She set the envelope down, looked around her apartment. Her pulse was in her throat, her ears, and she half expected Iris to reveal herself like a bouquet of flowers. But the space was quiet. Stevie took out her phone, wondering if maybe Iris had texted her, but there was nothing, just a blank screen featuring the photo Stevie had taken of the Delacorte her first week in New York.
Her fingertips whitened on the book. She wasn’t sure what she wanted these last pages to show, how she wanted this story to end. Or rather, she was very sure, had never been more sure of anything in her life, but her protective strategies were sliding into place, lies she’d convinced herself were true to keep her heart from shattering more than it already had.
I’m over her.
I’m happy without her.
I don’t want her anymore.
I’m just lonely.
But she knew none of those things were true.
So she turned the page.
It took a few moments for Stevie to register what she was seeing. Iris had drawn herself standing on a street in front of a red brick building, her back to the viewer. Her hair was dark in the dim light, long and wild, and she wore jeans and heeled brown boots, a grass-green pea coat.
And in one hand, held loosely at her side, was a single yellow tulip.
Stevie stood up, her limbs shaky and fizzing with adrenaline. Her eyes roamed the page, desperate for every detail . . . for why . . . what . . .
She sucked in a loud breath.
Iris was standing at the bottom of a set of stone steps.
Familiar steps.
Familiar double glass doors at the top.
Familiar decorative cornices around the windows.
“Oh my god,” Stevie said, pressing one hand to her mouth. She only hesitated a moment before shoving her feet into a pair of boots and then closing her fingers around her doorknob, flinging the door open with such force, it smacked loudly into the wall. She flew down the stairs, the book pressed against her chest. Her eyes stung, tears already forming, and goddammit, she tried to hold them back, tried to prepare herself if she was wrong, if she’d misinterpreted that drawing, if Iris wasn’t really . . . if she didn’t actually . . .
Stevie burst out of the building, her lungs working so hard to keep her upright she felt a little dizzy. Her eyes strained to adjust to the growing dark, the cool fall air hitting her like a slap, desperate to see—
Wild red hair.
A green pea coat.
A single yellow tulip.
Stevie didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. She didn’t even remember getting down the steps, but suddenly she was standing in front of Iris, breathing the same autumn air, her ginger and citrus scent like a drug, and the only thing Stevie could do was stare at her, starving for her face, her mouth, that blue freckle right under her left eye.
“Hi,” Iris said, and Stevie’s knees nearly buckled, that voice curling around her like a warm coat in the middle of winter.
“How long have you been out here?” Stevie said, wrapping her cardigan tighter around her torso, book to her chest. “It’s freezing.”
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