“What would be too late?” Iris said, her voice razor-sharp. She got bitchy when she got anxious, she knew, but she couldn’t seem to help it right now.
Ren tented their fingers between their splayed legs. “Stevie’s been asked to play Rosalind in As You Like It next summer in New York.”
Iris blinked. “She . . .”
“For Shakespeare in the Park at the Delacorte Theater.”
A buzzing sounded in Iris’s ears, like a tiny bomb exploding.
“September first is the deadline to accept,” Ren said. “I don’t have to tell you what a huge deal this is.”
“September first,” Iris said. She suddenly didn’t recognize her own voice. It had gone feathery, barely solid.
Ren nodded. “Two days from now.”
Iris all but fell onto the pilly gray chair across from the couch. “How . . . She . . . Why didn’t she tell me?”
Ren tilted their head. “She’d have to live in New York, at least from January when rehearsals start through the end of July. She’d have to leave everything. Everyone.”
Iris dropped her head into her hands, mind swirling at everything Ren seemed to be implying.
“When,” she asked, not looking up.
“When what?”
“When was she asked.”
Ren was quiet for a second. “Last month. That Black woman who was at the Empress a while back? That’s Thayer Calloway, Stevie’s favorite professor at Reed. She’s the one directing at the Delacorte next summer.”
That was the day they’d first slept together, after line dancing at Stella’s and Jenna. Stevie had known this for nearly six weeks and hadn’t said a damn thing. A myriad of emotions spilled into Iris’s chest. Hurt, anger, excitement, fear, pride—a confusing blend she couldn’t even begin to parse.
“Anyway,” Ren said. “If I were in your position, and a person I loved got a life-changing opportunity, I’d . . . well, I’d want to know.”
Iris looked up, that one word hooking around her lungs.
Love.
Shit.
Did she . . . Did Stevie . . .
She swallowed around the knot in her throat and nodded. “Yeah. Thanks for telling me.”
“I’m sorry the timing sucks.”
Iris waved a hand. She needed Ren to leave. She needed to think, to cry, to fucking scream until the neighbors banged on the wall for her shut up.
“I’ll see you in a few hours?” Ren asked, standing up.
And Iris could only nod as Ren left, wondering what the hell she was going to say to Stevie when she saw her, how she was going to look her in the eyes.
She wandered back to the bed, staring down at her laptop, all thoughts of Tegan and Briony like nebulous vapor right now. No way she could get back to writing. She could barely even breathe.
Love.
She squeezed her eyes shut, a familiar hurt crowding around her heart. Because now that she knew about Stevie’s offer, she couldn’t unknow it. She couldn’t ignore it, and neither could Stevie.
New York.
Three thousand miles away.
But New York. The Delacorte. Even Iris knew that was huge.
Life-changing.
And Stevie . . .
Iris didn’t know what to think or feel. Instead of trying to figure it out, she dug into her overnight bag and pulled out her iPad, crawling back to her spot on Stevie’s bed. She opened up her “S & I” folder, then tapped on a blank file. For the next two hours, until she had to start getting ready for the last time she’d ever play Beatrice on stage, she drew.
She drew a curly-haired woman, amber eyes bright, arms outstretched and a beatific smile on her face, standing alone on a New York City street.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
THE EMPRESS WAS packed tonight. Adri had agreed to sell extra tickets, bringing in more chairs to line against the back wall, and Stevie could feel the cast’s energy the second she stepped into the dressing room backstage.
“Listen to this,” Jasper said, dramatically flipping a newspaper in his hands. Stevie saw Seattle Times written across the front page.
“？‘With a diverse and queer cast that thrusts the Shakespearean classic into a new and erotic light,’？” Jasper read, then flicked his eyes to Stevie, “？‘it is Stevie Scott as a secretly tender and wounded female-identifying Benedick that sets this interpretation apart. Alongside newcomer Iris Kelly as Beatrice, the couple emanates a nearly orgasmic tension on stage.’？”
“Let me see that,” Stevie said, grabbing the paper from Jasper. She reread the review, which also had lovely things to say about the direction, as well as several other principals’ performance. Still, her cheeks warmed, seeing her and Iris’s names side by side in the Seattle Times. She’d been reviewed in papers before, but this one felt particularly glowing. She couldn’t wait to show Iris.
“Can I have this?” she asked Jasper.
“Yes, fine, take it to your girl,” he said.
“Nearly orgasmic?” Peter said, slicking mascara onto his lashes. “Just once I want to be described that way.”
“Can’t bring it to the finish line, huh, Peter?” Zayn said, pursing their lips.
Peter flipped them off. “I mean my stage performance, asshole.”
“Uh-huh, sure.”
They were still bickering back and forth when Iris finally stepped into the room. Stevie felt her entire body relax a little at the sight of her.
“Hey,” she said, working her way toward Iris. The dressing room was small, and every chair was already taken.
“Hey,” Iris said, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
Stevie frowned. “You okay?”
Iris nodded, set her bag on the couch. “Just tired. I worked this afternoon.”
“Did you get a lot done?”
Iris nodded again, not meeting Stevie’s eyes. Stevie’s stomach immediately clenched up, worry fizzing into her fingertips. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Iris looked at her then. Stared, really. She canted her head and narrowed her eyes, as though waiting for Stevie to answer her own question.
“Yeah,” Iris said finally. “I’m fine. Just nervous.”
Stevie squeezed her arm. “Well, take a look at this.” She handed the paper to Iris, pointing at the review for their Much Ado.
Iris’s eyes scanned the words, a small smile on her mouth as she read. She glanced up, meeting Stevie’s gaze.
“？‘It is Stevie Scott as a secretly tender and wounded female-identifying Benedick that sets this interpretation apart,’？” she said out loud, her voice small, almost awe-filled.
Stevie waved her hand. “It’s one review.”
“It’s amazing, Stevie. You’re amazing. You know that, right?”
She said it so quietly—almost sadly—that Stevie frowned. “I think I—”
“No,” Iris said, grabbing Stevie’s hand. “You’re incredible, full stop.”
Stevie searched Iris’s eyes, which were a little glassy-looking. “Are . . . are you sure you’re okay?”
Iris inhaled deeply then smiled. And right there, Stevie saw it—that mask Iris wore, the one Stevie hadn’t seen in over a month, slide over her girlfriend’s expression.