Iris Kelly Doesn't Date (Bright Falls, #3)(68)

“What?” Adri said, leaping up from where she was sitting in the front row. “Where?”

“Hi, you two,” Thayer said, waving.

Ren jumped off the stage, all but hurling themself up the aisle, followed closely by Adri.

“Think about it,” Thayer said one more time, squeezing Stevie’s arm before Ren and Adri reached them.

The three of them immediately fell into catching up, Adri telling Thayer about the fundraiser dinner that will go along with the play, both Ren and Adri losing their minds when Thayer mentioned Shakespeare in the Park.

“I’ve just asked Stevie here to come work for me in New York,” Thayer said.

Stevie closed her eyes for a split second while the news landed.

“Holy. Shit,” Ren said, turning to her. “Yes. She’ll do it.”

“Ren,” Stevie said.

“You’re seriously considering not? Stevie.”

“I don’t know,” Stevie said, panic rising in her chest. She glanced at Adri, who just stared at her, her red mouth open in a tiny circle.

“Stefania Francesca Scott,” Ren said, folding their arms. Colorful scarves and swaths of fabric fluttered with the motion. “I swear to god.”

“Leave her alone, Ren,” Adri said.

Ren’s eyes narrowed. “For real, Adri? You’re that desperate to keep her under your thumb that you’d talk her out of—”

“I’m not talking her out of anything,” Adri said. “I just said—”

“We know what you said,” Ren said, “and I—”

“Shut up, both of you,” Stevie said. Tears filled her eyes—embarrassment that her friends were having this conversation in front of their professor, shame that she couldn’t just say yes like she knew she should. But that’s what Ren never got—Stevie could always say yes to everyone, anything. It was always the easier path.

Except this one.

This yes came with consequences, a whole slew of actions and decisions that made Stevie feel like she was drowning.

And Adri . . . Stevie couldn’t even look at her.

“Stevie,” Ren said, “I’m just trying to help.”

“Well, you’re not,” she said, tears spilling over.

“Okay, let’s take a breath,” Thayer said, who was well versed with Stevie’s anxiety. Still, Stevie highly doubted the idea of an actor losing their shit over nothing on the Delacorte stage was appealing.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Calloway,” Stevie said, then turned away, shoving open the doors that led into the lobby. She didn’t slow down until she was outside, the late June sun too bright and strong, too sure.

She dropped the folder near the door and tried to breathe, but it felt like working to shove a ship down a drain. She heard her lungs rasping, passersby looking at her funny as they went on with their day. She waved off their concerned looks, retreated under the Empress’s awning.

Breathe.

Fucking breathe.

Stevie closed her eyes, inhaled, but shit, she was spiraling. Full-on spiraling. She thought about calling for Ren, who knew how to help, but the idea just made the panic surge even more, because why the hell should Stevie be panicking this much about her friends pushing her into a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity?

Or not pushing, as the case may be.

But it wasn’t that—it wasn’t even Ren’s insistence or Adri’s clear reticence. It was how they spoke over her, as though she couldn’t be trusted to do anything on her own.

And fuck, the idea of New York scared her so much, maybe she couldn’t.

“Stevie?”

Iris’s voice.

“Shit,” Stevie managed to croak. She didn’t want Iris to see her like this. She didn’t want—

“Oh,” Iris said as Stevie slumped against the Empress’s facade. “Oh shit, okay. Um.”

Stevie tried to wave a hand, communicate that she was fine, but she wasn’t sure she was. Iris had done so much for her already, she didn’t want Iris to regret it.

The thought was quick and cold, like ice flash-freezing over a lake.

She didn’t want Iris to regret her. When this was all said and done, when they’d fake broken up, and Iris walked out of her life, Stevie didn’t want . . . she didn’t want Iris to—

“Look at me.”

Iris.

Right in front of Stevie, so close, Stevie could see little gold flecks in her green eyes. Her hands were on Stevie’s face, cupping her cheeks, eyes locked on hers.

“Look at me,” she said again. “Focus on my freckles. You see them?”

Stevie managed a nod. She sounded like an asthmatic hippo right now, her breathing tight and raspy.

“Count them,” Iris said. “Count my freckles. Start with that one under my left eye.”

Stevie tried to swallow, tried to focus on the dots on Iris’s face. She locked in on the freckle Iris was talking about and felt her attention snap in place. She recognized that freckle. “It’s . . . it’s blue.”

Iris smiled. “Good. Do I have any other blue freckles?”

Stevie’s eyes roamed Iris’s face, searching. There were freckles in all shades of brown, from tan to dark espresso. They spilled over her nose, cheeks, over her eyelids and even dotted her lips.