Iris shook her head slightly.
It wasn’t worth it.
“Excuse me,” Iris said, then turned and all but flung herself into the crowd. She lost herself for a while, accepting congratulations, talking about her publishing journey for those who were curious. She even spoke with Jenna for a few minutes, though neither of them mentioned Stevie.
“Sweetie?” Claire asked, finding her in the children’s section, where Iris had been hiding for a good ten minutes just to get her breath back under control.
“Hey,” Iris said.
“You okay?”
Iris shrugged. “Same old shit.”
“I’m sorry. Your mom . . . I know she loves you.”
Iris nodded. She knew her mom loved her too. She was just very sick of Maeve’s kind of love. The kind that constantly tried to fix her. Granted, it wasn’t anywhere near Isabel Parker-Green’s kind of molding, but it still stung.
“If it helps, she looked pretty horrified after you stomped off,” Claire said.
Iris cracked a smile. “It does. A bit.”
Claire smoothed her hand over Iris’s hair, and Iris leaned into her touch. It was comforting—her friends usually were—but she still felt itchy, unsettled. She wished she could blame her mother, even Emma’s absence, but if she was being honest, she’d felt like this for the better part of a month.
“Hey,” she said, an idea forming in her head. She took Claire’s hand. “Can we go to Lush tonight? All of us. To celebrate. Ruby is staying at Josh’s, right?”
Claire’s mouth dropped open. “Oh. Um . . .” Lush wasn’t exactly Claire’s scene. It wasn’t any of Iris’s friends’ scenes, not anymore, though occasionally Delilah had gone with her to the bar, then spent the entire time snapping photos of all the writhing bodies and sipping bourbon like a barfly. The mere idea of Astrid Parker in a place like that was nearly comical—all the more reason for Iris to push it.
Plus, she hadn’t been since she’d met . . .
Well.
It had been a while, and she missed her old haunt. She missed the noise, the smells, the crowd. She missed the people, the game of finding that one person who caught her eye more than most.
She missed the distraction, the sweet oblivion of someone other than herself in her bed.
I’m Stevie. Shit. I mean, I’m Stefania.
Iris shook her head, squeezed Claire’s hand. “Please? I need to let off some steam after all this buildup to publication.”
Claire smiled, tilted her head. “Is that the only reason?”
Iris knew what she was getting at—who she was getting at—but she refused to bite.
“Of course,” Iris said, displaying her best smile. “I just want to celebrate with my friends.”
Claire kissed the back of Iris’s hand. “Okay. I’ll talk to everyone about going.”
Iris’s shoulders literally slumped in relief. “Thank you.”
“Now, are you almost ready to start?” Claire asked. “I can give you a few more minutes if you need it.”
“No,” Iris said, smoothing her dress. “I’m ready.”
“Great,” Claire said, then hooked Iris into her arms, squeezing her tight. “You know, I think she’d be really proud of you.”
Iris pulled back. She didn’t need to ask who Claire was talking about. She also knew Claire was full of shit.
Stevie Scott was anything but proud of Iris Kelly.
“Let’s get this show on the road,” Iris said.
Claire nodded, then headed toward the event space in the middle of the store, currently set up with at least a hundred folding chairs.
“Good evening, everyone, and welcome to River Wild Books,” Claire said into the microphone at the podium. “If you’d please take your seats. It’s my pleasure and my privilege to introduce to you our author for this evening. Iris Kelly is . . .”
Iris stood behind her, mind wandering as Claire read out her bio. She’d flitted her gaze halfway through the room when she realized she was looking for curls, for an almost-mullet that always reminded Iris of a pop star, a kid’s T-shirt most likely bought in a thrift store.
Which was ridiculous.
She sniffed, focused.
“。 . . please welcome Iris Kelly, author of the critically acclaimed novel Until We Meet Again!”
The audience clapped and hooted, and Iris stepped up to the podium. Claire kissed her cheek. Iris smiled and took a deep breath. She rolled her shoulders back and became author Iris. A role—a real one, but a role, nonetheless. This Iris was elegant, graceful, and in no way looking for a woman who lived three thousand miles away to show up at her event with some grand gesture to sweep Iris off her feet.
Because wouldn’t that be silly?
AFTER HER READING, the audience queued up so Iris could sign their books. It took a while to get through everyone, some wanting a photo, some wanting to chat about how far Iris had come, particularly a few of her high school teachers, who undoubtedly remembered Iris as a solid B student in too-short skirts who frequented detention.
Iris took it all in, tried to stay in the moment.
“Here are some preorders for you to sign,” Claire said when they’d made it through everyone in person, partygoers now meandering through the store and finishing the champagne. Claire set a stack of books on the table, while Brianne, the shop’s manager, opened each one for Iris so she could see the pink sticky note inside with the buyer’s name. Ivy. Mara. Grace. Sunny. Luca.
Iris signed them all, looping her name with a flourish on the title page, along with a little message for each reader—Make your own happily ever after.
She’d thought long and hard about what she wanted to write when asked to sign her book. It had to be sincere, honoring romance readers and who Iris was herself. This message felt right, felt like something everyone could stand to hear.
The stack dwindled, Iris’s hand just starting to cramp, and they were nearly to the end when Brianne opened a book to a name that froze Iris’s heart in her chest.
Stevie.
She blinked down at the bright pink sticky note.
“Everything okay?” Brianne asked.
Iris nodded but called Claire’s name.
“Yeah, hon?” Claire asked, a stack of already signed books in her hands.
Iris just blinked down at the name. Claire followed her gaze, sucking in a soft breath. It wasn’t a very common name. Still, Iris supposed it could be someone else . . . someone different . . .
“Oh, sweetie,” Claire said.
“Is it . . . ?” Iris asked.
“I don’t know,” Claire said, then looked at her manager. “Brianne, do you have the order invoice for this one?”
Brianne nodded, pulled her phone out of her back pocket. “Yeah, let me look it up.”
Iris sat there while Brianne tapped on her screen, her fingers in a knot around her Sharpie.
“Here it is,” Brianne said. “Um . . . Stevie Scott. She lives in New York?”
“When . . . when did she order it?” Iris asked.
Brianne frowned, eyes on her phone. “She placed the order . . . two days ago?”
Claire’s hand closed around her shoulder, squeezed, but Iris barely felt it. She smoothed her hand over the title page, poised her Sharpie to sign her name.