Page 138 of Iris Kelly Doesn't Date

But she didn’t know how to finish that sentence, because Stevie was right. And it was so obvious in every single one of these illustrations, how gone she was on this woman, how wrapped up.

How in love.

She shook her head, ready to protest a bit more, but suddenly, Stevie’s hands were on her face, cupping her cheeks and tilting her head up to meet her eyes. Iris’s heart swelled into her throat, tears flying down her cheeks.

“Come with me,” Stevie whispered against her mouth.

Iris froze. “What?”

“Come with me, Iris. To New York. Come with me. Live with me. I love you, okay? I am wildly, stupidly in love with you. Yes, I messed up. Yes, I chose me, but I choose you too. That’s what love is, right?I want both, and I know you do too. We can figure this out, we can. Just say yes.”

Iris squeezed her eyes shut, but Stevie didn’t back away. She didn’t take it back. She just kept whispering, “Come with me,” while her thumbs swiped Iris’s tears away.

And fuck, Iris wanted to say yes. She wanted it so badly, her fingers tingled, her heart beat as though jolted with a shot of electricity. She could see it—her and Stevie on the streets of New York, holding hands in Central Park, Stevie glowing on stage with Iris in the front row with a bouquet of yellow tulips for her star, kissing in their bed, their apartment, their own private universe, the city sounds like music on the street below.

It was a beautiful vision. A dream. But that’s all it was. Because even as Iris wanted to say yes, that old fear crept up her throat like a poison, that armor around her heart tightening its locks, bringing with it the understanding that, eventually, Stevie would change her mind. Or she’d push to get married or have babies or some other thing Iris simply didn’t want. And then she’d look at Iris like Grant had, like Jillian had, like she wasn’t...

Enough.

And Iris couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t bear for Stevie, her Stevie, to ever look at her like that. She couldn’t give everything away—her entire life in Bright Falls, her friends, her family—for a person who would eventually see Iris for exactly who she was.

“Look,” Stevie said, taking the iPad out of Iris’s hands and flipping through Iris’s illustrations again. “Let’s make a new drawing. You and me, right now, in New York.”

“Stevie,” Iris said.

Stevie shook her head, fingers trembling as she flipped through drawing after drawing. “We can do it, okay? How do I get to a blank page?”

“Stevie,” Iris said again.

“No, Iris.” She kept flipping. “Just think about it, okay? We can—”

She stopped, her mouth open, gaze reflecting the screen.

Iris closed her eyes, knowing exactly what drawing Stevie had finally landed on, the one Iris had just sketched this morning—Stevie, arms outstretched in the middle of Times Square, a lovely smile on her face.

Alone.

Stevie blinked down at the black-and-white drawing. It was good, if Iris did say so herself, capturing all of Stevie’s strength and fear and determination.

Slowly, Iris pulled the iPad from her hands, slipped it back into her bag. Stevie let her, a shocked expression on her face.

“I can’t,” Iris said simply, and left it at that. She opened Stevie’s door, stepped through it.

“You know,” Stevie said as Iris’s feet hit the hallway.

Iris froze, but she didn’t turn around.

“Ever since we met, I thought I was the one who was scared,” Stevie said, her voice low and quiet. Steady. “I’mthe one who needed confidence.Ineeded to take a chance.Ineeded to be brave. But really, all this time, it was you. You’re the real coward, Iris. Aren’t you?”

Iris’s chin trembled, the truth of Stevie’s words closing around her like a second skin.

But she couldn’t do this again—this moment, after only six weeks together, was already enough to crush her lungs. What would six months do to her?

Six years?

So she didn’t answer. She didn’t say anything at all. Instead, she simply walked away, leaving the woman she loved crying in her doorway.

Just like the coward they both knew she was.