Anxiety spilled in, everything that had happened that night running through her mind like a movie. It had been amazing, but so had that night after Stella’s.
What if . . .
Did Iris really . . .
How would Stevie handle . . .
The questions swirled, raising her heart rate, drying out her mouth.
“Iris?” she whispered.
She was sure Iris was asleep, so she was surprised when Iris nuzzled against the back of her neck and said, “Hmm?”
Stevie exhaled, then turned in Iris’s arms so they were facing each other. Iris looked beautiful, sleepy.
Happy.
“You okay?” Iris asked.
Stevie didn’t answer for a second, but then asked the main question that was keeping her awake. “You . . . you’re not going to ask me to leave in the morning, are you?”
Iris shoulders tensed, just a little, just enough.
“It’s okay if you’re scared,” Stevie said. “Just don’t hide that from me. I’m scared too.”
Iris closed her eyes for a second, body loosening. Stevie traced a finger along her jaw.
“I’m not going to ask you to leave,” Iris said. “I promise.”
“Is that what you want?”
“Yeah,” Iris said, then laughed, her voice a little shaky. “I want you here tomorrow. And the next day. Maybe even the next.”
Stevie laughed, relief like she’d never known making her fingertips tingle. She knew Iris wasn’t lying—Iris never lied about this sort of stuff, never did anything she didn’t want to do.
“I can handle that,” Stevie said. “Though I do have a Bitch’s shift on Monday.”
Iris leaned in to kiss her. “I’ll take every second I can get.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
THREE DAYS LATER, Stevie left Iris’s apartment in a haze of sex and delivery food, Iris’s scent still on her skin even after a shower. She didn’t bother going by her apartment before her shift at Bitch’s, instead opting for her own jeans—which she had included in a load of laundry at Iris’s—and one of Iris’s tank tops. The shirt hung on her a bit, a size too big and revealing the rainbow band of her black sports bra, but she didn’t care. Anything went, really, at Bitch’s, and she loved the idea of wearing Iris’s clothes . . . which meant she was really and truly gone for this woman.
She smiled to herself as she pushed open Bitch’s heavy wooden door.
“Oi,” Effie snapped from behind the bar, tamping down a shot of espresso. “You’re late.”
Stevie glanced at her phone. “By two minutes.”
“That’s two minutes I should’ve been in my office doing payroll for you wankers, so hurry up and clock in.”
“Always good to see you, Eff,” Stevie said, smiling.
Effie all but snarled at her, and Stevie just laughed as she passed her on her way to the back room.
She clocked in and was just putting her bag in one of the tiny lockers when her phone buzzed. She fished it from her back pocket, already looking forward to a text from Iris.
But it wasn’t Iris.
Ren: You’re avoiding me
Stevie sliced a hand through her hair, then tapped out I am not.
Except she sort of was. In the weeks since Dr. Calloway’s visit and subsequent offer for Stevie to play Rosalind, Stevie had done her level best to avoid the entire situation.
That included Ren and Adri, as they both knew about the offer and had already made it quite clear—Adri’s silence and Ren’s overbearing insistence that Stevie blow up her entire life and move to New York—how they felt about it. Adri was in crisis mode with the play, constantly busy with details for the fundraiser dinner that would follow the show on Much Ado’s closing night, so she was easy enough to avoid. Ren was trickier, but they were also pretty wrapped up in costumes whenever they were at the Empress, and their day job took up plenty of their time as well.
Granted, there might have been texts—okay, a lot of texts—that Stevie simply hadn’t answered lately, but in her defense . . . well, Iris.
Stevie stuffed her phone in her back pocket and took Effie’s place behind the bar, losing herself in steaming milk and creating leaves and flowers in the foam of her craft beverages. For all its drudgery, she actually liked making espresso drinks. It was fast-paced and fun, and Effie paid her well over minimum wage.
“Thanks, Tim,” she said, her phone buzzing again as she handed over a dry cappuccino to one of their regulars.
“Take it easy, Stevie,” he said, his handlebar mustache twitching as he spoke.
She nodded, then wiped her hands on a towel so she could check her texts.
Ren: Are you at work? I was thinking of stopping by
Stevie’s thumbs hovered over the screen. She didn’t often lie to Ren—in fact, with the exception of dating Iris, Stevie couldn’t think of a single lie she’d ever told her best friend—but she also didn’t want Ren’s I know what’s best for you attitude to spoil her good mood right now.
Stevie: No. Running errands. Talk later?
“I know you didn’t just fucking lie to me.”
Stevie yelped, her phone flying into the air and landing with a crack on the stainless steel bar.
“I hope it’s broken,” Ren said. They stood at the bar just a little to the left of the espresso machine where Stevie hadn’t noticed them. “I really, really do.”
“Ren, Jesus.” Stevie grabbed her phone, thankful to see the screen was still whole. She stuffed the device in her back pocket and got to work on her next order. “What are you doing?”
“I am being a faithful friend.” They shifted and settled on a barstool. “What are you doing, Stefania?”
Stevie finished up the last drink in her line of orders and set it on the serving counter. “Look, I’m sorry. I’ve been busy.”
“Busy.”
“The play. Work.”
“Iris.”
“Well, yeah.” Stevie couldn’t help the grin that settled on her mouth. “I like her.”
“Okay,” Ren said. “Fine. What about New York?”
Stevie sighed. Ren always did get right to the point. “I don’t know.”
“How can you not know? Stevie. It’s the Delacorte. It’s Thayer Calloway. It’s the Delacorte.”
Stevie braced her hands on the bar, focused her gaze on the drops of spilled milk and espresso. “I know that.”
“Do you?” Ren asked, their brows lifting into their swooping hair. “Because it looks like you don’t know shit. This is your dream, Stevie. For the last, what? Five years? You’ve talked about how you need to up your game, you need to expand your craft, you need to get the hell out of the Pacific Northwest and into a place where you can act full-time.”
“I’ve never said I wanted to get out of the Pacific Northwest.”
“Well, fine, I said it and you know it’s true.”
“Plenty of people act full-time in Portland, Ren. Look at Adri.”
Ren laughed, but it wasn’t a mirthful sound. “Adri is one dropped donor away from having a heart attack at age twenty-eight. You really want that kind of stress?”
Stevie scoffed. “You think I won’t live paycheck to paycheck if I did leave Bitch’s and tried acting full-time—and in New York of all places? I’m already barely making ends meet. There are no guarantees with this kind of life, Ren.”