She entered her building, picked up her mail, and had just arrived at her apartment on the third floor when she saw a manila bubble mailer leaning against the door. She didn’t remember ordering anything, but it had her name on the front, so she scooped it up, stuffing it under her arm as she struggled to get keys out of her bag.
Once inside, she dumped everything onto the quartz kitchen counter, then stood for a second with her hands on her hips. Thayer’s wife, an independently wealthy gallery owner named Danielle, had clearly decorated the open space, all cool grays and blues, modern lines, and expensive art on the walls. Stevie liked the neutral palette, but the rest wasn’t exactly her taste—she preferred more coziness, more clutter and life—but as Danielle barely charged what Stevie’s shitty Portland apartment had cost her, Stevie didn’t complain.
She filled the kettle in the polished silver-and-gray kitchen, then flipped on the burner before she changed into a pair of sweats and one of her mom’s old cardigans, as the chilly October day had turned into a cold night. She had just settled on the couch with a cup of minty green tea and her script in her lap when she remembered the package. She stood up, found the envelope on the counter among the junk mail, and inspected the front.
Stevie Scott.
Goose bumps rushed over her arms as she lifted it into her hands. It was heavy, something rectangular and thick inside. Fingers trembling for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, she ripped the top open, dipped her hand inside. It was glossy-paged paperback book.
She wasn’t quite sure what she was expecting to see on the cover, but it sure as hell wasn’t her own face, drawn with such intricacy and care, a woman with brown curls and low-hanging jeans, her forehead pressed against another woman’s, their hands tangled together between them.
A redheaded woman.
A redheaded woman who chased Stevie in her dreams at night, followed her down the Brooklyn sidewalks.
There was a title too, slashed across the lower half of the cover in a messy handwriting font.
The Truth About You and Me
Her heart felt huge, pounding everywhere at once, tears swelling into her eyes before she even processed what she was looking at, what she was holding in her hands.
What it might mean.
She sunk onto the hardwood floor and flipped through the heavy pages, printed professionally and bound, just like a graphic novel Stevie might pull off the shelves in a bookstore. She saw images she recognized, all of them now in full color—Iris and Stevie meeting in Lush; Iris tucking Stevie into bed; Stevie sitting alone on the beach in Malibu; the two of them at rehearsal for Much Ado; Stevie pressing Iris against her apartment door, her thigh between Iris’s legs.
Page after page, scene after scene, Stevie and Iris’s romance unfurled onto the page. Because it was a romance, colorful and wild and terrifying and beautiful, every moment pushing them to each other, the fabrication they both claimed in the beginning fading with every kiss, making way for something new and authentic and perfect.
Tears tracked down Stevie’s cheeks, a month’s worth of feeling brave and bold and okay spilling out as she sifted through the scenes. Her stomach coiled when she turned a page and took in their breakup, the way Iris captured the emotions on both of their faces. It was so raw and real, Stevie had to put the book down and just breathe.
After a few seconds, though, she went back to the story, desperate for the ending, even though she already knew it. She flipped the page, blinking down at herself, that same illustration she’d seen the day she and Iris broke up—Stevie in New York City, arms flung wide, head tilted to the sky.
It was beautiful.
It was true.
But there were more pages under Stevie’s fingertips, more to the story, the thickness of the next few sheets like an electric shock to Stevie’s nervous system.
She crushed the book to her chest, her throat so tight, she nearly couldn’t swallow. She stood up, then grabbed the padded envelope again.
Stevie Scott.
Iris’s handwriting. She recognized it from Iris’s digital planners, as a lot of the designs were replications of Iris’s own handwritten text, a neat and elegant blend of cursive and print. But Stevie’s name was the only thing written. There was no address. No postage. No return address.
She set the envelope down, looked around her apartment. Her pulse was in her throat, her ears, and she half expected Iris to reveal herself like a bouquet of flowers. But the space was quiet. Stevie took out her phone, wondering if maybe Iris had texted her, but there was nothing, just a blank screen featuring the photo Stevie had taken of the Delacorte her first week in New York.
Her fingertips whitened on the book. She wasn’t sure what she wanted these last pages to show, how she wanted this story to end. Or rather, she was very sure, had never been more sure of anything in her life, but her protective strategies were sliding into place, lies she’d convinced herself were true to keep her heart from shattering more than it already had.
I’m over her.
I’m happy without her.
I don’t want her anymore.
I’m just lonely.
But she knew none of those things were true.
So she turned the page.
It took a few moments for Stevie to register what she was seeing. Iris had drawn herself standing on a street in front of a red brick building, her back to the viewer. Her hair was dark in the dim light, long and wild, and she wore jeans and heeled brown boots, a grass-green pea coat.
And in one hand, held loosely at her side, was a single yellow tulip.
Stevie stood up, her limbs shaky and fizzing with adrenaline. Her eyes roamed the page, desperate for every detail . . . for why . . . what . . .
She sucked in a loud breath.
Iris was standing at the bottom of a set of stone steps.
Familiar steps.
Familiar double glass doors at the top.
Familiar decorative cornices around the windows.
“Oh my god,” Stevie said, pressing one hand to her mouth. She only hesitated a moment before shoving her feet into a pair of boots and then closing her fingers around her doorknob, flinging the door open with such force, it smacked loudly into the wall. She flew down the stairs, the book pressed against her chest. Her eyes stung, tears already forming, and goddammit, she tried to hold them back, tried to prepare herself if she was wrong, if she’d misinterpreted that drawing, if Iris wasn’t really . . . if she didn’t actually . . .
Stevie burst out of the building, her lungs working so hard to keep her upright she felt a little dizzy. Her eyes strained to adjust to the growing dark, the cool fall air hitting her like a slap, desperate to see—
Wild red hair.
A green pea coat.
A single yellow tulip.
Stevie didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. She didn’t even remember getting down the steps, but suddenly she was standing in front of Iris, breathing the same autumn air, her ginger and citrus scent like a drug, and the only thing Stevie could do was stare at her, starving for her face, her mouth, that blue freckle right under her left eye.
“Hi,” Iris said, and Stevie’s knees nearly buckled, that voice curling around her like a warm coat in the middle of winter.
“How long have you been out here?” Stevie said, wrapping her cardigan tighter around her torso, book to her chest. “It’s freezing.”