17. Iris
IRIS
The village square has been transformed into something out of a dream.
String lights crisscross overhead, casting everything in a warm golden glow.
Long tables have been set up along the perimeter, groaning under the weight of food—platters of cheese, baskets of bread, bowls of olives and tomatoes and things I can't even identify.
A band is playing something lively in the corner, accordion and guitar and a drum that sounds like a heartbeat.
And everywhere, people. Dancing, laughing, raising glasses in endless toasts. The whole village has turned out for the summer fête, dressed in their finest, celebrating the season and the community and the simple joy of being alive on a warm July night.
I'm wearing a dress I bought three days ago from a tiny boutique in Aix—floaty and floral and completely unlike anything I own. Cat's eyes went wide when she saw me, and she said something about looking like a painting, and I've been blushing ever since.
She's beside me now, a glass of wine in her hand, watching the dancers with a small smile on her face.
She's wearing wide-legged palazzo pants in a print that's all warmth and color—ochre and blue and a green like the fields at midsummer—with a soft, loose shirt that looks like she chose it purely for comfort and accidentally landed on gorgeous.
Her hair is down for once, tumbling over her shoulders in copper waves.
She looks beautiful. She always looks beautiful, but tonight it's hitting me differently.
Tonight I feel brave.
"Dance with me," I say.
She turns, surprised. "What?"
"Dance with me." I hold out my hand. "Everyone else is dancing."
It's true—the square is full of couples, young and old, spinning and swaying to the music. Monique and Jacques. Sophie with a woman I don't recognize. Even ancient Monsieur Lefèvre is shuffling around with someone's grandmother, both of them beaming.
Cat looks at my outstretched hand, then up at my face. Surprise gives way to something warmer, something eager.
"Okay," she says, setting down her wine. "But I should warn you—I'm a terrible dancer."
"So am I. We'll be terrible together."
She takes my hand, and my whole arm lights up.
The band is playing something slower now, a waltz or something like it. Cat pulls me into the crowd of dancers, and suddenly we're close—her hand on my waist, my hand on her shoulder, our free hands clasped between us. The space between our bodies is measured in inches.
"This okay?" she asks softly.
"Yes." My voice comes out breathless. "This is okay."
We move together, not really waltzing, just swaying in a slow circle while the music washes over us. Around us, other couples laugh and spin, but I'm barely aware of them. I'm aware of Cat—the warmth of her body, the scent of her perfume, the way her thumb is tracing small circles on my waist.
"People are watching," she murmurs.
"Let them watch."
Her eyes widen slightly. "Iris—"
"I'm tired of caring what people think." I step closer, closing the distance between us until we're almost pressed together.
"I've spent my whole life performing. Being perfect.
Being what everyone expected." I look up at her, and I hope she can see what I'm feeling, hope she can read it in my eyes.
"Tonight I just want to be here. With you. And I don't care who knows it."
Cat's breath catches. Her hand tightens on my waist.
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
The song ends. Another begins—something faster, livelier. Around us the dancers shift and rearrange, and I feel Cat starting to pull away.
"Wait." I catch her hand before she can and make myself hold her eyes. "Is there somewhere we can be alone?"
Cat goes very still. Whatever she sees in my face makes her breath go shallow.
"Yeah," she says. "Come on."
And this time she's the one leading. She knows this place the way I know a balance sheet—every alley, every shortcut, every shadow—and she doesn't hesitate once.
She pulls me out of the crowd, away from the lights and the music, under the plane trees and past the fountain throwing its silver spray, around the corner of the ancient stone church to a little courtyard tucked behind it, walled off from the fête by all that old stone.
The music drops to a muffle. The only light is the stars and the string-light glow filtering through the leaves.
"Nobody comes back here," Cat says quietly. "Not during the fête. It's the one quiet corner left in the whole village tonight." She turns to me, a question all over her face. "Iris. What are we doing back here?"
I turn to face her fully. She's so close, half in shadow, her eyes dark and searching. The bravery that got me this far is still thrumming under my skin—but now there's fear too: of getting this wrong, of ruining everything, of finding out that what I'm feeling isn't real.
But under the fear is something stronger. Something that's been building for weeks, maybe months, maybe my whole life.
"I've been thinking," I say, and my voice is steadier than I expected. "About what you said on the terrace. About wanting to do things right."
"And?"
"And I've realized—I don't actually know what 'right' looks like. I've never done anything like this before." I swallow. "But I know what I want. And I'm tired of being afraid to reach for it."
Cat is very still. I can see her chest rising and falling, faster than normal. Her lips are slightly parted, and her eyes haven't left my face.
"What do you want?" she asks, and her voice is rough, barely above a whisper.
"You." The word falls between us like a stone. "I want you. I've wanted you for weeks, and I've been too scared to admit it, and I'm done being scared."
"Iris—"
"I know it's complicated. I know I'm still figuring things out. I know there are a thousand reasons why this might not work." I step closer, until we're toe to toe, until I can feel the warmth of her breath on my face. "But right now, in this moment, I don't care about any of that. I just want—"
I don't finish the sentence.
Because I kiss her instead.
For one terrifying second, nothing happens. Cat is frozen, statue-still, and I think I've made a horrible mistake—
Then her hands come up to cup my face, and she's kissing me back, and the world dissolves.
It's nothing like I expected. I expected fireworks, explosions, some dramatic cinematic moment.
What I get is better—softer. Her lips are gentle against mine, questioning at first, then more insistent.
She tastes like wine and something sweeter, something that's just her.
Her fingers slide into my hair, tilting my head, changing the angle, and I make a sound I've never made before—a small, desperate noise that seems to come from somewhere deep in my chest.
Cat pulls back just enough to look at me. Her eyes are dark, her breathing ragged. "Iris—"
"Don't." I shake my head. "Don't say it was a mistake. Please."
"I wasn't going to say that."
"What were you going to say?"
She smiles—a slow, wondering smile that makes my stomach flip. "I was going to say finally."
Then she kisses me again.
This time there's nothing tentative about it.
She walks me backward until my shoulders hit the stone wall of the church, her body pressed along the length of mine, her hands in my hair, on my waist, everywhere.
I grip her shoulders and hold on for dear life, feeling like I'm falling and flying at the same time.
She kisses like she cooks—with confidence and care, paying attention to every detail, adjusting and responding to what I'm giving her. When I gasp, she softens. When I press closer, she deepens the kiss, her tongue sliding against mine in a way that makes heat pool in my belly.
I have never in my life been kissed like this—like every nerve ending is awake and singing, like my body is an instrument she's learning to play.
"Cat," I manage against her lips. "God, Cat—"
"I know." She pulls back, breathing hard, resting her forehead against mine. "I know."
We stand there for a long moment, tangled together against the church wall, trying to catch our breath.
The fête carries on around the corner—I can hear laughter, music, the clink of glasses—but it feels miles away.
Like we're in our own little world, a bubble of heat and darkness and this new, terrifying, wonderful thing between us.
"I should probably tell you," I say, "that I have no idea what I'm doing."
Cat laughs, low and breathless. "You seem to be figuring it out pretty well."
"I mean in general. With—this. With women. With you." I meet her eyes, and the vulnerability of the admission makes me want to look away. "This is all new for me."
"I know."
"And I might mess it up."
"You might." She kisses the corner of my mouth, gentle. "I might too. That's kind of how it works."
"But you'll—" I stop, not sure what I'm asking.
"I'll be patient," she finishes. "I'll communicate. I'll tell you what I like and ask what you like. And if either of us needs to slow down, we slow down." She pulls back enough to really look at me. "There's no script, Iris. We just figure it out as we go."
"That's terrifying."
"I know." She grins. "But also kind of exciting?"
I laugh despite myself. "You're impossible."
"And yet here you are, kissing me against a church."
"The irony isn't lost on me, believe me."
She takes my hand, threading her fingers through mine. "We should probably go back. Before they send a search party."
"Probably."
Neither of us moves.
"Cat?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad I kissed you."
Her smile could light up the whole village. "I'm glad you did too."
She tugs me gently away from the wall, and we walk back toward the fête, hand in hand. When we round the corner and rejoin the crowd, I half expect everyone to stare at us—to know, somehow, what just happened.
But no one looks twice. We're just two women holding hands at a party, which apparently isn't remarkable enough to merit attention. Monique catches my eye and winks, but that's all.
I could get used to this. Being unremarkable. Being just another couple at the fête.
"Dance with me again?" Cat asks.
"Always."
She leads me back into the crowd, and when she pulls me close this time, there's no pretense, no hesitation. I rest my head on her shoulder and let the music carry us, and I feel something inside me unclench—a knot I've been carrying for so long I forgot it was there.
This is what it feels like, I think. To want something and reach for it. To take a risk and have it pay off.
This is what it feels like to choose.
The song ends. Cat lifts my hand to her lips and kisses my knuckles, a gesture so tender it makes my eyes sting.
"Ready to go home?" she asks.
Home. The farmhouse. Our farmhouse.
"Yes," I say. "Let's go home."
She takes my hand and leads me away from the fête, into the darkness, toward whatever comes next. The stars are bright overhead, the air is warm and fragrant with lavender, and I'm holding the hand of a woman I just kissed for the first time.
I don't know what happens now. I don't have a plan, a spreadsheet, a carefully organized list of next steps.
For once in my life, I don't need one.
I have Cat. I have tonight. And for right now, that's enough.