2. Rue
rue
. . .
anti-meet-cute
NINE YEARS AGO
Ivy’s parents live about an hour outside of Seattle, in the type of neighborhood where the nearest house is a mile away and hidden behind trees old enough to remember smogless air.
A few hours ago, beneath a giant sycamore in the backyard, Ivy’s oldest brother, Wilder, married Eva Sullivan. I’ve never seen so many celebrities in one place, much less been close enough to rub elbows with them.
If it weren’t the armpit of August, hot as hell and twice as humid, I might’ve enjoyed the deeply emotional ceremony.
At the very least, I’d appreciate the novelty of attending the wedding of world-famous rock stars.
But along with the moisture in my body, the swampy heat has slowly siphoned my civility.
I endured as long as humanly possible, making it through the cake cutting on willpower alone. When I told Ivy I was heading to my hotel, her quick approval and pitying eyes confirmed what I already suspected—I look as destroyed as I feel.
As much as I dread next month’s credit card bill, I’m glad I listened to my gut and declined her offer to stay with her family tonight.
Touring the mansion and meeting her parents earlier was awkward enough, but having her twin sister, Olive, refer to me as “the charity case” in front of the entire bridal party sealed the deal.
I don’t belong here.
I am, however, regretting my choice to walk around the house instead of through it to meet my rideshare. The property is basically a miniature forest, which means I’m now trekking through wilderness on blisters and borrowed heels. Every time I stumble, my pit stains absorb more of my dignity.
Despite being past eight o’clock, the air continues to impersonate a steaming wet blanket. It’s even worse under the trees. Hazy sunlight filters through dense branches, each fading beam hosting swarms of tiny flies. I’m pretty sure I’ve swallowed at least a dozen.
When I finally glimpse the driveway, I’m so relieved I forget to watch my step. I promptly trip on a root and careen toward the attached tree. Throwing out a hand blindly, I manage to catch myself on rough bark.
In the moment of impact, I see him.
About twenty feet away, Ivy’s other brother, River, stands facing away from me.
Thin streams of blue-tinged smoke curl around his neck, phantom horns rising over his dark, unkempt hair.
The white button-down shirt he was wearing today lies limp over one shoulder.
A white tank top exposes his broad shoulders and muscled arms, which flex occasionally as he…
Oh my god.
My already flushed face burns hotter as I realize the sound of trickling water isn’t a heat-driven fantasy.
He’s peeing.
I gape at his back, too shocked to do anything but imitate the tree I’m leaning on.
Or maybe I’m a victim of Stendhal Syndrome, my senses overcome by such unexpected beauty.
Public urination aside, he’s questionably beautiful, as alluring as the murals in Paris that gained him worldwide attention last year.
He hasn’t given any indication that he knows I’m standing here, which seems impossible. Beyond my violent meet and greet with the tree, my approach hasn’t been subtle. I’ve been stomping, cursing, spitting out flies, and slapping mosquitoes off my arms.
I’m still frozen and staring at him as he zips his fly, turns, and sees me. The only sign of his surprise is a slow blink, but the glassiness in his unusually colored eyes is likely responsible for his lack of reaction—not to mention his lack of situational awareness.
After a good ten seconds of us staring at each other, he clears his throat and pulls the joint from his lips.
“Is it over?”
Given the warmth of his physical palette—brown hair, tan skin, golden eyes—his voice is jarring, as cold and turbulent as his namesake. I flinch at the impact of it, sucking in a breath that feels like drawing liquid through a too-narrow straw.
As I process his question, confusion wrinkles my brow. “Is what over?”
He nods in the direction of the backyard where over three hundred people are loudly celebrating. Unable to tell if he’s serious or just really, really high, I shake my head.
“But I’m leaving.” I cringe internally. “Not that you care. Or should care. Obviously.”
River’s eyebrows draw together and upward, caught somewhere between amusement and bewilderment.
“You’re Olive’s friend, right? From school?”
That he actually recognizes me barely registers because the way he says school makes me feel like a child.
At twenty-five, he’s only five years older than me, but in this moment, it might as well be fifty.
I’ve never been out of the States—had never even left Oregon before heading to San Diego for college—while he moved overseas at my age and frequently travels to places I only dream of seeing.
“I’m Ivy’s friend, actually.”
“Same difference.”
I bristle on behalf of my best friend, who struggles with feeling like she lives in her twin’s shadow.
“No, it’s not.”
He rolls his eyes. “Okay.”
Oblivious to my rising annoyance, River inspects the joint in his hand—now a smokeless nub—then flicks it into the trees.
As he pulls the dress shirt from his shoulder and slips his arms into the sleeves, I tell myself to stop staring.
To move. To leave before this situation becomes any more disastrous.
Instead, I slap another mosquito off my arm, leaving a smear of blood behind. Hissing, I press on the new welt.
“You shouldn’t scratch it. You’ll make it worse.”
I frown. “I’m not scratching. I’m applying pressure.”
A breeze moves through the trees, stirring leaves above us. An errant beam of sunlight catches his face, making his eyes flash a pure, glowing gold. In spite of my irritation, their unearthly beauty makes my breath hitch.
Until those same eyes narrow, dark lashes lowering and transforming them from angelic to sinister.
“Yeah… with your moving nails, in a motion referred to as scratching.”
My blood boils, and all the stories Ivy has told me about him turn to steam. River isn’t funny, or kind, or sensitive.
He’s an asshole.
My vision swims, no longer seeing him but every patronizing, sanctimonious bully I’ve ever met.
“Maybe instead of offering unsolicited opinions to strangers, you should reflect on why you’re getting high at your sober brother’s wedding.”
His eyes flare briefly before his lips curl with a smirk.
“Good one.”
Leaving the halves of his shirt unbuttoned, he tucks his hands into his pockets and takes leisurely steps toward me. I stand my ground despite a visceral urge to run.
He stops two feet away. Close enough for me to see the striations of amber and citrine in his eyes.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“None of your business.”
The smirk transforms into a full-blown smile, boyishly lopsided, with a single dimple on his right cheek. His canines are pronounced and distinctly sharp, a detail I would find irresistibly attractive if not for my burgeoning dislike.
“I can just ask Olive.”
I snarl. “Ivy.”
A small, rough noise leaves his throat. Something between a laugh and a grunt. His eyes flicker down my body, zapping like tiny tasers everywhere they touch.
“You’re wound tight, aren’t you? If you ask nicely, I’ll gladly take care of all this… tension.”
Whatever perverse fascination kept me immobile the last few minutes instantly vanishes.
“Pass.”
I cram as much disgust as possible into the single syllable, then march past him, intent on leaving this entire interaction and all memory of it behind.
“Nice meeting you, Olive’s friend!”
I don’t look back.
“Eat a dick, River!”
His laughter—deep and startled and alarmingly lovely—follows me into the trees.