Page 108 of Neap & Spring

Vivienne’s got her hair down for once. Not twisted up in that pen-stabbed bun she wears when she’s working. And not pulled back in the sleek ponytail she does for investor calls. It’s just … loose. It falls around her shoulders, dark and wavy, falling past her collarbones, and catching the overhead lights in a way that makes it look almost black in some places and deep brown in others.

She’s wearing black leggings that I’ve seen a dozen times and an oversized gray sweater that slips off one shoulder, exposing the line of her collarbone and the curve where her neck meets her shoulder. Her skin looks soft even from here.

She’s laughing at what Frannie said, her head tipped back slightly, completely unguarded. One hand comes up to tuck her hair behind her ear in that automatic gesture she does when she’s self-conscious about it being down.

I watch her for a second longer than I should. Way longer than is professional or appropriate. I can’t help it. I’m drawn to the way she moves. She’s easy and relaxed in a way she doesn’t usually allow herself to be, her carefully controlled consultant facade completely gone. She’s just Vivi right now. Laughing with friends. Belonging here.

Like she’s not planning to leave.

I force myself to look back down at the scallops, my nerves frayed. I turn my attention back to the sauce and adjust the heat, focusing on the problem I’m trying to solve.

Focus.

Don’t think about her hair. Don’t think about that shoulder or the long line of her neck. Don’t think about how she looks when she’s laughing like that.

I adjust the burner again, bringing the pan back to temperature.

“I don’t even know if I have shoes that would work with it,” Vivienne is saying, her voice carrying easily through the restaurant, doing absolutely nothing to help my concentration.

“You have to have shoes,” Cora replies, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “It’s a formal dinner. You can’t wear your boots.”

“What’s wrong with my boots?”

The boots in question are probably the ankle boots she wears almost every day. I’ve seen her in them so many times I could probably draw them from memory. I could probably describe the exact way the leather creases across the toe and the small scuff on the left one.

“Nothing! They’re great for every other day,” Frannie exclaims quickly. “But Saturday is fancy. We’re all dressing up. It’s a whole thing. A celebration! I got a new dress specifically for it.”

“At least I don’t need a new dress.” Vivienne’s tone is amused and self-deprecating in that way she gets sometimes. “I have this one fancy dress. That’s it. One. This black vintage thing I’ve had since culinary school.” She holds up her phone again, the screen flashing bright in the dim dining room. “I haven’t worn it in — God, years.”

A black vintage dress.

The memory slams into me like a rough punch before I can stop it. It’s painful and so clear it’s like I’m back there and no time has passed at all.

Graduation night in Paris.

Vivienne had shown up in this dress.

It was black, simple at first glance but absolutely devastating on her. It had thin straps that crossed at her back, showing off lean muscles, fitted through the body and waist, showing every perfect line and every flawless curve.

She’d looked breathtaking.

I’d barely been able to form words when I first saw her. I had just stood there staring like an idiot, my brain completely offline, while she laughed and asked if I was okay and if I’d had too much wine already.

I’d thought about kissing her all night. I watched her in that run-down little bar, in that dress, laughing with everyone, fitting so perfectly into my side when we stood together like we’d been doing it for years.

And then I did kiss her.

I finally worked up the nerve, or maybe it was the cheap wine, to just lean in and kiss her.

And she kissed me back.

Her hands in my hair, her body pressed against mine, tasting like red wine and possibility and everything I’d wanted for years.

We ended up at my apartment. My tiny studio with the window that looked out at another building’s brick wall. We spent the night together, and I told her that she was it for me and I’d wait for her however long it took. Wherever she ended up, I hoped it would eventually be somewhere with me.

She didn’t say it back.

But she’d held my hand and kissed my knuckles and let me hold her while we fell asleep tangled together in my too-small bed, and I’d thought that meant something. That her silence was at least agreement. That staying meant yes.