Well.
Iris sob-laughed against her knees and spent the next half an hour in the shower, wondering how the hell she got to this point with Stevie. She went through every detail of their relationship, trying to figure out when she fell, when she became this person she barely recognized.
As the old Iris, Ren’s news about New York would’ve landed differently. Iris would’ve been surprised that Stevie hadn’t told her, but then she would’ve shaken it off, known Stevie had her reasons. They’d had fun while it lasted, time to move on and all that.
As the old Iris, Stevie’s acceptance of Rosalind, this life-changing role in New York, would’ve landed differently too.
Iris would’ve been happy.
She would’ve fucking rejoiced, because Stevie deserved this, she deserved to be a star, Iris knew it. And even as this new and pathetic Iris, part of her was excited for Stevie.
The part that loved her.
But that was the tricky thing about love—it was selfless and also needy; generous, but greedy and desperate too. It was everything, and she hadn’t even noticed it sneaking up on her, tangling her together with Stevie so tightly she now found herself sitting in a dingy shower, wiping tears off her face, wondering why she couldn’t rejoice, why her heart felt like it was splintering, why she couldn’t shake off this sad, old, familiar feeling of being disregarded.
Of being left behind.
Always good for a nice fuck, that Iris Kelly.
“Shit,” she said, slicking her wet hair back. She took several deep breaths and stood up, turning the shower off. She took her time drying, then put on the tank top and sleep shorts from last night she’d left in the bathroom earlier that day. She plaited her wet hair into a single braid, brushed her teeth, and packed all of the toiletries in her bag.
Her hand hesitated on the doorknob so long the metal grew warm under her fingers. Then she rolled her shoulders back, set her face to a neutral expression, and went out into the main room.
Stevie was on the bed and bolted to standing as Iris emerged. Iris tossed her toiletry bag toward her larger overnight bag, Stevie’s eyes following the movement.
She sat back down.
“You’re not staying the night?” she asked, her voice small.
Iris didn’t answer. She just sat down in Stevie’s desk chair across from the bed, pulled her knees to her chest.
“When?” she asked.
Stevie’s throat worked. “When . . . when what?”
“When did you tell your professor you’d do it?”
Stevie sighed, swiped her curls back. “Last night.”
Iris nodded, didn’t say anything.
“I was going to tell you tonight,” Stevie said.
Iris laughed. “That’s easy to say now that I know, isn’t it?”
“Iris, I . . . I’m sorry, okay? I thought I was going about this the right way. Taking my time, thinking it through, but—”
“And you couldn’t bring me into that?” Iris asked. You didn’t think about me at all, her brain said next, but she couldn’t get it out of her mouth.
“I . . . dammit,” Stevie said. “I did. I swear to god, Iris, I did think about you. But we were so new and I . . . I was scared.”
“Scared.”
“Yes, scared.”
“Of what?” Iris asked. She shocked herself by how much she wanted to know, how much she wanted to feel not alone in this terrifying space.
Stevie didn’t answer for a few seconds. They ticked by, turning into minutes, Stevie staring down at the sleek black pants she’d adorned for the fundraising dinner.
“I was scared,” she finally said, “that you’d tell me to go.”
Iris frowned, Stevie’s small tone slipping another splinter into her heart.
“Of course I would’ve told you to go,” Iris said.
Stevie’s eyes met hers, wide, shining.
“This is . . . it’s New York, Stevie,” Iris said. “And you deserve it. You belong there. I would’ve never held you back from that.”
Stevie nodded, a tear slipping down her cheek. Iris curled her hands into fists, fighting the urge to wipe it away.
“But you didn’t even give me the chance,” Iris said. “You cut me out of the decision, you cut me out of being happy for you, of celebrating—”
“I didn’t want you to celebrate it,” Stevie said, her voice suddenly firmer, stronger. “I wanted you to ask me to stay. Even if I knew I couldn’t, I wanted you to want me to. Or at least . . . I don’t know. Show some emotion that I might be moving three thousand miles away. And I was fucking terrified that you wouldn’t. That you’d treat this”—she waved her hand between them—“like it was nothing.”
Iris shook her head, fresh tears welling into her eyes. God, she hated this. She hated this feeling, the empty hollow all these splinters were carving out in her heart.
“You’re the one who treated this like it was nothing, Stevie,” she said softly.
Stevie swore under her breath, shoved her hands into her hair and left them there, her shoulders undulating up and down. Iris watched her, uncertain what else there was to say.
Finally, Stevie stood up, presenting her palms. “Okay. Okay, I know I fucked up, that not telling you was the wrong move and maybe the worst thing I could’ve done. I’m so sorry. But I swear, Iris, I didn’t cut you out of this. I thought about you every second. I thought about how—”
“Stop,” Iris said, shaking her head. She stood up too, but only so she could grab her duffel, loop it over her shoulder.
“Are you fucking serious?” Stevie said, her mouth hanging open. “You’re leaving? Just like that?”
Iris felt the color drain from her face, but she didn’t flinch. “What else is there to say?”
“Are you . . .” Stevie blinked, her face just as pale as Iris’s. “There’s a shit ton to say.”
Iris sighed. “Like what?”
Stevie stared at her, jaw working. “Like the fact that I love you.”
Iris didn’t move.
“Like the fact that, yeah, I fucked up,” Stevie said. “I was scared. I’m still scared, okay, but I don’t want you to leave. I want you to forgive me and talk to me and let us figure out what the hell to do.”
Iris shook her head. “You already decided, Stevie.”
“I decided on me,” Stevie said, her voice nearly a shout. She slapped at her chest, the sound echoing through the room. “I picked me, Iris, the exact thing everyone in my life has wanted me to do for years, and you know that’s not easy for me. You know it’s not, but I did it, because yeah, I want this. I want to play Rosalind in New York. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you.”
Iris closed her eyes, tried to let Stevie’s words break through the protective layer already sliding over her tender heart. She thought about the last two months, how every day with Stevie had felt . . .
Different.
It hadn’t felt like Grant. It hadn’t felt like Jillian. It hadn’t felt like a fling or fake or purely educational or any of the things they’d both told themselves it was for so long.
She tried to let it all in, but now, in this moment, with Stevie leaving to start a whole new life—a life she should lead, a life she deserved—Iris felt . . .
Nothing.
Her heart had already closed up, surrounded in that protective layer she’d spent the last year building back to its full strength, shoving out all the splinters, keeping her safe.
Keeping her whole.
“Stevie,” she said, “this was fun, okay? But I can’t let you break your back trying to work me into your plan, all for a relationship that will only—”
“Don’t,” Stevie said. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
“What?”
“This,” Stevie said, her teeth gritting.
Good. Let her get angry. It would probably make this whole thing easier.
“The exact thing you said I was doing,” Stevie said, “trying to tell me this is nothing. You’re trying to tell me you’re not worth considering. Not worth factoring into my life. Again. Why do we always fucking come back to this?”