by Becker Gray
Sera gave me a look that was one part sympathy to three parts loyal friend. “I don’t know if I should tell you . . .”
“Please,” I croaked. “I have to know. Is she leaving Pembroke? For a while? For good? If she’s leaving, I don’t know what I’ll do—I love her, Sera. I love her so much that it feels like I can’t breathe sometimes. And if she’s gone . . .”
The heiress considered me. “I’ve never seen you like this,” she said.
“Like what?”
“Like a wreck. A messy, dumb wreck.” Her mouth twisted to the side as she thought for a moment, and then she let out another sigh. “Iris was accepted to a pre-degree program at the Sorbonne. It starts next month, but the student housing is opening up this week. Which means she’s leaving. Very soon.”
My brain fizzed and popped, filling with static. None of this made sense. “But she can’t leave tomorrow. She has classes. We have a project. She can’t go anywhere until she graduates. She can’t just leave!”
“She can,” Sera said, a bit archly. “And she is. She’s got more than enough credits to graduate early, and she talked with her dad about it after she got the acceptance email. They fought about it, but she threatened to go over his head to the board if he didn’t let her go. She just texted to say he agreed to arrange her academic exit, and she’ll be leaving for Paris tomorrow.”
I cursed under my breath. Jesus Christ. I really fucked this up. “Tomorrow.”
Sera’s archness disappeared, and she gave me an understanding look. “Look, Iris has always known that she wanted something different, and she’s been hoping for this Sorbonne thing since before she met you. This would have happened whether or not you broke her heart.”
Knowing Serafina was right didn’t make me feel any better. There was a difference between Iris chasing her dreams and Iris being chased away to her dreams because I’d hurt her.
“I can’t let her leave like this,” I said, staring up at the sky. It was early evening now, a perfect autumn twilight, cool and vibrant. I wished it were storming or gray, something to reflect my miserable mood. “If she leaves with the way things are . . . then it’s over for us. Really over.”
“I don’t disagree,” Sera said, not sounding like she cared very much. But then she added, “I guess . . . I guess, if I found out when her flight left, I could let you know. And you could show up at the airport and see if she’ll talk to you there.”
I had to resist the urge to pick her up and swing her around. “Really?”
She held up a finger. “On one condition. You stop going full stalker tonight, and let her enjoy this last night with her parents, okay? She deserves to say all the goodbyes she wants without you knocking down her door and blowing up her phone. If you can manage that, then I’ll call you tomorrow morning with her flight info.”
I did pick her up and swing her around that time. I couldn’t help it, and surprisingly, she had a smile on her lips when I put her down.
“I’m still not rooting for you,” she said, but the smile remained.
“That’s okay,” I told her. “I don’t think I deserve to root for myself at this point.”
20
Keaton
The next morning, I was sitting in my parked car and trying not to scream with impatience when Serafina finally called.
“Which airport did she go to?” I asked, already starting the car and moving out of the lot.
“You’re lucky I’m doing this,” she said. “You don’t deserve it.”
There was a time when I would have argued with her. When I would have thought I deserved anything I wanted. No longer.
“You’re right,” I said. “I don’t.” There was no traffic up here—there never was—and I pushed the accelerator down to the floor as I sped down the narrow highway through the trees. “Please don’t play coy with me, van Doren. I can’t take it today. Where’s she flying out of?”
“Firstly, Keaton Constantine,” Serafina said, “I am never fucking coy. Secondly, I don’t particularly care what you can or cannot take today, especially since you were the one who royally screwed up your chances with Iris to begin with.”
I had nothing left to lose, and surprisingly, it barely bothered me at all to be brutally, humiliatingly honest. “If you tell me where she went, I’m going to grovel until she either forgives me or airport security drags me away.”
Even from the other end of the call, I could tell Serafina liked that visual very much. “She does deserve a good grovel,” she mused. “And the additional vengeance of watching you yanked off to a room for a body cavity search. Hmm.”
I was getting close to the interstate now—I needed to know which way to go. “Sera.”
“Fine,” Serafina sighed. “She’s flying out of Burlington. And you should hurry if you want to catch her before liftoff.” She also gave me the airline, and when it was supposed to depart.
“Thanks, van Doren.”
“You better grovel harder than fucking Darcy—”
I’d already thrown the phone on the passenger seat and sped up the car before she finished talking.
At first, it looked like no one was getting a Darcy-level grovel. When I got to the airport, it was to the knowledge that Iris’s plane had just finished boarding, and she was about to be in the fucking air and lost to me.
But I didn’t grind Croft Wells into the rugby field every season because I gave up easy. I stalked up to the airline desk, pulled out my wallet, and played to win.
Which I did.
Twice.
Firstly, I was able to catch a connecting flight to JFK, even though it was leaving in less than an hour, which would get me to JFK in plenty of time for Iris’s transatlantic flight.
Secondly, I was able to buy out the entire first class section of the flight from New York to Paris, and I upgraded Iris’s seat. It took an obscene amount of money—thank God for my insane allowance—an even obscener amount of scowling, demanding, and coldly threatening since it involved rescheduling several other passengers, but I’ve found there’s very little that stands in the way of a guy’s will when enough money is lubricating the way.
And just like with sex, I made sure there was plenty of lubrication.
The flight to JFK was short and uneventful, but I was still a mess the entire time. What would I say? What could I say? I hadn’t just broken her heart—I’d broken her heart enough to send her running across the ocean without so much as a goodbye. That wasn’t something I could fix with a simple apology. It wasn’t even something I could fix with a grovel alone.
I was going to have to show her that I would put her first. Starting right now.
I waited to board the plane until the very last. Partly because I needed time to bribe a few flight attendants, and partly because I didn’t want her to see me and then bolt. To that end, I lingered in the first-class bar until we were ready to push back from the gate, not wanting her to see me until it was too late.
Yes, it was a bastard move to wait until the doors were almost sealed to board the flight and finally take my seat, but what could I say? I was playing to win, after all.
When I finally stepped into the first-class cabin and saw her, I felt like I’d been tackled right down to the grass. The air left my body, my muscles flared—sparks and heat sizzled along every nerve.
She was fucking perfect. A vision of red hair and sweet features, long limbs folded in a graceful symmetry as she tucked her knees to her chest.
But it was her sadness that hit me like a fullback slamming me to the cold, wet ground. It was the drawn look to her face, the paleness behind those cinnamon-colored freckles. The red rims around her bright blue eyes.
I’d done that.
I’d done it by being selfish, by choosing the status quo. By choosing a family that wanted me only for how I could be of service over the girl who was willing to risk her heart and her pride just to be in my arms.
How could I have been so stupid?
I waited as a fligh
t attendant brought a fizzing flute of champagne to her, presented on a silver platter. Iris took it wordlessly—and then froze when she saw what was under the flute.
A giant glossy picture of the sun over the New York skyline, breaking free from the clouds. The one she’d taken during our perfect weekend together.
Slowly, hesitantly, she picked it up and stared at it. And then her eyes gradually lifted, and she saw me standing at the far end of the aisle.
“Iris,” I said softly, stepping forward as the flight attendant took her obvious cue and left.
Iris shook her head, her grip tightening on the picture. “What is this, Keaton? Why are you here?”
I reached Iris’s seat and knelt down on both knees so I could look up into her beautiful face. “That is a reminder of how brilliant you are. Of how much you deserve to follow your dreams in Paris. And I’m here to tell you that I’m sorry. I know sorry is a word that doesn’t mean much, and I know it especially doesn’t mean much coming from me, but you still deserve to hear it.”
With a shaking hand, she put her champagne flute on the small table next to her seat. She didn’t meet my gaze. “Are you sorry you kissed her? Or only sorry that I saw it?”
“I’m sorry I kissed her. I’m sorry that I pretended to date her at all instead of deciding to come clean to my mom. I’m sorry that I chose her approval over your happiness. I thought all I wanted in the world was for her to be proud of me, but I was wrong, Iris, so wrong. If I’m not by your side, then nothing else matters.”
She finally looked at me again, doubt pooling in her eyes. “That kiss—it wasn’t a kiss born of duty. You kissed her like you kiss me. Like you meant it.”
I knew I was supposed to be contrite, but the idea of wanting Clara made me snort. “I’ve never wanted her, Iris. I wanted more than anything to prove to my mother that I could help, and that I was part of the family, and that’s why I kissed her the way I did. Not because I want her or because I’m in love with her, but because I was desperate to show my mom I could be a team player.”
The flight attendant came by as the announcement came over the PA: it was time to sit down and buckle up. I sat in the seat across the aisle from Iris, hating the distance between us. I reached for her hand.
“It wasn’t about Clara. It wasn’t even about you. It was about me being too chickenshit to own that I want my own path. I want you, even if that means finally accepting that my family may never want me.”
She took my hand and allowed me to wind my fingers through hers. She studied them with a small frown on her lips. “Does this have something to do with the dad you won’t talk about?”
I shouldn’t have been surprised that she remembered our conversation in the photography lab. But it was still like a small, icy arrow to the gut to hear it spoken out loud.
My family’s pain. My pain.
“Yeah,” I finally said, feeling that icy arrow burrow deeper. “His name was Lane.”
Iris looked up to me, her expression transforming into one of sad horror. “Was?”
I took a deep breath. I had no practice talking about this; hell, even my mother barely talked about this with me. Nothing beyond the occasional muttered invective against the Morellis, or the slightly more common: If he were still here . . .
“He died five years ago. Murdered, we think, although no one ever got locked up for it. He was . . .” How could I even explain it? How could I even make it make sense? “He was the perfect patriarch, you know? Never flinched at what he had to do to keep the Constantine name and legacy as one that commanded respect. And then Winston stepped right up after his death, no questions asked, no hesitation. He was the perfect son, and I could never be as perfect as him, no matter how hard I tried. And I tried so hard, Iris. The grades, the rugby, the right friends . . .”
“And Clara,” Iris supplied softly, her eyes searching mine.
“Yes. And Clara.” I heaved a breath, knowing how it sounded. “This all seems so stupid when I say it out loud. Like something I should say to a therapist or some shit.”
She squeezed my hand, and my heart lifted a little, buoyed with the slightest wave of hope. Beneath our feet, the plane vibrated and hummed with impending liftoff.
“You’re wrong,” Iris said. “I mean, not about the therapist—you should probably definitely go talk to one sometime about your dad and your family—but about it sounding stupid.” She made a rueful face. “I completely understand about Winston. Isabelle has been the standard my parents have held me to my entire life. She’s the perfect daughter. And all I ever wanted was for someone to see me exactly how I am . . .”
She looked down at the photograph in her lap.
“. . . to see me for who I am,” she finished quietly.
“I see you, Iris. I’m only sorry that I didn’t see how much I needed you before it was too late.”
We were in the sky now, soaring high above the same skyline that gleamed up from the picture in her lap.
She pulled her hand free, staring out her window. “I don’t know . . .”
Another arrow lodged in me—this time in my chest. But I had expected this. “You don’t have to know right now, baby. But I thought maybe—just maybe—you could give me the chance to show you how much I see you. How much I love you.”
“In Paris?” Her brow furrowed. “But you’ll have to go back the minute you land. School—”
“I can miss a few days.”
“But your grades! And the project—”
“Fuck the project.”
“But—rugby—”
“Is not as important as you. Not as important as you pursuing your passions and me helping you do everything you want. And it’s only a practice or two. Everything will be fine.”
Now that we were safely in the air, I got out of my seat and knelt by hers again.
“Please, Iris. You don’t have to decide to take me back now. In fact, you can tell me to fuck off at any point. But let me show you how much I love you. Let me stay with you in Paris for a while. Let me join you there after graduation so we can be together for good.”
She drew in a long breath. When it came out, it was shivery and hesitant. “I’m scared,” she whispered. “I want you more than anything, and I love you—”
Hearing her say it was like swallowing pure sunshine. I was up and had her in my arms and then sat back down with her in my lap before she could say another word.
“You love me?” I asked, pulling a ponytail holder from the end of her long, messy braid and freeing her hair. “Because I love you, Iris. So fucking much. And I think I have since the first day of school.”
She pulled her plump lower lip between her teeth. “Really?”
“Really.”
“I’m scared, Keaton. I’m so scared. What if you hurt me again?”
I held her tight to my chest. “I will never hurt you again,” I swore fiercely. “I promise, Iris. You’re it for me. You’re it. There’s nothing else.”
She tilted her face up to mine. “Nothing else?”
“And no one else. There’s only you.”
“Then I guess, maybe . . .” She paused, chewing on her lip again.
I felt like it was my heart between her teeth instead of her lip while I waited for her answer, but I waited patiently. It had to be her choice. Her forgiveness.
“Then I guess we can try,” she finally said in a soft voice. “I’ll try with you, Keaton. Try loving you and letting you love me.”
“Thank fucking God,” I said, letting out a ragged breath of existential relief. And I couldn’t help it then—I had to kiss her. I yanked her even closer and sealed my mouth over hers.
She came alive in my arms, like Sleeping Beauty after her kiss. She dug her fingers into my hair and kissed me back, rubbing her sweet little ass over my lap as she did.
“It’s a good thing there’s no one else in first class right now,” she breathed.
“I made sure of that.”
I also made sure the fligh
t attendants wouldn’t come up to our cabin unless we called.
“You bought out first class just so you could do this?” Iris asked against my mouth.
With one hand, I grabbed the soft, folded blanket for her seat and wrapped it around her waist, and with my other, I sought out the sweet, secret place between her thighs. Within seconds, I had her panties pushed to the side and had her riding my fingers like a champ.
“No,” I answered her. “I bought out first class so I could do this.”
And then there were no more questions at all, just kisses and hot, sweet pleasure as we flew over the dark ocean on our way to the start of Iris’s new life.
Our new life.
Epilogue
Iris
That summer . . .
Oh my god. Sunlight streamed into my student apartment, turning everything in my room into a wash of white. I squinted and tried to shut my eyes. Had I forgotten to draw the blinds?
Keaton kissed the back of my neck. “Rise and shine, sunshine.”
“Mmm, I want to sleep some more.”
“No more sleeping. I have fun ways to wake you.”
I grumbled. I loved Keaton’s wake-up kisses, especially when they were over my clit, but I was just so tired. We’d been up so late for Bastille Day last night. The fact that the man even thought about waking me up right now proved that he was the devil.
The past several months of living in Paris had been like a whirlwind of a dream. We still had a month before I began actual classes for the fall semester, and before Keaton left for England and preseason rugby training. He was still planning on going for a degree in art or design, but after he’d played pro rugby for a few years. Not like he needed the sportsball money, since Keaton Constantine could stand on his feet without it just fine, but simply because he wanted to.
And luckily, this time, he was standing on his feet including me by his side.
There were some people that were just charming, and Keaton was one of them. I asked him the other day what he was more happy about, the rugby deal, or maybe one day opening his own multimedia or design company. He had said both. And then he’d said neither. Then he’d kissed me on the nose and told me that the thing he was most happy about, was having me. And that for once, he felt on top of the world. That he could do anything.