Chapter Twenty
The cafe was the kind of place that served coffee in mismatched vintage cups and had a blackboard menu written in chalk that was definitely supposed to look artisanal but mostly just looked smudged.
Iona had arrived ten minutes early because she was constitutionally incapable of being late to anything, and had already rearranged the salt and pepper shakers a dozen times by the time Maeve walked in.
And Iona’s heart felt funny because the truth was, she hadn’t wanted anything so much for so long.
The truth was that until Maeve kissed her again, until she knew that all was not lost, she’d been living on autopilot.
And now this. Maeve. Her. Finally. And it was like everything had come together, all the pieces fit and…
and she was damned if she was going to let Maeve get away with running again.
Not when they’d had two beginnings and no ending.
Not yet. Even if that meant having an uncomfortable conversation.
"You came," she said.
"You asked." Maeve slid into the seat opposite, movements stiff. "And I was already in London. It seemed inefficient to avoid you."
"Inefficient? It’s a big city, Maeve. You could probably have managed it."
Maeve lifted an eyebrow. "Are you asking to be avoided? Because this whole band thing is going to be tough if you are."
"No," Iona said pleasantly. "No, I’m not. But you're trying to pretend that kiss last night didn't happen. How's that working out for you?"
Maeve's jaw tightened. "I was hoping we could discuss the setlist for next week."
"We could. Or we could discuss the fact that you kissed me and then ran away like the building was on fire. Again."
"The building wasn't on fire."
"I'm aware. It’s my building. I think I’d have noticed."
A waitress appeared, young and harried-looking, notepad at the ready. "What can I get you?"
"Black coffee," Maeve said, not looking at her.
"Cappuccino, please," Iona said, with a smile warm enough to make up for Maeve's curtness. "And maybe a scone? Do you have scones?"
"We have artisanal biscotti."
"I'll take two."
The waitress retreated. Maeve was staring at the table.
"You're doing that thing," Iona said.
"What thing?"
"The thing where you go very quiet and very angry and hope I'll get uncomfortable and leave."
"Is it working?"
"Not even slightly." Iona folded her hands on the table. "I've known you since we were kids, Maeve. You can't out-stubborn me. I’m raising a teenager."
Something flickered across Maeve's face. Iona couldn't tell if it was amusement or irritation. Possibly both. "Fine," Maeve said, finally looking up. "You want to talk about the kiss? Let's talk about the kiss. It was a mistake."
"Was it?"
"Yes."
"You didn't seem to think so at the time."
"I wasn't thinking at all at the time. That's the problem." Maeve's voice dropped, some of the defensiveness bleeding out of it. "I don't think when I'm around you. I just feel things, and then I do things, and then everything goes wrong."
"Everything doesn't have to go wrong."
"It does with me." Maeve's laugh was short and humorless. "That's what I do, Iona. I ruin things. I get scared, and I get angry, and I ruin things at the beginning before they have a chance to be ruined properly at the end. It's easier that way. Cleaner."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is."
"Then stop doing it."
Maeve stared at her. "Just like that?"
"Why not?" Iona shrugged, keeping her voice light even though her heart was hammering. "You've already kissed me. Twice, actually. The damage is done. Might as well see what happens next."
"What happens next is I hurt you," Maeve said flatly. "That's what I do. That's what I've always done."
"You left," Iona said. "Fifteen years ago. You left without saying goodbye, without explaining, without anything. I've spent fifteen years wondering what I did wrong."
"You didn't do anything wrong."
"Then why did you go?"
The waitress returned with their drinks, setting them down with slightly too much enthusiasm. Coffee sloshed over the rim of Maeve's cup. She didn't seem to notice.
"Because I was drinking," Maeve said quietly, after the waitress had gone. "And I was a mess. And you were this bright, brilliant thing, and I was going to drag you down with me if I stayed. You didn't deserve that. You didn't deserve me the way I was."
Iona felt something move in her chest. "And now?"
"Now I've been sober for longer than I drank."
"So now you're not a mess."
"I'm always a mess. I'm just a functioning mess."
Iona laughed. "You're clean. You're here. Maybe now we can both deserve each other."
Maeve let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "That's a big ask."
"It is," Iona agreed, grinning. "I'm very demanding."
"You're very something."
"Charming? Persistent? Devastatingly attractive?"
"Annoying."
"That too."
For a moment, something softened in Maeve's expression. Not quite a smile, but close. Iona felt a flutter of hope, fragile and foolish and completely impossible to suppress.
And then the waitress came back.
What happened next would be replayed in Iona's mind many times over the following weeks, usually when she needed cheering up.
The waitress, carrying a fresh pot of coffee, caught her foot on something.
The pot tilted. And the entire contents, mercifully not quite boiling but still impressively hot, cascaded directly onto Maeve's lap.
Maeve shot to her feet with a sound that was half yelp, half profanity. The chair scraped back. The waitress gasped. Half the cafe turned to look.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry." The waitress was already in tears. "I'll get napkins, I'll get ice, I'll get…"
"It's fine," Iona said quickly, because Maeve's face was cycling through approximately seventeen different expressions and none of them were good. "Accidents happen. Could you just bring some napkins?"
The waitress fled.
Maeve was standing there, coffee dripping down her jeans, hands clenched at her sides. Iona could see her fighting it, could see the anger rising, the instinct to snap and snarl and make everyone as miserable as she felt.
"It’s fine," Iona said gently.
"I'm covered in coffee."
"I know. And it’s fine."
Iona grabbed a handful of napkins from the dispenser on the table and moved around to Maeve's side, kneeling in front of Maeve, dabbing at the coffee, looking up at her in a way that… In a way that she definitely shouldn’t be doing in a coffee shop.
"You don't have to…"
"I know." Iona kept dabbing. She wasn’t sure she could stop. Maeve from this angle was… breathtaking. "But I want to."
She looked up again, and Maeve was staring down at her with an expression that made Iona's breath catch. Something raw and wanting and completely unguarded.
"Iona." Maeve's voice was rough.
"Yes?"
"You're kneeling in a puddle of coffee."
"Am I?"
"Yes."
"Well." Iona smiled up at her. "It's a good thing I wore dark jeans."
Maeve made a sound that might have been a laugh, might have been a groan, might have been both. "You're impossible."
"So I've been told." She took hold of the back of one of Maeve’s thighs, steadying herself, catching her breath, and she thought Maeve moaned. Groaned, perhaps. She thought that if they weren’t here, if there was no one else, then this would be the moment, then this…
The waitress returned with a mountain of napkins and more apologies.
Iona accepted them gracefully, cleaned up what she could, and returned to her own seat.
Her knees were definitely wet, and she would probably smell like coffee for the rest of the day, but the look on Maeve's face had been worth it. The memory would be worth it.
They sat for a moment, the situation settling over them. And then, at almost exactly the same time, they both started laughing.
"This is ridiculous," Maeve said, still half-laughing. "This whole thing is ridiculous."
"Completely ridiculous," Iona agreed. "Is that a problem?"
"I don't know. I do think that you almost committed a public indecency just then.
" She paused, lifted an eyebrow. "And I think that I rather wanted you to.
" She took a breath, a deep, steadying one.
"Iona, I don't know if I can do this. I haven't been in a relationship in fifteen years. I don't think I know how anymore."
"I'm not asking for guarantees," Iona said. "No expectations. Just… this. Us. Seeing what happens. Maybe getting a proper ending this time. Or a proper middle. Or something."
"You're asking me to try something I'm terrible at."
"I'm asking you to try something with me." Iona leaned forward. "And for what it's worth, I've always liked you. Even when you were impossible. Even when you left. Even when I was married to other people and trying very hard not to think about you."
"You were thinking about me?"
"Constantly. Annoyingly. It was very inconvenient. Not to mention unfair to the people I happened to be married to."
Something shifted in Maeve's expression. "I thought about you too, if you want the embarrassing truth."
"I do want the embarrassing truth. I want all of it." Maeve shook her head, but she was almost smiling. "We can work on it together." Iona said. "Like the music. Build it as we go."
"I'll still be awkward. And rude. And unthinking sometimes."
"I know."
"I'll probably say terrible things when I'm scared."
"And I'll call you out on it." Iona reached across the table. "That's how it works. You mess up, I tell you, we figure it out. You don't get to ruin this by being difficult, Maeve. I won't let you."
Maeve looked at Iona's outstretched hand for a long moment. Then, slowly, carefully, she took it.
Their fingers interlaced. Iona felt something settle into place, something she hadn't even known was missing.
She'd been waiting fifteen years for this, even when she hadn't known she was waiting.
Two marriages to people who weren't Maeve.
Years of wondering what if. And now here they were, in a cafe that smelled like spilled coffee, holding hands across a sticky table.
"Let me in," Iona said quietly. "That's all I'm asking."
Maeve's grip tightened. "I'm not good at letting people in."
"I know."
"But I want to try." The words came out like they'd been pulled from somewhere deep.
Iona's phone rang.
She considered ignoring it, but the ringtone was the one she'd set for Mo's school, and she'd learned the hard way that ignoring those calls only made things worse. She gave Maeve an apologetic look and answered.
"Ms. Faith? This is Mrs. Patterson from the front office. I'm afraid we need you to come collect Mo. There's been an incident."
Of course there had.
"I'll be there in twenty minutes," Iona said, and hung up. She looked at Maeve helplessly. "I'm sorry. I have to…"
"Go. I heard."
"It's Mo. She's in trouble again." Iona shook her head, gathering her bag. "I don't know what's wrong with her. I can't get through anymore. She used to talk to me about everything, and now it's like there's a wall."
Maeve smiled, the light catching in her eyes. "Remember us at fourteen?"
"What?"
"We were never off the school stage. Always rehearsing, always writing songs in the back of class. We never wanted to go to lessons. That’s why they called us The Stage Girls, remember?"
The memory made Iona smile. "Yeah. Yeah, I remember."
"Maybe Mo's a bit more like her mum than you'd like her to be." Maeve's voice was gentle. "Maybe she's just looking for her thing. And maybe you could go a little easy on her while she finds it."
Iona sighed. "Since when did you get wise?"
"I'm not wise. I'm just old and I've made a lot of mistakes." Maeve stood up, still slightly damp, and pulled Iona toward her. "Go get your daughter. We'll continue this later."
The kiss was soft at first, tentative. Then Iona's hand came up to cup Maeve's jaw, and Maeve made a small sound against her mouth, and suddenly it wasn't tentative at all.
When they finally broke apart, Iona was breathless. "I have to go," she said, not moving.
"I know."
"This isn't over."
"I hope not."
Iona laughed, kissed her once more quickly, and made herself walk toward the door. She was halfway out when Maeve's voice followed her.
"Iona."
She turned.
Maeve was standing by the table, coffee-stained and rumpled and somehow the most beautiful thing Iona had ever seen. "To be continued," she called.
Iona’s heart skipped at the thought of it.