Rue
. . .
survival instinct
Splayed across my yoga mat, I stare at the dim ceiling. Toes to scalp, my body vibrates at a distinctly unpleasant frequency. I might lose consciousness. I might vomit. It could go either way.
“Doing okay over there?”
I turn my head sluggishly toward Maya. She’s upside down in some complicated pretzel-like pose, smiling at me like we didn’t just endure an hour of torture at the hands of a woman named Moonbeam.
I lick my lips. “My eyeballs are sweating. I don’t think they’re supposed to do that.”
There’s a soft snort from my right, where Matteo sprawls. He, at least, appears to be as destroyed as I am. From the state of the floor around his mat, there’s no moisture left in his body.
“It’s called crying,” answers a different voice, the tone drier than my parched throat. “You’ll live.”
Maya laughs and loses her balance.
I tip my head back, glaring feebly at Jae. He sits cross-legged on a mat near the back wall, his features serene. It’s hard to tell with the lights so low, but I think his lips are curved.
“Finally,” groans Matteo.
A moment later, I shudder in relief as cool air showers down from the overhead vents.
The studio door cracks open, announcing the return of Moonbeam and the end of our unconventional shavasana. As she fiddles with the dimmer on the wall and turns the lights up to half power, Jae slips stealthily from the room. If my bones weren’t impersonating gelatin, I’d be right behind him.
The bells on Moonbeam’s anklets tinkle as she dances around us with a giant spray bottle in her hand.
I close my eyes when she lands near me, prepared for the squitch-squitch and mist of cucumber water.
The bottle is half clogged, and a thick stream pelts me on my forehead.
At least it doesn’t land in my ear like it did yesterday.
“My fellow children of the sun, our work has awakened the day! Rise and shine, you beautiful beings of fire and possibility! Namaste.”
After a few more squitches, her bells jingle back across the room. The door opens and slams closed.
“Californians are so weird.” Matteo’s mumble comes from beneath the arm draped over his face.
“I take offense to that,” Maya says lightly.
Recalling our conversation at lunch yesterday, I frown at Matteo.
“Aren’t you from Pasadena?”
He chuckles. “Yeah.”
Maya pauses while rolling her mat, then nods. “In that case, I’ll allow it.”
Laughing feebly, I push myself to a sitting position. Maya’s already waiting with a hand outstretched, and she pulls me to my feet.
Unlike the prior three days I’ve subjected myself to this abuse, I retrieve my mat and empty water bottle without throwing up in my mouth. I do almost pass out, though, my vision tunneling as I straighten. Maya grabs the back of my tank top to keep me upright, only releasing me when I nod.
We drop our mats in the bin designated for cleaning, then say goodbye to Matteo, who hasn’t moved. He grunts and lifts a hand, mumbling something about breakfast.
The main gym is empty and quiet, most of the lights still off.
It’s also at least thirty degrees cooler than the hellhole behind us.
As we pass a row of ellipticals and treadmills stationed before a western-facing window wall, I glance at the view.
The dawn sky is a marbled canvas of orange, yellow, and deep violet, the ocean a silvery line in the distance.
I’d love to pause and appreciate the beauty, but if I stop walking, I’m not sure I’ll be able to start again.
We finally reach the women’s locker room, and I collapse onto the nearest bench. Maya snags my water bottle, refills it at a nearby station, and shoves it into my hands.
I grunt my thanks and guzzle until my stomach protests.
She fills her own bottle before sitting beside me. “You know, not everyone is physiologically compatible with hot yoga. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I have a friend who’s taught advanced yoga for years, and she can’t handle it either.”
“Yeah, I think I’ve had enough. I’ll move to weights and machines tomorrow.”
“Or… imagine this—you sleep later and go for a run when the sun comes up.”
“The gym has treadmills.”
“You hate treadmills. I think your precise words were ‘Running nowhere kills my soul.’”
I yield with a sigh. I do hate treadmills. I do miss running outdoors. Gym workouts have never been my thing. I wouldn’t know what to do with a set of weights, much less all the complicated machines.
Maya’s stare presses against my face. I cringe in advance, knowing she’s about to say the quiet part out loud.
“It’s been over a week, Rue. You leave your cabin before dawn and sneak back in after dark.
You haul your giant backpack around like you’re living out of it—don’t think I haven’t seen you shoving food in there—and you disappear between breakfast and dinner.
Where are you hiding all day? Because we both know that’s what you’re doing. ”
“The dome,” I mumble.
She gapes at me. “Like inside the dome? You’re writing in that spider-infested dump?”
I crack a smile. “It’s not that bad—at least not anymore. Kirk helped me clean it out. He also hooked me up with a giant, reclining camping chair, and there’s a hole near the top that lets some light in.”
Her expression doesn’t change; if anything, she’s even more outraged.
“You’re shitting me, right? That thing is one of the oldest installations here, made of rotting wood and covered in mildewed drop cloth. It’s one falling pinecone away from collapse.”
She’s not wrong. The whole structure groans whenever there’s a strong breeze, which is often. Not that I’ll admit that, or the fact I sit close enough to the entrance flap that I can dive outside if necessary.
“I’m perfectly safe. Most importantly, it’s peaceful and quiet, and I’ve been hitting my word goal every day.”
Maya doesn’t appear reassured, no doubt because I’m too tired to lie convincingly. Dropping my elbows to my knees, I press my thumbs to the ever-present tension in my forehead.
“My options were limited,” I mutter. “Kirk said the unoccupied cabins aren’t available for use and there are no spare artist studios. I can’t write in the Lodge or any common areas; they’re too exposed and distracting.”
“If only PAC assigned the largest cabin to the resident writer for exactly that reason.” The wryness leaves her voice.
“You’ve seen my cabin, Rue. The rest of us are in single rooms with just enough space for a bed, dresser, and mini fridge.
Even your porch is bigger, with more than enough space for a chair if you want to write outside.
Just admit it. You’re bending over backward to avoid River. ”
There it is.
“Yes, I’m avoiding him, but it’s for a good reason. He’s like radiation. The more I’m exposed, the sicker I get.”
She shakes her head as she stands. “I can’t wait to read this book someday.”
I sit up fast. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She opens a nearby locker, grabs a change of clothes, then faces me with an arched eyebrow.
“You think it’s a coincidence that the day you started avoiding him, his personality did a one-eighty? That man is dripping honey with one goal.” She points at me. “Luring his prey.”
My face contorts. “No. Just… no. Like I said, shitting charm is normal behavior for River. I’m glad he pulled his head out of his ass, but it’s got nothing to do with me.”
She gives me a mischievous grin before sauntering—no, dancing—toward the showers.
“You, my friend, are in deniaaaal.”
“Maya! You sit next to me at breakfast and dinner. I’m the one person besides Penelope he doesn’t talk to. He doesn’t even look at me.”
She pushes open the door, throwing over her shoulder, “My sweet summer child, you’re the one who doesn’t look at him. He watches you like a drowning man watches a rescue boat.”
The door starts to swing closed.
I yell after her, “You’re totally wrong, but I approve of the simile!”
As her maniacal cackle echoes off the tiled walls, I slump on the bench. I may disagree with her—entirely and vehemently—about the reason for River’s change in attitude, but she’s right on one count.
I am hiding.
Only I’m not in denial as to why.
I’m no different from the dome I’ve been spending so much time in. Years of isolation and storms have worn me down. My colors have faded and bled. My seams are splitting, my beams rotting.
Ivy hasn’t said anything, but she’s sensed it for a while now. I feel it in her stare, her worry. Sometimes I wonder if I’m why she’s put off moving in with Ryan, her boyfriend of four years. The notion I’m holding her back kills me. It’s why I have to finish this book and land this deal.
If I can prove to myself that what I create matters, that who I am matters, maybe I can rebuild what shattered inside me as a child. Until then, I’m one storm away from collapse, holding on with everything I have left.
I’ve always known the danger River represents. It’s why he puts me on edge. Why I’m combative and erratic when I’m near him.
Keeping him at a distance is survival instinct because he’s more than a little wind and rain.
He’s a hurricane.
That night, in the darkest hours before dawn, I wake up gasping and clawing at my chest.
My face is wet, my throat sore from crying out in my sleep. The nightmare clings like a parasite, prolonging and savoring my pain.
“Stay awake, Teddy. Stay awake! Don’t leave me. Just hold on. Please.”
“S’okay, Rue. I’ll be… be your brother in… next life too. Don’t forget… magic.”
This particular nightmare hasn’t plagued me in years, and I don’t remember it ever plaguing me multiple nights in a row. Tonight was night three and the worst yet. The closest to real, more memory than dream.
I curl around my pillow, shaking uncontrollably as I struggle to regulate my shallow breaths. Consumed by the effort, I don’t register the sound coming from the other side of the wall until it stops, then starts again.
Singing.
River is singing.
My mind latches onto his soft baritone like a life preserver. My muscles relax. My breathing deepens. By the time he finishes the song and starts another, my eyes are fluttering closed.
As I tumble toward a dreamless void, I hear a whisper. My words, River’s voice. Maybe aloud. Maybe in my mind.
“If you don’t release the pressure inside you, eventually you’ll implode.”
I imagine what I would say back if I were as brave and honest as I’ve pretended to be for so long.
I’m afraid if I let it go, there won’t be anything left of me.
River doesn’t respond.
But Teddy does.
“So you’re afraid. Big whoop. On the other side of fear is freedom—isn’t that what you told me?”
I was talking about climbing trees, not overcoming two decades’ worth of existential dread.
“Tomato, tomahto. Don’t be such a wuss. I’m the one afraid of heights, but if I were there, I’d drag you up that tree myself.”
We’re sticking with the tree symbology, huh? Fine. My climbing days are over. There’s too much at risk.
“Pfft. What are you risking, the cobwebs in your vagina?”
Wait—what? I thought you were working on a metaphor about overcoming fears.
“Nope. I’m talking about climbing a specific tree—six feet four inches tall with muscles for days and a big, thick branch to swing on.”
Teddy! Stop it right now.
“I’ll stop if you stop being boring. Climb. The. Tree. Climb. The. Tree…”
I fall asleep smiling.