Page 16 of Iris Kelly Doesn't Date

The humid air hit her midriff and she was tempted to cover herself, but she forced her arms to her sides.

“Badass,” Ren said, winking at Stevie without even looking at her, which was probably the most badass thing Ren could do.

“Okay,” Stevie said. “Who do we see?”

“Who doyousee,” Ren said. “I already see... several.”

Stevie followed Ren’s gaze toward a group of people by the pool table, a few of them just Ren’s type. One femme-presenting person in particular, a zaftig brunette, was already smiling at Ren from underneath long lashes.

“You should go for it,” Stevie said.

Ren waved a hand. “Maybe later. I’m here for you first and foremost. What do you think?”

Stevie concentrated. It wasn’t easy, but as her senses acclimated to the lights and sounds, she was able to make out individuals, details and colors and shapes.

“All right, what about them?” Ren said pointing to a white woman with long blond hair and glasses—Stevie did love glasses—and a pool stick in her hands. Tight jeans. Toned arms. Very nice mouth...

... which was now attached to a Latinx person with leather pants and hot pink fingernails.

“Okay, never mind,” Ren said.

“I guess that’s the tricky thing about a queer bar,” Stevie said. “Everyone could be into everyone.”

“True. But also, a bonus.” Ren waggled their eyebrows and Stevie laughed. Ren was a huge advocate for everyone having at least one threesome in their lifetime. Stevie had a hard enough time with one person—the idea of two made her brain feel the need to leave her head via her ears.

“All right, what about her?” Ren said, motioning toward a lovely Indian woman with several ear piercings by the hall that led to the bathroom. “She’s—”

“Making out with two people at once,” Stevie said. Sure enough, a blink after Ren spotted her, a dude with blond hair licked a stripe up the woman’s neck, while another person nibbled on her ear.

“Damn, good on her,” Ren said softly. “See, she knows how to make the queer bar dynamic work for her.”

Stevie smiled and shook her head, crossing her arms as she continued to look around the room. Everyone she noticed seemed to already be coupled up, dancing and making out and laughing like old friends. Her shoulders slumped a bit as she wondered how people did this all the time. Every night of the week, strangers met strangers, hooked up, fell in lust, fell in love.

Some days, Stevie spent an hour wondering if that customer whose order she’d screwed up at Bitch’s was going to sue the entire business and shut everything down, destroying all of Effie’s hard work and putting Stevie out of a job. An irrational thought, she knew, but that didn’t keep her brain from latching onto it like a sloth around a tree limb.

Acting was the only part of her life where she was free from this crippling second-guessing of every move she made. When her therapist first suggested she try theater in middle school, shortly after coming out and getting diagnosed with Generalized AnxietyDisorder, her mother was terrified. Stevie could barely answer a question in class—how was she ever going to get up in front of an audience and rattle off lines?

But Stevie wasn’t Stevie when she was on stage. She was Gwendolen Fairfax. She was Amanda Winfield. She was Ophelia and Rosalind and Bianca. Assuming a character’s identity, their dreams and fears and quirks, had always come so naturally for Stevie. Stepping into being someone else... well, it was a relief, if she was being honest.

As she stood in the middle of Lush, looking for a stranger to talk to, her stomach clenching with anxiety, she realized all she needed to do was step into a character. She wasn’t Stevie, twenty-eight-year-old barista and struggling actor. She was Stefania, a sought-after, New York- or Chicago- or LA-bound, midriff-baring theatrical badass.

She straightened her posture—Stefania would never cower from nerves—determined to find someone to approach. But seconds turned into minutes, and she was just about to say fuck it, order a tequila for herself, and force Ren to go talk to that curvy goddess by the pool table, when she saw her.

A redhead.

Standing by the jukebox, talking to a white guy with glasses and a trimmed beard. Stevie watched them for a moment, looking for signs that they were together, but the guy looked a bit rumpled, like he’d just gotten out of bed, and the woman was definitely looking out at the crowd with a tilt to her head.

Stevie recognized that tilt. TheI’m interestedtilt. TheWhat have we heretilt. Not that she was such a genius at reading body language. She simply had a feeling that the guy was sort of like Stevie’s Ren—a wingperson, moral support.

“Ren,” she said out of the corner of her mouth, like it was a secret. “The redhead by the jukebox. What do you think?”

Ren straightened and gazed through the crowd, eyes widening when they landed on their mark. “Nice.”

“You think she’s here with him?” Stevie asked.

“Nah,” Ren said. “She looks hungry.”

Stevie smiled, thrilled she’d actually gotten that one right. Now all she had to do was...