Iris had made the planner in record time—a power lesbian planner, she’d called it—and she and Jillian promptly fell into bed once the job was done.
Of course, Astrid knew every detail of their romance, how Iris wanted to tear off Jillian’s bespoke suit the moment she saw her, because Iris had absolutely no verbal filter.
About anything.
Now, Astrid listened while her friends chatted about their day, about how Claire had never put it together thattheSimon Everwood was a Bright Falls Everwood.
“I hadn’t either,” Iris said. “Honestly, I never gave it much thought. His book is total white dude navel-gazing.”
“It is not,” Claire said. “I liked it. And, like, half his characters are queer.”
“Fine, I’ll give you that,” Iris said. “But it still rang a bit too Franzian for me.”
“Oh my god, you’re terrible,” Claire said, laughing. “Simon writes cis female characters way better than Franzen. And he didn’t even have any gratuitous sex scenes where a woman’s breasts quiver like sentient beings.”
“Why the hell read it, then?” Delilah piped up from the passenger seat.
Claire giggled and took Delilah’s hand, pressing a kiss to her fingers. “Simon doesn’t write romance.”
“Sentient boobs are romantic?” Delilah asked.
“God, I’d love to see him write romance,” Iris said.
“I highly doubt he could pull it off,” Jillian said in her smooth voice.
“Exactly, babe,” Iris said, beaming like the woman invented sex itself. Astrid had the sudden thought that Jillian probably owned a clit necklace.
A laugh bubbled out of her mouth.
“What’s so funny?” Iris asked.
Astrid waved a hand and turned back toward the window.
Claire cleared her throat. “I’m glad you invited the Everwoods along tonight, Ris.”
Astrid gritted her teeth. She’d already told Iris she most definitely wasnotglad for her impromptu invite more than once over lunch earlier that day, which was pretty much all Astrid had said about her morning. Iris, of course, wanted to know every detail of filming with Natasha, as well as why Jordan Everwood was talking about war when Iris first joined them outside the inn. Astrid managed to satisfy her with effusive statements like “Natasha’s amazing” and “Oh, just a few creative differences,” but the truth was, all Astrid could think about was that blue paint and howtheNatasha Rojas had called her much more modern design “uninspired.”
“Speaking of the Everwoods,” Iris said, waving her hand between the front seat and herself. “I still can’t believe you didn’t tell us that you were working with the very woman who spilled coffee all over your precious dress.”
“I heard about that little encounter,” Jillian said, leaning forward so she could see Astrid. “Rough go.”
“Yes, the roughest,” Astrid said, and Iris elbowed her in the ribs. “And I see them daily on a professional basis. I’d rather not hang out with them in my free time, thanks.”
“I had to invite them,” Iris said. “We take care of our own.”
“Who’sour own?” Astrid asked.
“Queer folk,” Iris said, again flinging her hand to the front seat and then toward Jillian.
Astrid had heard that Simon Everwood was bisexual. That was public knowledge, and he was a semi–public figure—he’d talked about it in interviews more than once. And she already knew Jordan was gay. It made sense that her entire friend group—all of them queer except for her—would be drawn to the Everwood twins.
“Okay, fair,” she said. “I’d still rather keep my personal and professional lives separate.”
Iris made an exasperated sound. “Sweetie, try to unclench. Just for tonight. You’ve been working hard and you deserve it.”
Astrid said nothing, but her throat felt suddenly tight. She knew Iris meant well, that she really just wanted Astrid to have some well-earned fun, but Astrid had always hated this view of herself—uptight, unable to let go, cold.
Everything Isabel Parker-Green embodied.
