Iris Kelly Doesn't Date (Bright Falls, #3)(19)

“You look a little . . .”

But before Iris could finish her sentence, Stevie’s stomach had finally had enough. It rebelled, full and utter mutiny. Stevie leaned over and threw up all over the scuffed oak floor. It wasn’t much—her extreme anxiety pukes never were—but it was enough to splash a little on Iris’s jeans, her bare feet.

For a second, neither of them moved. Stevie stood there, still breathing heavily, and waited for some monster of the underworld to burst through her floor and swallow her whole.

Unfortunately, no such creature appeared.

Iris still held on to Stevie’s arms.

She must be in shock.

“Okay, then,” Iris finally said, breaking the horrible, vomit-covered spell. “Well.”

“I’m so sorry,” Stevie managed to say. Tears had sprung into her eyes. In these moments when Stevie didn’t pay attention to the signs that her anxiety level was reaching a fever pitch and do a little triage—take her as-needed meds on top of her regular Lexapro, slow down, remove herself from the anxiety-inducing situation if possible—and she ended up hurling, she always followed that delightful experience with a hearty round of sobbing.

“It’s okay,” Iris said, but her voice sounded tight, uncomfortable. Unsurprising, considering she’d just been vomited all over by someone she was trying to seduce. How very sexy.

The thought made the tears overflow, running down Stevie’s cheeks and stealing her breath.

“Oh god,” Iris said, noticing the tears. “Okay, it’s all right.”

“It’s not. Shit, I’m so, so sorry,” Stevie managed to say between hiccups. “You can go. Please.”

Iris released Stevie’s arms and guided her backward, careful to avoid the puddle of sick on the floor. She sat Stevie down at the end of the bed, then headed toward the kitchen. Stevie heard some cabinets opening and closing, and then Iris returned with a roll of paper towels and a bottle of cleaner.

“No. Iris, oh my god. Don’t.”

But Iris kneeled down and wiped up the puke with a few swipes, then sprayed the floor with cleaner and wiped that up too. Stevie knew she needed to get up, kick Iris out, and clean up her own mess, but she felt glued to the bed, tears still on a runaway train down her face.

“Iris,” she said, but Iris kept ignoring her, wiping at her feet and jeans, and then taking everything back to the kitchen. She ran the tap for what seemed like an hour—undoubtedly scouring a stranger’s vomit from her hands—before she returned to the bedroom with a glass of water.

“Here,” she said, handing it to Stevie. Then she pulled the covers down on the bed, literally fluffing Stevie’s pillow. Stevie watched in half horror, half fascination. She drank her water dutifully, but the cool liquid did little to assuage her humiliation.

“Iris,” she tried again, but Iris still didn’t respond. Instead, she took Stevie’s half-empty water glass and set it on the nightstand, then pulled Stevie up by her arms and guided her under the covers.

She tucked Stevie in.

After that, she went into the bathroom and found Stevie’s tiny trash can, setting it next to the bed. Stevie just watched her, her chest so tight she could hardly breathe.

“Okay,” Iris said, hands on her hips. She was still shirtless, beautiful. “You need me to call anyone for you?”

Stevie could only shake her head.

Iris nodded, then looked around for her sweater. She found it by the couch, slipped it on, and hoisted her bag over her shoulder. “Well. Good night. I hope you feel better.”

Stevie offered a weak wave. She wanted to explain—because what if, after all of this, Iris was worried about catching some horrible bug from Stevie—but she couldn’t seem to get any words to form. Her head was fuzzy, her tongue a useless lump in her mouth.

It didn’t matter anyway. Iris barely waited for a response, turning quickly and finding her shoes by the front door. She didn’t even slow down to put them on. She simply slipped out the door, clicking it softly shut behind her.

Stevie stared at the ceiling, hoping, as she laid in bed, that she’d realize this whole shitshow of a night was a dream. The music she’d put on to calm her down still played through her phone, so she grabbed it off her nightstand and silenced the sultry tones. She was just about to toss her device on the floor when it buzzed with a text.

It was from Ren, sent to their group chat that included Adri and Vanessa. A group chat that had been pretty quiet lately.

Stevie tapped on the message. It took her a few seconds to realize that she was looking at a photo of herself and Iris, dancing at Lush in a way that could’ve been a deleted scene from a queer version of Dirty Dancing.


Ren: Stevie and Ren, on the fucking town. Look at our girl go!



“Oh my god,” Stevie said.

Ren sent a few other pics—one of themself with the curvy brunette, followed by a line of empty shot glasses on the bar.

But Stevie knew what Ren was doing.

They wanted Adri and Vanessa to see Stevie with someone else. That was the whole goal of tonight anyway—someone different, someone new. The other photos were simply a cover, so it all seemed less pointed and more casual.

And it worked.

Because a split second later, Adri texted back. And she didn’t say anything about Ren’s zaftig or the copious amount of alcohol.