“I don’t know who you two are,” she said, “but my girlfriend hasn’t done anything to you.”
“Girlfriend,” Lucy said, snorting. “Better be careful, she likes to sleep with married women.”
“Lucy,” Jillian said.
“Am I wrong?” Lucy asked, her voice shrill. Tears shined in her eyes, but Stevie had had enough.
Holding up her broken bathing suit with one hand, she pulled a still-pale Iris away until they reached the gender-neutral locker room, intent on getting Iris as far away from those two assholes as possible.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
JILLIAN.
Of all the fucking people.
Iris knew Jillian lived in Portland, but Iris still hadn’t seen her former lover since the morning of Claire and Delilah’s housewarming party last year.
On that night, Lucy had called Iris—on the phone Jillian had accidentally left behind—and the whole affair had broken wide open. Lucy had even cried to Iris as they’d sort of lamented the injustice together. Now, clearly, anger had replaced any commiseration.
“Hey,” Stevie said.
Iris blinked at the locker room around her, all smooth teak lockers and marble tile. Plush white towels were stacked on shelves, and wooden beams stretched across the ceiling. Gleaming bowl-style sinks lined the shiny counters, and the air smelled of herbs—lavender and basil and mint.
“Jesus, this place is fancy,” Iris said. Her voice sounded off, barely there.
Stevie laughed. “Yeah, I don’t think I’ll be acquiring a membership anytime soon.”
Iris nodded, still gazing around at all the glamor. The room was empty, but when she spotted a sauna in the back corner of the room, she headed straight for it.
The space was warm, though not sweltering, but Iris still plopped onto the teak bench and flung off her towel. Leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
She heard Stevie come in and settle across from her, towel brushing Iris’s ankles.
“That was quite the heroic scene out there,” Iris said without opening her eyes. “Stefania in action?”
Stevie didn’t say anything.
Iris squeezed her eyes even tighter. She didn’t want to look at Stevie. Didn’t want to see the questions there, the judgment. Shame clouded into Iris’s chest, her fingers curling into fists. She didn’t think of Jillian often. After it all went down over a year ago, it had taken Iris a few weeks to really process the whole affair, and she liked to think she’d reconciled that it wasn’t her fault, that she hadn’t known anything about Jillian’s marriage or her lies. But there were moments, brief flashes where Iris’s brain would go back through the entire thing, from the moment Jillian walked into her shop to the night Lucy called, and then it was hard to breathe.
Hard to look at herself in the mirror.
Iris hadn’t loved Jillian. She knew that—it wasn’t about love. The sex had been unreal, true, and they had done things together that didn’t involve orgasms, nights out at chic bars and a few art shows at fancy Portland galleries. But more than any of that, it was the fact that Jillian had picked Iris.
She’d singled her out.
She’d found her on Instagram, hired her to design a custom planner, then promptly fucked her behind her wife’s back when the job was done.
And Iris had just . . . let her do it.
“Fuck,” Iris said now, pressing her knuckles into her eyes. “I’m sure you’re wondering what the hell that was all about.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” Stevie said. “But are you okay?”
Iris finally opened her eyes. Stevie’s gaze was soft, so brown and deep and intense, Iris didn’t even bother to lie.
“I don’t know,” she said, and something about the admission caused tears to swell into her eyes. She swiped at them uselessly. “Dammit. Sorry.”
“Hey, it’s okay,” Stevie said. “One time, I threw up on this woman I was trying to get into bed, so, you know, could be worse.”
Iris’s eyes went wide for a second before she bust up laughing. “Holy shit.”
“I know, worst date story you’ve ever heard, right?”
Iris kept laughing, her shoulders shaking. Thankfully, Stevie started laughing too because, Christ, it was funny.
In retrospect, at least.
The two of them laughed for a good two minutes, so much so that Iris’s stomach muscles started hurting. Stevie had a great laugh, soft, but strong and passionate.
“Wow, I needed that,” Iris said, sitting back against the warm wood, her legs splayed. “You’ll have to thank the girl you puked on for the comic relief. From me to her.”
Stevie grinned. “I’ll do that.”
Iris gazed up at the ceiling, reality settling back in again. “I dated her. The blond one. Her name is Jillian.”
Then, the whole story spilled out. She didn’t want to talk about it, but at the same time, she did. She wanted to explain to Stevie, but she also just felt heavy, like the words and feelings of the entire ordeal were stuck to her ribs, slowing down her movements and thoughts.
When she was finished, she leaned her head against the wall, suddenly exhausted.
“So that’s my sad little story,” Iris said. “Want to hear about my boyfriend of three years who dumped me because I didn’t want to have his babies? That’s a good one too.” Iris rolled her head to look at Stevie, because at some point, she’d moved next to Iris, still holding her bathing suit to her chest, wet hair frizzing around her face.
“None of that was your fault,” Stevie said.
“What? The babies or the cheating wife?”
“Both,” Stevie said.
“Yeah, my friends all say the same thing.”
“Of course they do. But maybe you need to hear it from someone who barely knows you and has no stake in the game. Because it doesn’t seem like you quite believe it.”
Iris shook her head, looked away. “I believe it.” But even to her own ears, her voice sounded hollow. “It’s just . . . do you ever feel like the you you want to be isn’t the person anyone else wants?”
Stevie laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “Yeah. All the fucking time.”
Iris tilted her head. “Why?”
Stevie sighed and pulled one leg up on the bench, wrapped an arm around her knee. “I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Have since I was a kid. And it makes things . . . tricky. I don’t always know what’s going to trigger my anxiety, and it’s like, the whole fucking world won’t slow down, you know? To keep up, I have to do and be and act and move to that city and say no to that person and be fine when my ex says we should break up even though I’m terrified to do life by myself.”
“And be fine when that ex starts dating your best friend?” Iris asked. She hadn’t exactly been told that Vanessa was Stevie’s close friend, but she got that vibe—that queer coven energy she knew and loved well.
Stevie sighed, shrugging. “Yeah. And I am fine.”
Iris smiled. “Just like I believe it’s not my fault.” She and Stevie watched each other for a few seconds, seconds that suddenly made Iris want to pull Stevie to her, bury her face into her neck and breathe in deep.