Iris Kelly Doesn't Date (Bright Falls, #3)(13)

The bartender set two liquid-filled shots in front of them, along with a glass of club soda. Ren scooped up the liquor, handing the soda to Stevie.

“To finding you a good time,” Ren said, holding up their shot.

Stevie clinked her glass with Ren’s before knocking back a few cold gulps. The bubbles burned her nose, and she pretended it was alcohol lubricating her senses a bit.

“Okay,” she said, nodding. “Okay, let’s do this.” But the second she turned around to face the room, all the colors and bodies blurred together. The music felt like it was coming from inside her head, and she couldn’t focus on one person more than any other.

“Yeah, it’s busy,” Ren said, reading Stevie’s facial expression. “But we can do this. Let’s just take it slow. Rule number two to hooking up—don’t rush it. Take your time and find someone whose vibe you really like.”

They both leaned their backs against the bar and surveyed the dance floor. Lush was a queer bar, so that alone set Stevie at ease. Everyone here was at least a little bit like her, and while not everyone who identified as a woman was necessarily into women like Stevie was, the chances of feeling a pull toward a straight girl was significantly less.

Since coming out as a lesbian at age thirteen, falling for someone who was cishet had always been a huge fear of hers, particularly after crushing on one of her theater friends in high school, making out with her on multiple occasions, and then listening as this friend explained that she was straight. Not exactly a great moment for Stevie’s already heightened social anxiety, and she’d never forgotten how small and stupid she’d felt.

So, Lush was a good choice. But even as she watched the amalgam of people swirling through the room, spotting a pretty face here, an intriguing glance there, she still couldn’t imagine actually walking up to someone and starting a conversation.

“I can’t do this,” she said.

“Just breathe,” Ren said. “If we don’t find anyone tonight, we don’t find anyone. It’ll be fine. Stop putting so much pressure on yourself and just be.”

“Just be,” Stevie said and tried to mirror her friend’s relaxed position. But Ren was pretty much social royalty and could charm anyone into doing anything they wanted them to do with a single glance. She knew Ren had had their share of hardships—being a queer person of color was never going to be a smooth journey through life, especially in the small, midwestern town where Ren grew up. But Ren had flourished in college and beyond, finding their place, their style, their confidence, and fuck anyone who didn’t like it.

All Stevie had found was a failed relationship and a propensity to dress like a twelve-year-old boy.

“How do I look?” she asked, rolling her shoulders back.

“Hot,” Ren said, fluffing Stevie’s fringe. She needed a haircut, as her shaggy curls were attempting to go full-on mullet, but somehow, the look worked for her. “Hotter once you take that jacket off.”

Stevie smoothed her hands down her legs, clad in the high-waisted plaid pants Ren had insisted she wear. She’d paired them with a sleeveless mustard-and-cream-striped crop top, high-necked and showing most of her rib cage, all of which was still hidden by her gray jacket. She’d picked the top, feeling bold and desperate after her humiliating near-nuzzle with Adri, but now, here, she wasn’t sure she could—

“You can,” Ren said calmly, surveying the room casually. Stevie smiled at them. She yanked off her jacket before she could triple-think it, and slung it over the barstool, shoving the sticky texture out of her mind.

The humid air hit her midriff and she was tempted to cover herself, but she forced her arms to her sides.

“Badass,” Ren said, winking at Stevie without even looking at her, which was probably the most badass thing Ren could do.

“Okay,” Stevie said. “Who do we see?”

“Who do you see,” Ren said. “I already see . . . several.”

Stevie followed Ren’s gaze toward a group of people by the pool table, a few of them just Ren’s type. One femme-presenting person in particular, a zaftig brunette, was already smiling at Ren from underneath long lashes.

“You should go for it,” Stevie said.

Ren waved a hand. “Maybe later. I’m here for you first and foremost. What do you think?”

Stevie concentrated. It wasn’t easy, but as her senses acclimated to the lights and sounds, she was able to make out individuals, details and colors and shapes.

“All right, what about them?” Ren said pointing to a white woman with long blond hair and glasses—Stevie did love glasses—and a pool stick in her hands. Tight jeans. Toned arms. Very nice mouth . . .

. . . which was now attached to a Latinx person with leather pants and hot pink fingernails.

“Okay, never mind,” Ren said.

“I guess that’s the tricky thing about a queer bar,” Stevie said. “Everyone could be into everyone.”

“True. But also, a bonus.” Ren waggled their eyebrows and Stevie laughed. Ren was a huge advocate for everyone having at least one threesome in their lifetime. Stevie had a hard enough time with one person—the idea of two made her brain feel the need to leave her head via her ears.

“All right, what about her?” Ren said, motioning toward a lovely Indian woman with several ear piercings by the hall that led to the bathroom. “She’s—”