Iris Kelly Doesn't Date (Bright Falls, #3)

by Ashley Herring Blake

If Stevie had a brand, it was an underwhelming amalgam of anxiety and childish dreams she couldn’t seem to relinquish.

They understood—better than anyone, lately—that Stevie’s struggles with Generalized Anxiety Disorder were very real, but Ren tended to have a tough love approach to things, which, sometimes, made Stevie even more anxious.

Extreme anxiety made her literally nauseous, and nothing triggered that lovely symptom more than trying to charm a beautiful stranger.

but the thought of taking those trips alone, much less moving, made her stomach feel like it just might take up permanent residence outside of her body.

Her anxiety would flare, and she’d spend the next week convinced her friends hated her, she’d die alone and miserable, and wasn’t worth a damn to anyone. Then, when said friend or family member eventually got ahold of her to tell her that, no, of course they didn’t hate her, why in the world would she think that, her anxiety would crest once again, convincing her that she was terrible at understanding people and could never trust her own brain to make heads or tails of any social situation.

She liked sex. A lot. That was never the problem. It was building up to that point with someone she barely knew that she could never handle.

An irrational thought, she knew, but that didn’t keep her brain from latching onto it like a sloth around a tree limb.

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.

I don’t always know what’s going to trigger my anxiety, and it’s like, the whole fucking world won’t slow down, you know?

But she’d gotten really good at ignoring those kinds of sparks over the years, so that’s exactly what she did now, taking in the movie, that spark itself, like she would a fantasy novel or film. It was breathtaking, beautiful, but at the end of the day, an impossibility.

It’s not always easy to separate myself from my illness, or to even understand if I should separate myself at all? Like, what is my personality and what is my anxiety? Or are they the same thing? It’s confusing sometimes.”

“Yeah, but with acting, I have a script. That’s why I love it so much. No surprises. Even if I have to kiss someone on stage, I know when it’s coming. I know what I say and what my partner says right before it happens. I know exactly what to do and say afterward. It’s different than actual life.”

Don’t get me wrong, feelings are still scary, but it’s like a language that I understand. Fear. Happiness. Hope. Despair. Anger. I get what those things are, what they mean. But the physical stuff, using my body to talk when my body feels constantly at war with my brain . . . I might as well try to communicate with people on another planet.”

She knew she and Adri didn’t have what she wanted, didn’t have what Adri wanted either, but she also craved familiarity. Safety.

Maybe those kinds of stories were simply that—stories. Myths humanity wove to thread hope through the meaningless chaos of life.

“I don’t need to slow down, Iris. If I slow down, I’ll think, and if I think, I’ll never go through with it. I’ll talk myself out of it, like I talk myself out of everything that scares the shit out of me, and then I’ll be stuck. Or worse, I’ll go back to someone who doesn’t even want to actually be with me because . . . I don’t even know why. Because it’s easy, because it’s safe.”

But that was the tricky thing about love—it was selfless and also needy; generous, but greedy and desperate too.

“The exact thing you said I was doing,” Stevie said, “trying to tell me this is nothing. You’re trying to tell me you’re not worth considering. Not worth factoring into my life. Again.

She breathed in her anger at Iris’s cowardice and denial of what they had, letting it push out the ache in her heart. Anger was easier. Anger was fire, cleansing and overpowering.

Look, I know you all love me. I do. But sometimes . . . you assume you know what’s best for me before even giving me the space to figure it out myself.”