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. Kissher.
“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 youdrawmy 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.
Theirstory.
“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 bethis.
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.
