"No.But I get as close as possible." I turn my wine glass in my hands. "When I was a kid, everything felt chaotic. My parents fighting, my mother's moods, the secret of my grandmother that no one would explain. I couldn't control any of it. But when I started planning—" I shrug. "At least that felt manageable."
Cat is quiet for a moment. "And is this manageable? This situation?"
"Not even slightly."
"Good." She sets down her glass. "I think maybe you've had too much manageable in your life. I think maybe you need some chaos."
"Chaos and I don't mix well."
"Maybe you've never tried the right kind."
Her eyes meet mine across the table, and something passes between us. Before I can respond, she stands.
"I'm turning in. Early morning tomorrow—Jacques wants us to check the irrigation system."
"Right. Okay."
She pauses in the doorway, silhouetted against the warm light from inside.
"You know," she says, "you're not as uptight as I thought."
"Is that a compliment?"
"It's an observation." Her smile is slow. "You've got layers. I'm starting to see them."
She disappears inside, and I'm left alone on the terrace, watching the stars emerge and trying to convince myself that my racing heart is just the wine.
It's not the wine.
The realization settles over me like a wave, terrifying and inevitable.
I want Cat, and I have no idea what to do about it.
10
CAT
I call Michel because I can't sleep and because the time difference means it's only nine in London and because I'm going out of my bloody mind.
"Tell me what's happening," he says instead of hello, because Michel has known me for fifteen years and can always tell when I'm spiraling.
"Nothing's happening."
"Cat."
"Fine. Something's happening. Maybe. I don't know."
"Is this about the inheritance? The house? The mysterious blood relative you're supposed to share it with?"
"Her name is Iris." The words come out before I can stop them. "She's not mysterious. She's just—" I stop, trying to find the right word.
"Just what?"
"Complicated."
"Complicated how?"
I'm lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling where the moonlight makes patterns through the shutters. The house is quiet. Iris is probably sleeping, oblivious to the fact that I've been lying here thinking about the way she laughed at the goat story and the way her hair catches the light and the way my heart did something stupid when she didn't pull away from my touch in the garden.
