“Here she goes,” Delilah said, but she was smiling, and Iris smiled back, a coy little grin over her shoulder as she flourished the hem of her floral dress over her knees. Claire had joined Delilah, their arms around each other, and all five of her dear friends were beaming up at her.
This was the Iris they knew.
This was the Iris they loved.
“Damn right,” she said. “Now, a toast. To the most nauseatingly beautiful couple the Pacific Northwest has ever seen.”
“Should we be offended?” Jordan said to Astrid, who just laughed and kissed her girlfriend’s cheek.
“And to,” Iris went on, “a lifetime of happiness, joy, and enough great sex to keep Delilah from lighting the world on fire.”
“I’ll cheers to that,” Claire said, blushing.
Delilah just shook her head, but she tipped her glass to Iris.
Iris laughed, then drained her entire drink in three, nose-burning gulps.
AN HOUR LATER, Iris ran across the inn’s gravel parking lot back to her car. She’d started to feel better during talks of venues and dates, smiling and laughing about how she was going to throw the happy couple a sex toy shower—she absolutely was—but now her chest ached.
She found out why when she fell into her Subaru’s driver’s seat and immediately burst into tears again.
She wiped furiously at her face, berating herself for acting like such a baby. She was happy for Claire and Delilah.
“I’m fucking happy!” she yelled and banged her fists on her steering wheel.
“Sure looks like it.”
She yelped at the deep voice, jumping so high, her head brushed the roof of her car.
Simon Everwood peered down at her through the window.
She exhaled, clutching at her chest. She should play this off, she knew. No good could come from her whining about being single, for god’s sake, but her face was already a mascara-streaked, blotchy mess, and she didn’t have the fucking energy.
She lifted her hands and let them slap back down into her lap, sniffing snot back into her runny nose.
Simon rounded the car, opened the passenger door, and slid inside. Then he turned to face Iris and proceeded to simply stare at her with this expectant expression that made her want to smack his glasses off his face.
“I’m fine,” she said, wiping at her face again. “I’ll be fine.”
“I know you will,” he said so softly, she nearly started boo-hooing again.
“I’m just . . . I’m restless.” She pressed her puffy eyes closed. “My book is a disaster, my mom is up my ass to fall in love and pop out a million babies.”
“Sounds like something you’d do.”
Iris snorted, but somewhere under the laughter, there was a sting of hurt. Even her best friends knew she wasn’t falling-in-love material.
“I just need to focus on my book,” she said. “But I’m totally locked up.”
“You sure that’s all this is?” he asked. “Writer’s block?”
“Yeah.”
“You know, I don’t believe in writer’s block. If you can’t figure out what to write about, it’s because you’ve gone wrong somewhere earlier in the book.”
She rolled her eyes. “Thank you, Iowa Writer’s Workshop.”
“Oh, I’m just naturally this brilliant.”
She flipped him off and he laughed, nudging her shoulder.
“Well, your theory doesn’t hold up,” she said, “because there is no earlier in my book. I don’t even have a first sentence.”
“You need some space to get a first sentence, then. Your agent’s right—you need to do something low stakes, something creative that’s not writing, to clear your head.”
“I hate that I tell you things.”
“Actually,” he said, drawing out each syllable.
Iris smirked. “Don’t you know that no white cis dude should ever speak that word?”
He laughed, taking out his phone and tapping on the screen. “Actually, after you told me what Fiona said, I did some digging. Because honestly, I could use a creative distraction myself.” He presented his phone, and she took it, scanning the screen.
“A play?” she asked.
“A queer play,” he said. “A gender-bent version of Much Ado About Nothing. It’s at that queer community theater in Portland, the Empress.”
She scrolled through the page, eyes skimming over information about open call auditions happening this coming week, how the play would open at the end of August for a fall run. “I’ve heard of this place.”
“I went to one of their plays a while back,” Simon said. “I want to say it was another Shakespeare. Maybe Taming of the Shrew? Anyway, it was amazing. The lead was a trans guy playing opposite a gay man, the whole cast was queer, and I’m pretty sure I cried at the end.”
“You would,” she said.
“Look who’s talking,” he said, wiping a bit of mascara off her cheek.
She sighed and handed his phone back to him. “It looks fun. You should do it.”
He grinned. “I think you mean we should do it.”
She pressed a hand to her chest. “I’m sorry, did you actually just include me in the elusive, all-powerful we?”
He rolled his eyes but kept smiling. “I did. What do you think?”
“I think you’re high.”
“I didn’t even drink. Champagne tastes like carbonated puke.”
“I thought I told you never to bring up puke again.”
He nudged her shoulder. “Come on.”
“Are you serious?” she asked. “You want me to do a community play with you?”
“I do.”
“Hell no.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t act.”
He scoffed.
Literally scoffed.
She lifted her brows at him. “And what, pray tell, good sir, was that for?”
He circled a finger at her face. “You can’t even tell me off without being dramatic about it.”
She grabbed his finger and twisted it. Softly, but enough to make him yelp.
“You’re sort of making my point here,” he said.
She stopped twisting but kept a hold on his finger.
“Think about it,” he said. “You’d get to meet a ton of queer people. You’d get to do something new, which is, my darling, what you were just complaining about.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but snapped it shut. He had her there.
“And it’s in Portland,” he said, “so you’d get out of town at least a few times a week.”
“I can already do that.”
“Yeah, but this outing doesn’t come with the possibility of an STI.”
She dropped his finger, and he had the decency to look a little abashed.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was out of line.”
“I’m always safe, Simon,” she said, but her voice wobbled a bit more than she’d like. She cleared her throat. “And I get tested regularly.”
“I know,” he said, rubbing her forearm. “Like I said, I’m sorry.”
“Delilah used to sleep around a lot, you know,” she said. “In fucking New York City. And now that she’s monogamous, no one thinks twice about it.”