Book Club Buddies

Iris took the stairs instead of the elevator, mostly because turning forty in a week had apparently transformed every flight of stairs into a moral victory. One more step toward cardiovascular health. One less excuse for her metabolism to betray her.

The thought almost made her laugh as she climbed to the third floor, one hand trailing lightly along the rail. Forty. God. Even thinking the number felt strange. Not horrifying exactly, but... solid. Adult in a way thirty never had been. Thirty still carried momentum to it. Potential. Forty sounded like a woman who owned matching luggage and had argued about investment strategies.

Which, admittedly, she did.

Still, the number lingered in uncomfortable places lately. In mirrors. In changing rooms. In the occasional late-night silence after George fell asleep beside her.

Not that she looked forty.

Nobody would say that.

Yoga saw to it. So did the expensive moisturizer lined up on her bathroom counter, the careful makeup, the hair appointments every six weeks without fail. Blonde bob perfectly maintained. Eyeliner precise. Gloss subtle but intentional. The pink tank top she wore hugged her figure in a way that reminded her she still looked good. Very good, honestly. Grey leggings, spotless white sneakers, gold hoop earrings.

Casual. Polished. Effortless in the extremely calculated way effortless usually was.

And George certainly appreciated the effort.

A small smile crossed her face at the thought of her husband. Forty-two years old, successful, handsome in that broad-shouldered real-estate-agent sort of way. They'd been together nearly half her life now. Married at twenty-three. Three kids later and somehow they still liked each other.

That mattered she'd ever admitted to anyone.

Alexander was fourteen already, somehow taller every month. Sophia had just turned ten and recently decided she hated every shirt Iris bought for her. Zoe still climbed into their bed during thunderstorms despite being nine and insisting she wasn't a baby anymore.

A full life. A good life. So why did forty still feel like standing at the edge of something?

The third-floor landing arrived before the thought could settle properly. Probably for the best. Much nicer to think about Zara.

Now there was an unexpected chapter in her life.

Back in high school, girls like Zara would've ended up eaten alive socially. Too nerdy. Too enthusiastic. Too sincere about things everyone else pretended not to care about. Teenage Iris had travelled in glossy packs of girls who communicated through eye-rolls and strategically cruel comments.

Looking back on that version of herself made embarrassment crawl up her neck. Age improved some people.

Thank God.

The friendship had started because of a book club of all things. One recommendation from a woman at yoga and suddenly Iris found herself spending Thursday evenings at a local coffee shop discussing literature with strangers. Zara had been there the same night. Tiny little thing with black pixie-cut hair, oversized glasses, and enough enthusiasm to power a small city. Iris remembered thinking she was exhausting for approximately six minutes.

Then Zara made a joke nobody else understood.

Iris laughed.

And that was basically it.

Now they texted constantly.

Life was weird. Weirder still, Iris genuinely adored her. The current book club read, The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo, had given them plenty to discuss already. But tonight wasn't about that.

Today was about The Three-Body Problem. The paperback tucked under Iris' arm suddenly felt heavier in the best way.

Definitely not the sort of novel she'd ever have picked herself. Dense science fiction usually made her feel like she'd accidentally wandered into a physics lecture without prerequisites. But Zara had recommended it with such ****, vibrating enthusiasm that refusing would've felt cruel.

And somehow...

Somehow she'd loved it.

Not just enjoyed it. Loved it.

The ideas still rattled around in her skull days later. Humanity feeling small. Space feeling terrifying. Entire civilizations unfolding across impossible scales. Iris had finished the final chapter sitting alone at her kitchen island long after midnight, staring blankly into space while George snored upstairs.

Zara had nearly exploded trying not to spoil it while Iris read.

"No, no, I can't explain why that's important yet."

Or:

"Oh my God, text me after chapter thirty-four."

Or sometimes just incoherent keyboard smashing. The memory made Iris grin as she approached the apartment. Hopefully Zara had time for coffee. Or tea. Or one of those radioactive gamer-energy drinks she occasionally drank while claiming they tasted "chemically nostalgic."

Raising her hand, Iris knocked.

Movement sounded immediately from inside. Quick footsteps. Excited footsteps.

A lock clicked.

The door flew open.

"There you are!" Zara announced immediately, already smiling. "Okay, first of all, you took long enough and second of all, if you hated it you have to tell me gently because I emotionally invested in your opinion like an idiot."

The sight of her almost made Iris laugh. Even indoors, Zara looked like she'd dressed for an audience of exactly one person. Tiny yellow shorts. Thin-strapped top. Glasses slightly crooked like she'd forgotten to check them in a mirror. Energy radiating off her in waves.

Happy energy. More than usual, actually. Interesting.

"I didn't hate it," Iris said dryly. "I came here voluntarily, didn't I?"

"Oh my God, you liked it."

"Slow down, nerd."

"I knew it!" Zara grabbed her arm and practically bounced once in place. "I knew you'd like it once the existential dread kicked in."

Iris shook her head, smiling despite herself as she stepped inside. The apartment smelled faintly of coffee and toasted bread. Comfortable. Warm. Lived in.

Then her eyes drifted toward the couch.

And the tiny hairs along her arms rose instantly.