Iris Kelly Doesn't Date (Bright Falls, #3)(94)

Stevie nodded, but just blinked up at the ceiling. She’d been doing this a lot lately, or at least, anytime they talked about the play, or the plays Stevie had done in the past, her dream roles and goals for the future. Iris was always the one to bring up Stevie’s career, and Stevie was usually the one to shut it down. Iris let her, because she understood the uncertainty of your next step—in the few months after closing down Paper Wishes, before she decided to give writing a try, she’d burned through her savings, a constant panic simmering just under her skin. Sure, Iris knew Stevie needed a plan, but she certainly didn’t want to insult Stevie’s abilities to figure out her own shit.

“I don’t know,” Stevie said quietly. “I guess we’ll see.” She heaved herself out of the bed, turned to kiss Iris on the forehead, then headed toward the shower.





IRIS WAS SITTING cross-legged on Stevie’s bed, completely entrenched in Tegan and Briony’s world, trying to figure out how to address Fiona’s note about Tegan’s too-weak motivations in the third act breakup, when there was a knock on the door.

At first, she ignored it. This wasn’t her apartment, and her brain was right on the cusp of a breakthrough, she could feel it. She knew not all romance readers liked the quintessential third act breakup, and Iris had read her share of novels that didn’t feature it and enjoyed the change immensely, but for her, she loved that drama-filled split. She loved the pain of it, the emotions, the obstacles the characters had to face in themselves and their relationship to truly be together, all of this followed by the couple’s blissful reconciliation.

She’d just started to type, planning on adding to Tegan’s interiority, when the knock sounded again.

“Iris?”

Iris froze at her name.

“It’s Ren,” the person said.

Iris closed her laptop and hurried toward the front door. “Sorry,” she said when she unlocked and opened it, revealing Ren in a slim gray suit, black dress shirt and tie, and bright red heeled oxfords. “Shit, you look amazing.”

Ren smiled. “Thanks. Big night and all.”

Iris nodded as Ren stepped inside. “Stevie’s not here.”

“I know.”

Ren walked farther into the apartment, their hands in their pockets.

“Oh,” Iris said. “You’re here to see me, then?”

Ren turned to look at her, their heavily lined eyes a little glassy. “Yeah.”

“Is everything okay?” Iris frowned. “Oh god, is Stevie all right?”

“No, she’s fine.”

“Okay, so . . .”

“Can we sit down?” Ren asked.

“I’d rather just get on with it,” Iris said. Everything in her was on high alert and she folded her arms.

“Fair enough,” Ren said, then sighed. “Look, I just need to ask you a question.”

Iris lifted her brows, waiting.

“Has Stevie told you about New York?” Ren asked.

Iris blinked, processing Ren’s words. “New York.”

Ren closed their eyes. “I’ll take that as a no.”

“Ren, what are you talking about?”

Ren shook their head, sunk down onto the couch. Iris stayed put, her heart thrumming too fast despite her attempts at deep breaths.

“I didn’t want to do this,” Ren said. “I kept watching for signs that she’d told you, but it’s obvious she hasn’t and I didn’t know if I’d see you again after tonight. Then it’d be too late.”

“What would be too late?” Iris said, her voice razor-sharp. She got bitchy when she got anxious, she knew, but she couldn’t seem to help it right now.

Ren tented their fingers between their splayed legs. “Stevie’s been asked to play Rosalind in As You Like It next summer in New York.”

Iris blinked. “She . . .”

“For Shakespeare in the Park at the Delacorte Theater.”

A buzzing sounded in Iris’s ears, like a tiny bomb exploding.

“September first is the deadline to accept,” Ren said. “I don’t have to tell you what a huge deal this is.”

“September first,” Iris said. She suddenly didn’t recognize her own voice. It had gone feathery, barely solid.

Ren nodded. “Two days from now.”

Iris all but fell onto the pilly gray chair across from the couch. “How . . . She . . . Why didn’t she tell me?”

Ren tilted their head. “She’d have to live in New York, at least from January when rehearsals start through the end of July. She’d have to leave everything. Everyone.”

Iris dropped her head into her hands, mind swirling at everything Ren seemed to be implying.

“When,” she asked, not looking up.

“When what?”

“When was she asked.”

Ren was quiet for a second. “Last month. That Black woman who was at the Empress a while back? That’s Thayer Calloway, Stevie’s favorite professor at Reed. She’s the one directing at the Delacorte next summer.”

That was the day they’d first slept together, after line dancing at Stella’s and Jenna. Stevie had known this for nearly six weeks and hadn’t said a damn thing. A myriad of emotions spilled into Iris’s chest. Hurt, anger, excitement, fear, pride—a confusing blend she couldn’t even begin to parse.