At this time of night, the two whole stoplights in Bright Falls were blinking yellow, so she didn’t stop until she parked outside her apartment building in downtown. She shut off her engine, but then flopped her head against her seat instead of getting out. She glanced up at her unit’s window on the second floor—she hadn’t left any lights on. She always forgot to do that when she left for the evening, but tonight, for some reason, the idea of walking into her place in the dark, alone . . . it all felt like a bit too much.
She dug her phone out of her bag and texted the group chat.
Iris: You won’t believe what my mother did tonight
She waited for someone to respond. The chat’s name was currently I’ve Got a Queery, but it changed on the regular, usually because Iris was bored or sitting at home alone while everyone else participated in their domestic bliss and—she could admit it—she was vying for some attention.
She stared at the screen.
Nothing.
She tried again.
Iris: Actually you probably would believe it
Iris: I think I might be engaged to a fitness icon. It’s unclear
She added a bicycle emoji, followed by a diamond ring, still to no avail.
There was a time when their group chat was on a constant stream, hardly quiet for even an hour. Iris knew it was to be expected for things to take a little longer these days—everyone was coupled up, living together.
Everyone but Iris.
Her throat went a little tight and she gave herself a mental slap, then set her thumbs to work again.
Iris: ALL RIGHT LOVERS, CODE RED OVER HERE!
Then, finally, a response. Iris ignored the way her heart literally fluttered in her chest with relief.
Astrid: Stop yelling
Iris: I am most certainly not yelling. I’m cajoling Delilah: You’re yelling
Iris: Astrid and Delilah agreeing, well, my my Delilah:
Claire: Were they cute, at least? Your mom’s setup?
Iris: He was orange. And hated Diet Coke
Jordan: That stuff will kill you
Iris: Wait, Jordan . . . are YOU actually a spin instructor named Zach?
Astrid: I sure as hell hope not
Jordan: I have a confession . . .
Iris smiled, then started tapping out her next pithy reply when an email notification from Fiona popped onto her screen.
“Shit,” Iris said, wincing as she tapped on her email app. She shouldn’t even read it. While her agent worked at all hours of the day, Iris knew it was perfectly acceptable for her to delay her own work until the morning, but she was a glutton for punishment.
Hey Iris, Fiona’s email started, I wanted to check in and see how the novel was coming along. Are we still working through the ornithologist on a Caribbean island idea?
Oh, Jesus, no, they were most definitely not still working through that idea. While a hot bisexual scientist who studied birds was appealing, Iris knew zilch about poultry and, honestly, didn’t give a shit about the mating habits of parrots.
I’m here for brainstorming if you need it, but a gentle reminder that getting this book in on time will be the best bet for building your brand. We want book two to release no later than a year after your debut.
Iris stared at the screen. She’d heard all of this before. The romance world moved fast, the fans hungry for more and more, and while Fiona had assured her that they could ask her editor, Elizabeth, for an extension, it really behooved Iris’s career to keep things moving.
Simon—Jordan’s twin brother and a literary fiction writer—had been absolutely appalled at the timeline. His lot took years to pump out a single two-hundred-page novel that then won them Booker prizes and spots on the National Book Award longlist.
If you’re struggling, Fiona’s email went on, I’ll tell you what I tell all my clients dealing with a block—take a break. Do something creative that has nothing to do with writing. Take a pottery class or learn how to make sushi. Anything that’s low stakes and gives your brain the space to come up with something brilliant!
Iris glared at that hopeful exclamation point, but Fiona’s idea wasn’t all that bad. She could think of a few low-stakes creative activities she’d like to engage in right now, though none of them involved a class. After the dating ambush tonight, followed by the shaming of Iris’s way of life that seemed to be a new family tradition, Iris would welcome a distraction.
A human-shaped, no-strings-attached distraction.
Iris: Anyone up for an impromptu night out?
Astrid: It’s ten-thirty
Iris: So that’s a no for Astrid
Jordan: I go where my woman goes
Iris: Thrilling life you two lead
Claire: I’ve got to open the store in the morning—my manager’s on vacation Iris: I assume that means you’re also out, D?
Delilah: Look, I’m VERY comfortable with my current situation, as Claire is . . . never mind Claire: BABE
Delilah:
Iris: No, please, keep going. Fodder for my dead-on-arrival novel Delilah: I swear to god, if my admittedly mind-blowing love story ends up in one of your books, Iris, I will connect all of your freckles with a Sharpie while you’re sleeping. I have a key to your place, I’m not afraid to use it Iris: “Delilah Green didn’t care about anyone and consistently forgot the names of the women she slept with. Until she met Claire Sutherland.” I like it. Catchy Astrid: Laugh out loud!
Delilah: Astrid, use a damn emoji, and Iris, I’m buying a fresh pack of markers Claire: Babe, she would never
Iris laughed. It was true, she would never, but she did find it extremely unfair that Astrid and Claire, her best friends of twenty years, both had fairy-tale love stories. She was happy for them, of course, but Jesus, what amazing rom-coms both of their lives would make.
Iris: Fine. Go to sleep, you geriatric romantics
She swiped out of the chat and tapped on Simon’s name, forgoing texts altogether.
“You’d better be dying.” His voice was languid, like he was either asleep or tipsy.
“I’m alive and well,” Iris said. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“Stranded?”
“Nope.”
“Being held at gunpoint?”
“I kicked him in the balls and got away.”
“Then to what do I owe the horror?”
“Wow, you sure know how to make a gal feel special.”
Simon grunted. “Sorry. What’s up?”
“Are you in the city?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said cautiously. “Why? Or do I even want to know?”
Iris smiled. “I need a wingman. Are you up for it? Please say you’re up for it, because if you’re not, I’m going to show up at Emery’s apartment with a suitcase and a pillow and a whole hell of a lot of comfort food, and you know how Emery likes to keep their place nice and tidy.”
He laughed. “I guess I’m playing wingman tonight, then.”
“Good answer, my darling,” Iris said, starting up her car, then plugged in her phone so the call came through the speakers.
“You doing okay?” Simon asked.
Her throat went suddenly tight. Simon had this way about him, a tender manner of speaking that seemed to cut through all of Iris’s jokes and make her question everything—was she actually okay?
“Yeah,” she said. “I’m great.”
“Uh-huh.”
She sighed. “Just family shit. I need to blow off some steam.”
“And by steam, you mean . . .”
“Yes, Simon, I want to have sex with someone, okay? Happy?”
He laughed. “I mean, I already had sex tonight, so, you know, you get yours.”
“Okay, brag.”
She ended the call, thinking about how she was a mere half hour from getting lost in a crowd of people in a club. She could let the music propel her around a dance floor, the dim lights making everyone and everything look beautiful and dreamy. Hopefully, she’d meet someone who’d help her forget about her novel, her family, the creeping loneliness she sometimes felt when her friends were all coupled up and tucked in for the night.
She gripped the wheel as she sped down Main Street toward the state roads that would lead her to I-205. And when she’d told Simon she was fine, she was great even, it didn’t even feel like a lie.
CHAPTER FOUR
THERE WAS A reason Stevie didn’t often go out to bars, especially ones like Lush. The club was dimly lit, featured neon lights blinking through the room in nauseating patterns, music loud enough to incinerate her eardrums, and a crush of bodies that made her feel the need to take a shower.
Immediately.
“This was a bad idea,” she said as Ren kept a clawlike grip on her hand and dragged her toward the bar.