“A high compliment,” Thayer said.
“And you’re directing As You Like It next summer,” Iris said, jutting a wobbly finger toward Thayer.
Stevie froze.
“I am,” Thayer said, frowning a bit at Iris’s thick consonants. “And I’m so excited that Stevie here is joining me.”
A horrible silence spilled in between them. A silence Thayer clearly didn’t understand, her head tilted toward Stevie in question.
“Yeah,” Iris said, her voice even and quiet. Too quiet. She blinked heavily. “We’re all so excited.”
“I really need to get her home, Dr. Calloway,” Stevie said. Dread coiled in her stomach.
“Of course,” Thayer said. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Great,” Stevie said, then started to pull Iris away.
Iris, however, dug in her heels. “Stevie’s amazing, right? Totally belongs in New York. She’s a star. So big a star, she shouldn’t even think about anyone else, right?”
Stevie couldn’t breathe. Could barely think.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Thayer said, but she was clearly caught off guard by Iris’s behavior.
“Well, let me explain,” Iris said, clapping her hands together, but Stevie knew whatever Iris was about to say, Stevie couldn’t bear to hear it in front of her future director. She wasn’t sure she could bear to hear it at all.
Because in this moment, Stevie realized she had right and truly fucked this up.
“Dr. Calloway, I’m sorry, please excuse us,” Stevie said, and finally managed to haul Iris away, one arm tightly hooked around her waist. Partygoers looked their way, amused expressions on their faces as a drunk Beatrice stumbled through the room.
Stevie managed to find a bottle of water and tucked it under her arm, never letting go of Iris for a second. She got them outside, the air warm and breezy, and nearly ran to get Iris to Stevie’s car.
“I’m not ready to go home,” Iris said, but she didn’t resist as Stevie tucked her gently into the passenger seat and buckled her in. Iris flopped her head against the headrest, and Stevie opened the water, placing both of Iris’s hands around the cool plastic.
“Drink, please,” she said.
Iris did, but she watched Stevie as she gulped, an unreadable look in her eyes.
Stevie drove them to her apartment. Neither of them spoke and Stevie was glad. She had no clue what to say, what to do. Plus, Iris was drunk, and she felt like whatever conversation they were about to have, they both needed to be clearheaded.
Once inside her place, she put on a pot of coffee and got Iris another glass of water. Iris downed it, her hands shaking as she did. Once she finished it, she simply stumbled off toward the bathroom, mumbling something about a shower.
Stevie sat outside the bathroom door to make sure Iris didn’t fall or hurt herself in some way. And there, underneath the gentle hush of the water, came a sound Stevie had never heard before—a sniff and a hiccup, a wordless hum.
Iris Kelly was crying in Stevie’s shower.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
FUCK, SHE WAS crying in Stevie’s shower.
Iris sunk down into the tub, sitting on the porcelain with her forehead pressed against her knees, letting the cold water beat down on her back.
She should’ve known that first glass of champagne was a mistake. She hadn’t meant to get drunk, not really. But once the performance was over and she and Stevie had changed and walked down to Nadia’s hand in hand in silence, an awful silence full of questions Iris didn’t know how to ask, she’d immediately reached for a glass when they’d walked in the door. Stevie had been pulled away by some adoring donor, and goddamn if the cool bubbles hadn’t made Iris feel a little calmer, a little clearer.
But then Stevie didn’t return, and one drink became two, which soon turned into three, and she was already laughing at nothing and everything by the time Claire and Astrid found her.
The rest of the night was a bit hazy, lucidity returning only when Thayer Calloway had announced Stevie was heading to New York.
I’m so excited that Stevie here is joining me.
Like a cymbal crash.
That’s what it had felt like in Iris’s head—a loud, nearly incomprehensible noise, followed by a clear ringing in her ear.
Ren’s fears had been unfounded, all their worry—Iris’s worry since Ren’s visit—that Stevie would give up such a chance for her . . .
Well.
Iris sob-laughed against her knees and spent the next half an hour in the shower, wondering how the hell she got to this point with Stevie. She went through every detail of their relationship, trying to figure out when she fell, when she became this person she barely recognized.
As the old Iris, Ren’s news about New York would’ve landed differently. Iris would’ve been surprised that Stevie hadn’t told her, but then she would’ve shaken it off, known Stevie had her reasons. They’d had fun while it lasted, time to move on and all that.
As the old Iris, Stevie’s acceptance of Rosalind, this life-changing role in New York, would’ve landed differently too.
Iris would’ve been happy.
She would’ve fucking rejoiced, because Stevie deserved this, she deserved to be a star, Iris knew it. And even as this new and pathetic Iris, part of her was excited for Stevie.
The part that loved her.
But that was the tricky thing about love—it was selfless and also needy; generous, but greedy and desperate too. It was everything, and she hadn’t even noticed it sneaking up on her, tangling her together with Stevie so tightly she now found herself sitting in a dingy shower, wiping tears off her face, wondering why she couldn’t rejoice, why her heart felt like it was splintering, why she couldn’t shake off this sad, old, familiar feeling of being disregarded.
Of being left behind.
Always good for a nice fuck, that Iris Kelly.
“Shit,” she said, slicking her wet hair back. She took several deep breaths and stood up, turning the shower off. She took her time drying, then put on the tank top and sleep shorts from last night she’d left in the bathroom earlier that day. She plaited her wet hair into a single braid, brushed her teeth, and packed all of the toiletries in her bag.
Her hand hesitated on the doorknob so long the metal grew warm under her fingers. Then she rolled her shoulders back, set her face to a neutral expression, and went out into the main room.
Stevie was on the bed and bolted to standing as Iris emerged. Iris tossed her toiletry bag toward her larger overnight bag, Stevie’s eyes following the movement.
She sat back down.
“You’re not staying the night?” she asked, her voice small.
Iris didn’t answer. She just sat down in Stevie’s desk chair across from the bed, pulled her knees to her chest.
“When?” she asked.
Stevie’s throat worked. “When . . . when what?”
“When did you tell your professor you’d do it?”
Stevie sighed, swiped her curls back. “Last night.”
Iris nodded, didn’t say anything.
“I was going to tell you tonight,” Stevie said.
Iris laughed. “That’s easy to say now that I know, isn’t it?”
“Iris, I . . . I’m sorry, okay? I thought I was going about this the right way. Taking my time, thinking it through, but—”