“Listen,” Jordan said, stepping closer, “we don’t have to be at war.”
“War?” a voice said right before a gorgeous redheaded white woman rounded the rosebush. “Who fired first?”
“There’s no war,” Jordan said at the same moment Astrid said, “She did.”
The woman nodded, lips pursed. “Well, I’d be on your guard. Astrid is a hell of an opponent.”
“Iris,” Astrid hissed.
“What?” the woman—Iris, Jordan supposed—asked. “Do you remember the time you hip-checked Piper Delacorte into her locker so hard she fell down, all because you found out she’d spiked your soda at Amira Karim’s party just to see what you acted like when you were drunk?”
“That was high school. Everyone’s horrible in high school.”
Iris smirked. “And she deserved it?”
“Of course she deserved it.” Astrid actually flipped her hair, albeit theatrically, which hinted at a humorous tone. “You don’t just put alcohol into people’s drinks without permission.”
Iris laughed and Astrid actually cracked a smile and dear god, what sort of sorority hell was this? Jordan narrowed her eyes at the cackling friends, something in her chest stretching tight—something years old and years gone.
She shook off the feeling and focused. Iris looked familiar. She had long red hair, little braids woven through here and there, and was dressed like she was about to go frolic in a field of wildflowers—a flowy floral dress that fell to her knees, cognac-colored sandals, and dangly gold earrings that featured a cloud with raindrops drizzling down toward her shoulder. Total bohemian bisexual vibe, if Jordan had to put a name to it.
She was one of the women fawning all over Astrid after the unfortunate coffee incident outside Wake Up, because of course she was.
“Excuse me,” Jordan said, very ready to get the hell away from them both. She tried to sidestep them, but Iris stopped her.
“I’m sorry, we’re being so rude.” She smiled, showing a row of perfect white teeth. “I’m Iris. I came by to take Astrid to lunch.”
Jordan sighed inwardly but capitulated. “Jordan.”
“You look so familiar,” Iris said, tilting her head. “Have we met?”
Her tone dripped with sarcasm, which, from the way Iris cut her eyes to her friend, Jordan assumed was meant for Astrid.
“Before five seconds ago?” Jordan asked. “Not officially, no.”
Iris nodded. Astrid squirmed, lifting her eyes heavenward as if an alien abduction would be preferable to this conversation.
Jordan could relate.
“Well, I’m glad it’s official then,” Iris said. “Do you like putt-putt?”
“Putt—I’m sorry, did you say ‘putt-putt’?” Jordan asked. She must’ve heard wrong. Either that, or Iris was a master of non sequiturs.
“Putt-putt,” Iris said, nodding.
Okay, master of non sequiturs, then.
“Iris,” Astrid said.
“You’re going,” Iris said. “Deal with it.”
“All right, fine, but don’t subject Jordan to the ridiculousness that is boozy mini-golf.”
“Boozy... mini-golf?” Jordan said. Had she tumbled down a rabbit hole?
Astrid sighed, her cheeks flushing an adorable shade of pink.
No, not adorable.Goddammit, Jordan.Just plain old pink. A ruddy pink at that. It was one hundred percent unattractive.
