“Writing those SEAs or whatever you call them that you don’t even experience?” Maeve said.
Iris gritted her teeth. No one in her family had read her first novel yet. It wasn’t out until the fall, and Iris’s family members weren’t exactly the romance-reading types. Fantasy, her mom called the genre back when Iris first fell in love with the books as a teenager. “Real romance takes work,” Maeve had said, then promptly stuck her tongue down Liam’s throat.
“HEAs, Mom,” Iris said. “Happily Ever After.”
Maeve waved a hand.
“Shittily Ever After,” Aiden said, getting a couple of beers out of the fridge and handing one over to Charlie.
“Daddy said shit!” Ava said.
Aiden winced while Addison glared.
“Syphilis-ly Ever After,” Charlie said, popping his beer open.
“What’s syphilis?” Avery asked.
Aiden guffawed. “Septically Ever After.”
“Aiden,” Addison said.
“Fuck you both very much,” Iris said.
“Iris!” Addison said, her tone like a middle school teacher, then promptly ushered her daughters out of the kitchen.
“Barn animals, all of you,” Maeve said, covering one of Christopher’s tiny ears. “Iris, all we’re saying is that we worry about you being all alone.”
“I’m fine,” Iris said. Her voice shook a little, belying her words, but that’s what a family ambush will do to a person. She was fine. Sure, she’d had to close her paper shop last year—she still designed and sold her digital planners out of her Etsy shop, but no one bought paper enough these days. Once Iris started offering digital planners, the brick-and-mortar aspect of her business suffered. It was a difficult call, but it was also exciting. After a few months of feeling a bit adrift, Iris decided to try her hand at writing romance. She’d always loved reading and had long dreamed of penning a book of her own. Turns out, she was a pretty decent writer. She banged out a story about a down-on-her-luck queer woman who had a life-changing encounter with a stranger on a New York subway, then kept running into the same woman all over the city in the unlikeliest of places. She got several offers from agents and went with Fiona, who was the perfect blend of ruthless and nurturing, and sold Until We Meet Again to a major romance publisher in a two-book deal. Granted, she didn’t sell it for a killing or anything, but Iris had enough money in savings to keep her afloat, and her Etsy sales brought in a steady stream of cash.
But of course, the dissolution of her business only made her mother freak out even more about her future, and Maeve considered writing a hobby more than a stable job. The fact that Iris hadn’t dated anyone seriously in over a year didn’t help. Iris imagined Maeve dedicated many hours a day to envisioning Iris dying poor and alone.
For Iris, the blatant lack of romance in her life was wonderful.
No drama.
No heartbreaks from partners who couldn’t deal with the fact that Iris didn’t want to get married or have kids.
No lies from people who claimed Iris was the most wonderful creature they’d ever met, only to find out from their sobbing spouse that they were fucking married with children.
Iris shook off the memory of the lying, cheating, asshole Jillian, the last person she’d let into her heart, thirteen months ago. Since then, she’d contented herself with writing about romance and had simply removed dating from the equation, along with conversation, phone number exchanges, and any sort of scenario that left room for I’d like to see you again.
There was no again. No second date. Hell, what Iris had been doing with people she met on apps and in bars for the last several months wouldn’t even qualify as a first date.
Which was exactly the way Iris wanted it.
Because, if she was being honest, romance novels were a fantasy. Not that she’d ever admit that to her mother, but that was what she loved about them. They were an escape. A vacation from the harsh reality that only zero-point-one percent of people in the world actually got a for-real HEA. Stories like her mom and dad’s, romances that lasted forty years, meet-cutes where the couple accidentally picked up the other person’s luggage after an international flight to Paris—that shit wasn’t real.
At least, it wasn’t real for Iris Kelly.
For Tegan McKee however . . .
“Iris!” Maeve screeched, jolting Iris out of her brainstorming and startling poor Christopher awake.
“Sorry, Jesus,” Iris said, then took Christopher from her mother and kissed his bald head. He reached a hand toward her, yanking on her long hair. Iris smiled down at him. He was fucking cute.
“See?” Maeve said, beaming at Iris. “Isn’t it wonderful to hold a baby in your arms? Now just imagine your own—”
“Oh my god, Mom, stop,” Iris said, then handed Christopher back to Emma.
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Maeve said. “But all I’m saying is that someone who’s ready to settle down might be good for you. Zach told me he’s tired of dating.” She widened her eyes like she’d just revealed government secrets. “So are you!”
Iris rubbed her forehead. As usual, her well-meaning mother hit the mark just left of the bull’s-eye. “I’m doing fine by myself, Mom.”
“Oh, honey,” Maeve said, looking at her with big you poor thing eyes. “No one is fine by themselves. Look at Claire and Astrid. They’re happy now, aren’t they?”
Iris frowned. “Just because they both have partners who make them happy doesn’t mean they weren’t happy before.”
“That’s exactly what it means,” Maeve said, and Emma nodded, because of course she did. “Since she and Jordan got together, I’ve never seen Astrid Parker smile so much in the twenty years that I’ve known her.”
“That’s just Astrid,” Iris said. “She was born with resting bitch face.”
“Point,” Aiden said, jutting a carrot stick into the air before biting off half. He was well acquainted with Astrid Parker’s fierceness, as she’d eviscerated him on their high school debate team when he was a junior and she a mere freshman.
“And my point,” Maeve said, grabbing the second half of the carrot stick out of her son’s hand and throwing it at him before fixing her Concerned Catholic Mother eyes back on Iris, “is that all this gallivanting around, seeing a new person every week, avoiding adulthood, isn’t healthy. It’s time to get serious.”
Silence filled the kitchen.
Get serious.
Iris had grown up hearing one version or another of that very phrase. Get serious when she got suspended her junior year of high school for getting into a verbal match with the assistant principal in the middle of a packed cafeteria about the archaic dress code. Get serious when she told her parents she wanted to study visual art in college. Get serious when Iris dreamed of turning the doodles in her journals and notebooks into a custom planner business. Get serious for the entirety of her three-year relationship with Grant, enduring constant questions about marriage and babies.
See, Iris liked sex. A lot. In her family’s minds, she was promiscuous, which, even with her parents’ best efforts at progressive thinking, still made her mother’s mouth pinch and her father’s fair Irish cheeks burn as red as his hair. Not that she shared many details with them about her personal life, but Iris was never very good at keeping her feelings or opinions to herself.