Iris Kelly Doesn't Date (Bright Falls, #3)(98)

But then Stevie didn’t return, and one drink became two, which soon turned into three, and she was already laughing at nothing and everything by the time Claire and Astrid found her.

The rest of the night was a bit hazy, lucidity returning only when Thayer Calloway had announced Stevie was heading to New York.

I’m so excited that Stevie here is joining me.

Like a cymbal crash.

That’s what it had felt like in Iris’s head—a loud, nearly incomprehensible noise, followed by a clear ringing in her ear.

Ren’s fears had been unfounded, all their worry—Iris’s worry since Ren’s visit—that Stevie would give up such a chance for her . . .

Well.

Iris sob-laughed against her knees and spent the next half an hour in the shower, wondering how the hell she got to this point with Stevie. She went through every detail of their relationship, trying to figure out when she fell, when she became this person she barely recognized.

As the old Iris, Ren’s news about New York would’ve landed differently. Iris would’ve been surprised that Stevie hadn’t told her, but then she would’ve shaken it off, known Stevie had her reasons. They’d had fun while it lasted, time to move on and all that.

As the old Iris, Stevie’s acceptance of Rosalind, this life-changing role in New York, would’ve landed differently too.

Iris would’ve been happy.

She would’ve fucking rejoiced, because Stevie deserved this, she deserved to be a star, Iris knew it. And even as this new and pathetic Iris, part of her was excited for Stevie.

The part that loved her.

But that was the tricky thing about love—it was selfless and also needy; generous, but greedy and desperate too. It was everything, and she hadn’t even noticed it sneaking up on her, tangling her together with Stevie so tightly she now found herself sitting in a dingy shower, wiping tears off her face, wondering why she couldn’t rejoice, why her heart felt like it was splintering, why she couldn’t shake off this sad, old, familiar feeling of being disregarded.

Of being left behind.

Always good for a nice fuck, that Iris Kelly.

“Shit,” she said, slicking her wet hair back. She took several deep breaths and stood up, turning the shower off. She took her time drying, then put on the tank top and sleep shorts from last night she’d left in the bathroom earlier that day. She plaited her wet hair into a single braid, brushed her teeth, and packed all of the toiletries in her bag.

Her hand hesitated on the doorknob so long the metal grew warm under her fingers. Then she rolled her shoulders back, set her face to a neutral expression, and went out into the main room.

Stevie was on the bed and bolted to standing as Iris emerged. Iris tossed her toiletry bag toward her larger overnight bag, Stevie’s eyes following the movement.

She sat back down.

“You’re not staying the night?” she asked, her voice small.

Iris didn’t answer. She just sat down in Stevie’s desk chair across from the bed, pulled her knees to her chest.

“When?” she asked.

Stevie’s throat worked. “When . . . when what?”

“When did you tell your professor you’d do it?”

Stevie sighed, swiped her curls back. “Last night.”

Iris nodded, didn’t say anything.

“I was going to tell you tonight,” Stevie said.

Iris laughed. “That’s easy to say now that I know, isn’t it?”

“Iris, I . . . I’m sorry, okay? I thought I was going about this the right way. Taking my time, thinking it through, but—”

“And you couldn’t bring me into that?” Iris asked. You didn’t think about me at all, her brain said next, but she couldn’t get it out of her mouth.

“I . . . dammit,” Stevie said. “I did. I swear to god, Iris, I did think about you. But we were so new and I . . . I was scared.”

“Scared.”

“Yes, scared.”

“Of what?” Iris asked. She shocked herself by how much she wanted to know, how much she wanted to feel not alone in this terrifying space.

Stevie didn’t answer for a few seconds. They ticked by, turning into minutes, Stevie staring down at the sleek black pants she’d adorned for the fundraising dinner.

“I was scared,” she finally said, “that you’d tell me to go.”

Iris frowned, Stevie’s small tone slipping another splinter into her heart.

“Of course I would’ve told you to go,” Iris said.

Stevie’s eyes met hers, wide, shining.

“This is . . . it’s New York, Stevie,” Iris said. “And you deserve it. You belong there. I would’ve never held you back from that.”

Stevie nodded, a tear slipping down her cheek. Iris curled her hands into fists, fighting the urge to wipe it away.

“But you didn’t even give me the chance,” Iris said. “You cut me out of the decision, you cut me out of being happy for you, of celebrating—”

“I didn’t want you to celebrate it,” Stevie said, her voice suddenly firmer, stronger. “I wanted you to ask me to stay. Even if I knew I couldn’t, I wanted you to want me to. Or at least . . . I don’t know. Show some emotion that I might be moving three thousand miles away. And I was fucking terrified that you wouldn’t. That you’d treat this”—she waved her hand between them—“like it was nothing.”