Holding up her broken bathing suit with one hand, she pulled a still-pale Iris away until they reached the gender-neutral locker room, intent on getting Iris as far away from those two assholes as possible.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
JILLIAN.
Of all the fucking people.
Iris knew Jillian lived in Portland, but Iris still hadn’t seen her former lover since the morning of Claire and Delilah’s housewarming party last year.
On that night, Lucy had called Iris—on the phone Jillian had accidentally left behind—and the whole affair had broken wide open. Lucy had even cried to Iris as they’d sort of lamented the injustice together. Now, clearly, anger had replaced any commiseration.
“Hey,” Stevie said.
Iris blinked at the locker room around her, all smooth teak lockers and marble tile. Plush white towels were stacked on shelves, and wooden beams stretched across the ceiling. Gleaming bowl-style sinks lined the shiny counters, and the air smelled of herbs—lavender and basil and mint.
“Jesus, this place is fancy,” Iris said. Her voice sounded off, barely there.
Stevie laughed. “Yeah, I don’t think I’ll be acquiring a membership anytime soon.”
Iris nodded, still gazing around at all the glamor. The room was empty, but when she spotted a sauna in the back corner of the room, she headed straight for it.
The space was warm, though not sweltering, but Iris still plopped onto the teak bench and flung off her towel. Leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
She heard Stevie come in and settle across from her, towel brushing Iris’s ankles.
“That was quite the heroic scene out there,” Iris said without opening her eyes. “Stefania in action?”
Stevie didn’t say anything.
Iris squeezed her eyes even tighter. She didn’t want to look at Stevie. Didn’t want to see the questions there, the judgment. Shame clouded into Iris’s chest, her fingers curling into fists. She didn’t think of Jillian often. After it all went down over a year ago, it had taken Iris a few weeks to really process the whole affair, and she liked to think she’d reconciled that it wasn’t her fault, that she hadn’t known anything about Jillian’s marriage or her lies. But there were moments, brief flashes where Iris’s brain would go back through the entire thing, from the moment Jillian walked into her shop to the night Lucy called, and then it was hard to breathe.
Hard to look at herself in the mirror.
Iris hadn’t loved Jillian. She knew that—it wasn’t about love. The sex had been unreal, true, and they had done things together that didn’t involve orgasms, nights out at chic bars and a few art shows at fancy Portland galleries. But more than any of that, it was the fact that Jillian hadpickedIris.
She’d singled her out.
She’d found her on Instagram, hired her to design a customplanner, then promptly fucked her behind her wife’s back when the job was done.
And Iris had just... let her do it.
“Fuck,” Iris said now, pressing her knuckles into her eyes. “I’m sure you’re wondering what the hell that was all about.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” Stevie said. “But are you okay?”
Iris finally opened her eyes. Stevie’s gaze was soft, so brown and deep and intense, Iris didn’t even bother to lie.
“I don’t know,” she said, and something about the admission caused tears to swell into her eyes. She swiped at them uselessly. “Dammit. Sorry.”
“Hey, it’s okay,” Stevie said. “One time, I threw up on this woman I was trying to get into bed, so, you know, could be worse.”
Iris’s eyes went wide for a second before she bust up laughing. “Holy shit.”
“I know, worst date story you’ve ever heard, right?”
Iris kept laughing, her shoulders shaking. Thankfully, Stevie started laughing too because, Christ, itwasfunny.
In retrospect, at least.
