Iris Kelly Doesn't Date (Bright Falls, #3)(11)
“My god, these two will have such beautiful babies,” her mother cooed, clasping her hands to her chest as she ogled the screen.
And that was the last goddamn straw.
Without a word to anyone—her father had long disappeared into his study for some peace and quiet and, honestly, fuck the rest of them—Iris grabbed her coat and bag from the rack in the foyer and slipped out the front door. She didn’t dare slow down but headed straight for her Subaru parked on the curb, started the engine, and peeled down the street so fast, she was positive she left tire marks on the asphalt.
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?