Iris shrugged, laughed. Her nose was red from the chill and Stevie wanted to kiss it. Kiss her.
“A while?” Iris said, then motioned to a bench half a block down the sidewalk. “I’ve been sitting over there for about two hours. Before you came home.”
“You . . . you saw me?” Stevie said. “Why didn’t you—”
“I didn’t want you to feel like you had to talk to me,” Iris said, stepping closer. “I wanted it to be your choice.”
“When I saw the drawing,” Stevie said, hugging the book even closer.
Iris nodded. “When you saw the drawing.”
“How did you know I was here?” Stevie asked. “How did you draw my building and put it in a book?”
Iris bit her lip. “Well, Claire wouldn’t give me your address from when you ordered my book. Ethics or some shit.”
Stevie laughed.
“So I called Ren,” Iris said. “And it’s amazing the details you can get from Google’s street view.”
Stevie could only stare at her, awed at the effort Iris had gone through, the time she’d spent, the things she’d created just to give Stevie a story.
No. Not just a story.
Their story.
“You’re here,” Stevie said, the fact of it finally settling around her heart.
Iris smiled, but it was small, nervous, and it was the most beautiful thing Stevie had ever seen.
“I am,” Iris said. “I’m sorry it took me so long.”
Tears spilled down Stevie’s cheeks, because this.
Iris.
In New York, wooing Stevie with art and flowers and romance.
For the last month, Stevie had been okay. She was still okay, and she’d be okay if she’d never seen Iris again. She knew that, without a doubt—she was capable, she had friends and family who loved her, who supported her, who would help her when she fell apart.
Yes, Stevie Scott would be just fine without Iris Kelly.
But she wouldn’t be this.
Completely alight with this woman who was wild and unpredictable, soft and vulnerable and sweet, so beautiful Stevie sometimes couldn’t look directly at her, like she was staring at the sun, dizzy and terrified and euphoric.
Seeing her now, here, flesh and blood, Stevie felt a tiny corner of her heart she’d convinced herself she could live without spark to life, enervating her blood, her bones, her skin. Stevie wanted Iris, and she didn’t care why it took Iris so long to get to this point, she didn’t care about anything except the way Iris was looking at her right now, her eyes wide and hopeful and scared, and Stevie couldn’t do anything but frame her face in her hands, swipe her thumbs over her cheeks.
Iris inhaled sharply, her eyes fluttering closed as Stevie pressed their foreheads together.
“You’re here,” Stevie said again.
Iris laughed, a watery, relieved sound, gripping Stevie’s hips with that tulip still in her hands. Stevie kissed her eyes, her temple, her cheeks, trailing down until their mouths met, a desperate press, tears and teeth and tongues.
“I’m so sorry,” Iris said, pulling away enough to look Stevie in the eyes. “I am so sorry, Stevie, and I—”
“Shh,” Stevie said. “I know.”
“No, you don’t.” Iris shook her head and gripped Stevie’s wrists, her beautiful green eyes dark and shiny. “But I want you to. I want you to know that I love you. I do. I’m sorry I lied. You were right—I was a coward, but I was . . . god, Stevie, I was scared. So fucking scared, and I’m pretty sure I still am, and I might need you to be patient with me, but I can’t . . . I have to try. You were so brave for me, and I want to do the same. I want to be brave for you.”
She took a deep breath, her exhale so shaky, Stevie just wanted to kiss her, quiet her, but she knew Iris needed to get this out.
“I spent a lot of time,” Iris went on, “convincing myself I wasn’t built to last, wasn’t built for romance, for love. But maybe . . .” Tears bloomed into her eyes. “Maybe I was just built for you.”
Stevie’s heart swelled—that’s what it felt like, her chest expanding, making more room—and she smiled. She held Iris’s face and kissed her once . . . twice . . . then whispered against her mouth. “What offense, sweet Beatrice?”
Iris laughed, pulled Stevie closer, tighter, one arm around her waist and the other holding her hand, the tulip now tangled in both of their fingers. She danced Stevie in a circle, pressing her mouth to her ear and whispering, “You have stayed me in a happy hour. I was about to protest I love thee.”
“And do it with all thy heart,” Stevie said, sliding her nose along Iris’s throat.
Iris arched her neck, giving Stevie more access, but then she straightened, took Stevie’s face in her hands, locked their gazes in a way that made Stevie’s breath catch, made her heart settle and soar all at once.
“I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest,” Iris said.
And as they danced, held each other and laughed, whispered and kissed and touched, right there in the middle of a Brooklyn sidewalk, Stevie knew Iris Kelly was finally telling the truth.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Six Months Later
THE EVERWOOD INN at springtime was a riot of color. Red, pink, and yellow tulips flourished, bordering the walkway to the front door, while fuchsia rhododendrons and wildflowers encircled the backyard where a gauzy tent laced with fairy lights arched under the oaks.
Iris felt herself exhale as she walked into Claire and Delilah’s wedding space—underneath the tent, it was golden and green, candles already lit on the ten circular wooden tables. The event would be small, but perfect, Iris had no doubt, as Astrid Parker stood near the center of the tent with her iPad, dressed in a black tea dress, ruling the world.
Iris watched her for a second, this first in-person glimpse of her friend since she moved to Brooklyn four months ago like a cooling sip of water on a July afternoon.
“She looks good,” Stevie said, her fingers tangled with Iris’s.
Iris smiled. “She always does.”
“Don’t you want to say hi?”
Iris nodded but didn’t move. In all honesty, her heart felt huge in her chest, her eyes stinging slightly. God, she’d missed Astrid. She’d missed them all, but she knew that was part of the deal when she decided to move across the country to be with Stevie. It was the right choice. Iris loved New York, loved Brooklyn in particular, and there was nothing like waking up next to Stevie Scott every morning, kissing her to sleep every night.
Iris was happy, hard at work on her third novel, partnered with the most beautiful person in the world.
But god, it was nice to be home.
“You okay?” Stevie asked, sliding a hand down Iris’s hair.
Iris nodded, pressed her nose to her girlfriend’s neck. Even six months after their reconciliation outside of Stevie’s apartment in Brooklyn, after the long discussion they had afterward about next steps, after two arduous months where they did long distance before Iris moved to New York, she still couldn’t believe she got to kiss this woman every day. Touch her, hold hands while walking down the street. Even more, she couldn’t believe how much she loved doing it—all the relationship things she’d convinced herself for too long she wasn’t built for, didn’t want.