“Because I excel at writing?” he countered.
Iris smiled. “That, among other things.”
She kissed him—a light brushing of her lips against his—and he was still, as if she had enchanted him. But soon his mouth eagerly opened beneath hers, his hands tracing the curve of her spine. It sent a shiver through her, to feel his fingertips memorize her, to feel his teeth nip at her bottom lip as they began to explore each other.
She touched him in return, learning the broad slope of his shoulders and the dip of his collarbone and the sharp cut of his jaw. She felt like she was drowning; she felt like she had run up the bluff. There was a pleasant ache within her—bright and vibrant and molten—and she realized that she wanted to feel his skin against hers.
He broke their kiss, his eyes glazed as they briefly met hers. He pressed his mouth to her neck, as if drinking in the scent of her skin. His fingers were splayed over her back, holding her close against him, and his breath was warm on her throat.
“Marry me, Iris Elizabeth Winnow,” Roman whispered, drawing back to look at her. “I want to spend all my days and all my nights with you. Marry me.”
Iris, heart full of fire, framed his face with her hands. She had never been this close to someone, but she felt safe with Roman. And she had not felt such safety in a long time.
“Iris … Iris, say something,” he begged.
“Yes, I’ll marry you, Roman Carver Kitt.”
Roman’s confidence returned, a flicker of a smile. She watched it in his eyes, like stars burning at eventide; she felt it in his body as the tension melted. He wove his fingers into her long, unruly hair and said, “I thought you’d never say yes, Winnow.”
It had only been a matter of seconds.
She laughed again.
His mouth found hers, swallowing the sound.
When her blood was coursing, she ended their kiss to ask, “When are we getting married?”
“This afternoon,” Roman replied without hesitation. “You said it earlier: at any moment, a bomb could drop. We don’t know what tomorrow might bring.”
She nodded, agreeing. But her thoughts bent to dusk. If they exchanged vows today, they would be sharing a bed together tonight. And while she had imagined being with him before … she was a virgin.
“Kitt, I’ve never slept with anyone before.”
“Neither have I.” He tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear. “But if that’s something you’re not ready for, then we can wait.”
She could hardly speak as she caressed his face. “I don’t want to wait. I want to experience this with you.”
She leaned down to kiss him again.
“Do you think I need to ask Marisol for permission to marry you?” he eventually asked against her lips.
Iris smiled. “I don’t know. Should you?”
“I think so. I also need Attie’s approval.”
They were really doing this, then. As soon as Marisol and Attie returned from the infirmary, she was going to marry Roman. She was about to say something more when the tree boughs rustled overhead. She heard the yard gate swing open, its rusty hinges whining. She heard the chimes Marisol had hanging at the terrace, a tangle of silver notes.
Iris knew it was the western wind, a surprising burst of power, blowing from the front lines.
A sense of unease came over her. It almost felt as if she and Roman were being watched, and Iris frowned, glancing around the garden.
“What is it?” Roman asked, and she heard a thread of worry in his voice.
“I just have a lot on my mind,” she said, her attention returning to him. “There’s so much happening right now. And I haven’t even begun to work on my article.”
Roman laughed. She loved the sound of it and nearly stole it from his mouth but resisted, playfully scowling at him.
“What’s so funny, Kitt?”
“You and your work ethic, Winnow.”
“If I remember correctly, you were one of the last people to leave the Gazette almost every single night.”
“So I was. And you’ve just given me an idea.”
“I have?”
He nodded. “Why don’t we open the twin doors and bring our type writers down to the kitchen? We can write at the table and enjoy this warm air while we wait for Marisol and Attie to return.”
Iris narrowed her eyes. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying, Kitt?”
“Yes.” Roman traced the corner of her mouth with his fingertip. “Let’s work together.”
{37}
The Crime of Joy
They sat across from each other at the kitchen table, their typewriters nearly touching. Their notepads were open, stray papers with thoughts and outlines and snippets spread over the wood. It was harder than Iris had anticipated, looking over the notes she had gathered at the front. The stories of soldiers she knew were now dead.
“Any ideas on where to start?” Roman asked, as if he was feeling the same reluctance as her.
Sometimes she still dreamt of that afternoon. Sometimes she dreamt she was endlessly running through the trenches, unable to find her way out, her mouth full of blood.
Iris cleared her throat, flipping to the next page. “No.”
“I suppose we could tackle this in two different ways,” he said, dropping his notepad on the table. “We could write about our experiences and the timeline of the attack. Or we could edit the stories we gathered about individual soldiers.”
Iris was pensive, but she felt like Roman was right. “Do you remember much, Kitt? After the grenade went off?”
Roman raked his hand through his hair, mussing it even more than it already was. “A bit, yes. I think the pain had me quite dazed, but I vividly remember you, Iris.”
“So you remember how stubborn you were, then? How you insisted I grab your bag and leave you.”
“I remember feeling like I was about to die, and I wanted you to know who I was,” he said, meeting her gaze.
Iris fell silent, pulling a loose thread from her sleeve. “I wasn’t about to let you die.”
“I know,” Roman said, and a smile broke over his face. “And yes. Stubborn is my middle name. Don’t you know it by now?”
“I believe that name is already taken, Carver.”
“Do you know what Carver would like right about now? Some tea.”
“Make your own tea, lazybones,” Iris said, but she was already rising from her chair, thankful that he had given her something to do. A moment to step away from the memories that were flooding her.
By the time she had prepared two cups, Roman had started to transcribe soldier stories. Iris decided it would be best for her to write about the actual attack, since she had been lucid the entire time.
She fed a fresh page into her typewriter and stared at its crisp blankness for a long moment, sipping her tea. It was strangely comforting to hear Roman type. She almost laughed when she remembered how it had once irked her, to know his words were flowing while she worked on classifieds and obituaries.
She needed to break this ice.
Her fingers touched the keys, tentatively at first. As if remembering their purpose.
She began to write, and the words felt slow and thick at first. But she fell into a rhythm with Roman, and soon her keys were rising and falling, the accompaniment to his, as if they were creating a metallic song together.