“Oh, that is adorable,” Olivia said, laughing.
“God, sorry,” Stevie said, pressing her palms to her heated face, but she laughed too, the embarrassment easy and light, like a joke between friends.
And Stevie realized she wanted to say yes to Olivia. She had zero reasons not to, other than potential awkwardness during the play, but they were both professionals. Adults. And theater would hardly be theater if actors didn’t connect in these ways during productions. Olivia was safe, made Stevie laugh. She was lovely. She was perfect, really.
So . . . why couldn’t Stevie get that yes off her tongue?
She even opened her mouth, ready to take the chance, ready to try, ready to date, but all she could see in her mind—all she could feel, right there under her skin—was Iris.
Stevie exhaled, and Olivia saw it happen, that subtle droop of Stevie’s shoulders.
“It’s okay,” Olivia said.
“I want to say yes,” Stevie said. “I do. But I . . . I just got out of something, right before I moved here.”
Olivia nodded, waved a hand. “Totally fine. I get it.”
Stevie watched her, and she really did look fine, her smile just as real, just as eye-reaching. “I think I could really use a friend though. If you’re in the market.”
Olivia grabbed Stevie’s hand and pressed a kiss to her palm, a loud, friendly smack. “Already done.”
Stevie smiled, squeezed her hand, and then they got back to the script. Just like that. No awkwardness, no hurt feelings. It was amazing, really, the fucking maturity of it all. It took a while for Stevie’s heart to slow, for her fingertips to feel like they weren’t fizzing with adrenaline, but soon, she was back to normal, sitting in a Brooklyn café with her co-actor and friend.
Still, as the sun moved west across the sky and Olivia stood up, declaring she had to meet her two roommates for a house meeting about how one of them kept clogging the toilet and very pointedly not unclogging it, Stevie wished she could change her mind.
She wished Iris wasn’t still with her, hovering like a phantom, making her unready for someone as great as Olivia. As she walked back to her apartment, the dying light spreading gold over the city, she forced her mind to think of other things—the cup of tea she planned to make when she got home; her virtual therapy appointment in two days; Thayer’s most recent email updating her on the cast, which included the man who would play Orlando, an up-and-coming and publicly out gay actor who’d just finished a press tour for his first feature film.
All of these thoughts, from the mundane to the nearly fantastical, should’ve done the trick. They should’ve shoved a wild redhead right out of her mind, forcing Stevie into her life now, her reality now, her heart and feelings and needs now, but they didn’t.
They rarely did.
She knew from experience she probably needed a bit more than thoughts—she needed some intense distraction, like a movie or more work on her script. She could always work on her role, weaving together a Rosalind who was fresh and intoxicating and vulnerable.
She entered her building, picked up her mail, and had just arrived at her apartment on the third floor when she saw a manila bubble mailer leaning against the door. She didn’t remember ordering anything, but it had her name on the front, so she scooped it up, stuffing it under her arm as she struggled to get keys out of her bag.
Once inside, she dumped everything onto the quartz kitchen counter, then stood for a second with her hands on her hips. Thayer’s wife, an independently wealthy gallery owner named Danielle, had clearly decorated the open space, all cool grays and blues, modern lines, and expensive art on the walls. Stevie liked the neutral palette, but the rest wasn’t exactly her taste—she preferred more coziness, more clutter and life—but as Danielle barely charged what Stevie’s shitty Portland apartment had cost her, Stevie didn’t complain.
She filled the kettle in the polished silver-and-gray kitchen, then flipped on the burner before she changed into a pair of sweats and one of her mom’s old cardigans, as the chilly October day had turned into a cold night. She had just settled on the couch with a cup of minty green tea and her script in her lap when she remembered the package. She stood up, found the envelope on the counter among the junk mail, and inspected the front.
Stevie Scott.
Goose bumps rushed over her arms as she lifted it into her hands. It was heavy, something rectangular and thick inside. Fingers trembling for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, she ripped the top open, dipped her hand inside. It was glossy-paged paperback book.
She wasn’t quite sure what she was expecting to see on the cover, but it sure as hell wasn’t her own face, drawn with such intricacy and care, a woman with brown curls and low-hanging jeans, her forehead pressed against another woman’s, their hands tangled together between them.
A redheaded woman.
A redheaded woman who chased Stevie in her dreams at night, followed her down the Brooklyn sidewalks.
There was a title too, slashed across the lower half of the cover in a messy handwriting font.
The Truth About You and Me
Her heart felt huge, pounding everywhere at once, tears swelling into her eyes before she even processed what she was looking at, what she was holding in her hands.
What it might mean.
She sunk onto the hardwood floor and flipped through the heavy pages, printed professionally and bound, just like a graphic novel Stevie might pull off the shelves in a bookstore. She saw images she recognized, all of them now in full color—Iris and Stevie meeting in Lush; Iris tucking Stevie into bed; Stevie sitting alone on the beach in Malibu; the two of them at rehearsal for Much Ado; Stevie pressing Iris against her apartment door, her thigh between Iris’s legs.
Page after page, scene after scene, Stevie and Iris’s romance unfurled onto the page. Because it was a romance, colorful and wild and terrifying and beautiful, every moment pushing them to each other, the fabrication they both claimed in the beginning fading with every kiss, making way for something new and authentic and perfect.
Tears tracked down Stevie’s cheeks, a month’s worth of feeling brave and bold and okay spilling out as she sifted through the scenes. Her stomach coiled when she turned a page and took in their breakup, the way Iris captured the emotions on both of their faces. It was so raw and real, Stevie had to put the book down and just breathe.
After a few seconds, though, she went back to the story, desperate for the ending, even though she already knew it. She flipped the page, blinking down at herself, that same illustration she’d seen the day she and Iris broke up—Stevie in New York City, arms flung wide, head tilted to the sky.
It was beautiful.
It was true.
But there were more pages under Stevie’s fingertips, more to the story, the thickness of the next few sheets like an electric shock to Stevie’s nervous system.
She crushed the book to her chest, her throat so tight, she nearly couldn’t swallow. She stood up, then grabbed the padded envelope again.
Stevie Scott.
Iris’s handwriting. She recognized it from Iris’s digital planners, as a lot of the designs were replications of Iris’s own handwritten text, a neat and elegant blend of cursive and print. But Stevie’s name was the only thing written. There was no address. No postage. No return address.