everything okay?” Iris frowned. “Oh god, is Stevie all right?”
“No, she’s fine.”
“Okay, so . . .”
“Can we sit down?” Ren asked.
“I’d rather just get on with it,” Iris said. Everything in her was on high alert and she folded her arms.
“Fair enough,” Ren said, then sighed. “Look, I just need to ask you a question.”
Iris lifted her brows, waiting.
“Has Stevie told you about New York?” Ren asked.
Iris blinked, processing Ren’s words. “New York.”
Ren closed their eyes. “I’ll take that as a no.”
“Ren, what are you talking about?”
Ren shook their head, sunk down onto the couch. Iris stayed put, her heart thrumming too fast despite her attempts at deep breaths.
“I didn’t want to do this,” Ren said. “I kept watching for signs that she’d told you, but it’s obvious she hasn’t and I didn’t know if I’d see you again after tonight. Then it’d be too late.”
“What would be too late?” Iris said, her voice razor-sharp. She got bitchy when she got anxious, she knew, but she couldn’t seem to help it right now.
Ren tented their fingers between their splayed legs. “Stevie’s been asked to play Rosalind in As You Like It next summer in New York.”
Iris blinked. “She . . .”
“For Shakespeare in the Park at the Delacorte Theater.”
A buzzing sounded in Iris’s ears, like a tiny bomb exploding.
“September first is the deadline to accept,” Ren said. “I don’t have to tell you what a huge deal this is.”
“September first,” Iris said. She suddenly didn’t recognize her own voice. It had gone feathery, barely solid.
Ren nodded. “Two days from now.”
Iris all but fell onto the pilly gray chair across from the couch. “How . . . She . . . Why didn’t she tell me?”
Ren tilted their head. “She’d have to live in New York, at least from January when rehearsals start through the end of July. She’d have to leave everything. Everyone.”
Iris dropped her head into her hands, mind swirling at everything Ren seemed to be implying.
“When,” she asked, not looking up.
“When what?”
“When was she asked.”
Ren was quiet for a second. “Last month. That Black woman who was at the Empress a while back? That’s Thayer Calloway, Stevie’s favorite professor at Reed. She’s the one directing at the Delacorte next summer.”
That was the day they’d first slept together, after line dancing at Stella’s and Jenna. Stevie had known this for nearly six weeks and hadn’t said a damn thing. A myriad of emotions spilled into Iris’s chest. Hurt, anger, excitement, fear, pride—a confusing blend she couldn’t even begin to parse.
“Anyway,” Ren said. “If I were in your position, and a person I loved got a life-changing opportunity, I’d . . . well, I’d want to know.”
Iris looked up, that one word hooking around her lungs.
Love.
Shit.
Did she . . . Did Stevie . . .
She swallowed around the knot in her throat and nodded. “Yeah. Thanks for telling me.”
“I’m sorry the timing sucks.”
Iris waved a hand. She needed Ren to leave. She needed to think, to cry, to fucking scream until the neighbors banged on the wall for her shut up.
“I’ll see you in a few hours?” Ren asked, standing up.