Stevie forced herself to keep eye contact. God, Olivia was pretty. Sweet. She understood theater life, had already helped Stevie navigate so much in New York, from where to get the most delicious bagels to the best little-known indie bookstores in Brooklyn.
She checked in with herself, gauged her breathing, her thought process, felt her legs pressing into the couch’s worn leather, all things her therapist encouraged her to do when faced with a new situation.
She wasn’t nervous—or at least, not in a way that crippled her, made her feel helpless and paralyzed. Her stomach fluttered a bit, butthat was normal for Stevie, as was the warmth rushing into her cheeks right now.
“Oh, that is adorable,” Olivia said, laughing.
“God, sorry,” Stevie said, pressing her palms to her heated face, but she laughed too, the embarrassment easy and light, like a joke between friends.
And Stevie realized she wanted to say yes to Olivia. She had zero reasons not to, other than potential awkwardness during the play, but they were both professionals. Adults. And theater would hardly be theater if actors didn’t connect in these ways during productions. Olivia was safe, made Stevie laugh. She was lovely. She was perfect, really.
So... why couldn’t Stevie get thatyesoff her tongue?
She even opened her mouth, ready to take the chance, ready to try, ready todate, but all she could see in her mind—all she couldfeel, right there under her skin—was Iris.
Stevie exhaled, and Olivia saw it happen, that subtle droop of Stevie’s shoulders.
“It’s okay,” Olivia said.
“I want to say yes,” Stevie said. “I do. But I... I just got out of something, right before I moved here.”
Olivia nodded, waved a hand. “Totally fine. I get it.”
Stevie watched her, and she really did look fine, her smile just as real, just as eye-reaching. “I think I could really use a friend though. If you’re in the market.”
Olivia grabbed Stevie’s hand and pressed a kiss to her palm, a loud, friendly smack. “Already done.”
Stevie smiled, squeezed her hand, and then they got back to the script. Just like that. No awkwardness, no hurt feelings. It was amazing, really, the fucking maturity of it all. It took a while for Stevie’s heart to slow, for her fingertips to feel like they weren’t fizzing with adrenaline, but soon, she was back to normal, sitting in a Brooklyn café with her co-actor and friend.
Still, as the sun moved west across the sky and Olivia stood up, declaring she had to meet her two roommates for a house meeting about how one of them kept clogging the toilet and very pointedly notunclogging it, Stevie wished she could change her mind.
She wished Iris wasn’t still with her, hovering like a phantom, making her unready for someone as great as Olivia. As she walked back to her apartment, the dying light spreading gold over the city, she forced her mind to think of other things—the cup of tea she planned to make when she got home; her virtual therapy appointment in two days; Thayer’s most recent email updating her on the cast, which included the man who would play Orlando, an up-and-coming and publicly out gay actor who’d just finished a press tour for his first feature film.
All of these thoughts, from the mundane to the nearly fantastical, should’ve done the trick. They should’ve shoved a wild redhead right out of her mind, forcing Stevie into her lifenow, her realitynow, her heart and feelings and needsnow, but they didn’t.
They rarely did.
She knew from experience she probably needed a bit more than thoughts—she needed some intense distraction, like a movie or more work on her script. She could always work on her role, weaving together a Rosalind who was fresh and intoxicating and vulnerable.
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
