19. River
river
. . .
another long week
At the sound of a small splash to my right, I open my eyes. Muted green light and sulphuric steam rise from the surface of the hot springs, both magnifying a sight that will haunt me forever.
“Fuck’s sake, Dan. Get your dick out of my face.”
Priya’s laughter rises from the opposite end of the shallow, kidney-shaped pool. “Not so fast. Some of us are enjoying the view. Right, Larissa?”
The glass artist from France titters, but her dark gaze strays to me. As with the last hundred times she’s eyed me since I walked in, I pretend not to notice.
Chuckling, Dan steps deeper into the water and settles on the submerged bench a few feet away. When I catch his gaze, he shakes his head subtly.
“Sorry, man,” he whispers. “Maya seemed game, but…” He shrugs.
I nod in understanding and sink deeper, canting my head against the rounded lip of the pool. Since Dan’s often attached to my hip in his free time, Rue deduced I’d be here—and for two long weeks, wherever I am is the last place she wants to be.
Past me would have cornered her by now and made sure she knew how childish she was acting.
But things have changed—I’ve changed. I don’t think she’s childish.
I think she feels threatened by our changing dynamic and is protecting herself.
Just like two years ago, she regrets showing me a glimpse of the real her, so she’s slamming the proverbial door in my face.
Unbeknownst to her, however, I’m not walking away this time. I’ve finally admitted to myself what I want—what Ivy has wanted for years—and I’m ready to work for it.
One way or another, in twenty-six days, Rue and I are leaving this place as friends.
Closing my eyes, I listen with half an ear as Dan joins Priya and Larissa’s conversation about the annual camping trip. He’s been trying to convince me to go, and it sounds like Larissa is under similar pressure from Priya.
“There are no cabins? You sleep in the dirt?” Larissa’s fluid accent is full of disdain.
“We’ll have tents and sleeping bags,” Priya insists. “It’ll be a great time, I promise. It’s a PAC tradition!”
Dan adds, “The hike to the campsite is around three hours. By the time we set up camp, you’ll be so blissed out on the fresh air you won’t even notice the lack of a mattress.”
“You said nothing about hiking for hours, Priya!”
I crack an eye open to see Priya send Dan a glare before she smiles at Larissa. “Kirk said it’s easy, mostly flat. And didn’t you say you wanted to see the redwoods up close?”
“I did,” Larissa concedes.
I tune them out again, my thoughts flecks of metal drifting back to the lodestone in my mind.
When I told Ivy about my intent to bury the hatchet and win Rue’s friendship, her scream made my ears ring. Then she rapid-fired advice at me.
“Don’t ambush her; she’ll bolt. Be patient and consistent. Show her who you really are and let her come to you on her own terms. And whatever you do, don’t flake and give up. I’ll never forgive you.”
Easier said than done.
I severely underestimated Rue’s commitment to avoiding me. She leaves our cabin at the ass crack of dawn. If we cross paths at breakfast, she pretends I’m a ghost, then becomes a ghost herself for the remainder of the day.
Thanks to not actively pushing everyone away anymore, I’ve learned she’s in the gym until the Lodge opens for breakfast. After dinner, she usually goes to the community center for whatever group activity is being offered that day—like astral projection, singing bowl therapy, and transcendental meditation, all of which she knows full well I’m not interested in.
If I showed up, there’d be no question I was there for her.
I’m close to risking it though. If I have to ecstatically dance my way into a conversation with her, so be it.
This would be a lot simpler if she came back to the cabin even once during the day.
Maybe she’d like that I’ve been feeding the squirrels and birds in her absence.
Or she might notice I’ve been watering the patch of dandelions near the porch.
I could tell her why—that I knew the flowers were important to her by the way she held them as she braided the crown.
Then again, she might not care about any of it.
Either way, I can’t tell her shit because she doesn’t come back until midnight or later. Whatever she’s doing from 9 p.m. on is another mystery that’s becoming difficult not to solve. All I know is she’s not with Maya; for the last week or so, she’s been sneaking into Dan’s cabin at night.
I just hope she’s not hanging out with Matteo, the abstract pottery artist with a sleepy pothead vibe. I don’t like the way he smiles at her, and I really don’t like the smarmy look on his face whenever he catches me watching.
That clown can think what he wants. I’m just concerned, as a friend would be, about the shadows beneath Rue’s eyes, growing darker every day.
She may put on a convincing front for everyone else, but I know exactly how much sleep she’s getting.
I’m getting even less.
The slam of a door and the sudden uptick in voices bring me back to the present. I stiffen and open my eyes, but my meager hope fizzles out at the sight of the four people crowding the tiny changing area: Anna and Wyatt, along with the last two people I want to see.
Penelope cowers behind Wyatt, her eyes downcast. She’s been the picture of humility since that doomed dinner, and the others are caving. I can’t begrudge them for welcoming her back into the fold—after all, they did the same for me—but I also don’t feel inclined to make nice.
The final person, I’m even less inclined to welcome.
I’d much rather punch him.
Matteo stops at the edge of the pool, grinning as he lifts two six-packs of beer.
“Rejoice! The party hath arrived!”
What a dipshit.
I lean toward Dan. “I’m going to head out.”
He nods, his eyes knowing. “Get some sleep. You look like shit.”
“Fuck you too.”
I clap him on the shoulder, then hop out of the pool. Not bothering with a towel, I step into my flip-flops, grab my discarded shirt, and slip out the door while everyone’s distracted.
The drop in temperature is a welcome shock to my overheated body, the silence a balm to my senses.
Solar lights illuminate a forking path, one direction leading to the Lodge and the other to the saltwater pool.
I head down the latter to grab a towel from the cabana and dry off in peace.
Then I’ll do what I’ve done every night this week—return to the empty cabin, crawl into bed with my sketchbook, and wait for Rue’s bed to creak.
She’ll fall asleep almost instantly. I’ll doze until she starts thrashing and whimpering.
I freaked out the first time I heard it, thinking someone was hurting her. I tested her door and found it locked, then checked her windows just in case. Finally, I realized if someone else had been in her cabin, I’d have heard them as clearly as I heard her.
Physically, she’s safe. Mentally, she walks through hell in her sleep.
The first couple nights, I tried waking her. Calling her name. Pounding on the wall. Nothing worked. All I could do was stand witness, flinching each time she cried out, until her cries eventually tapered off.
Last night made all the previous seem like a walk in the park.
Her distress was so harrowing, I nearly tested my theory that all the cabins use the same entry key.
Instead, I texted my mom and asked what she and Dad did when we had nightmares growing up.
Even though it was the middle of the night, she answered within a few minutes.
The only thing that ever soothed us was singing.
So I sat with my back to the wall and sang. And it worked.
Within five minutes, Rue’s cries softened, then cut off with a gasp as she woke. Past the point of caring whether or not she heard me, I didn’t stop singing until she fell back asleep. Then I stayed awake another hour to make sure the nightmares didn’t come back.
The pool is empty when I arrive. The heated waters are dark and still, faint curls of vapor rising from the edges. A glowing ribbon of moonlight floats on the surface, disappearing off the infinity edge. There’s no wind, the night so quiet I can hear the crash of waves a mile away.
Stopping a few feet from the pool’s edge, I tilt my head back. The full moon sits directly overhead, a massive, brilliant ring of light encircling it.
“It’s called a lunar halo. Nature’s lens flare.”
At the sound of Rue’s voice, goosebumps erupt on my chest and arms. My head snaps toward the pool loungers on my right, my eyes finding her instantly.
She reclines not ten feet away, her face angled skyward. Her hair is wet, a dark towel draped over her from chest to thighs. I can’t tell if she’s wearing a bathing suit under the towel, but I really fucking hope so.
I take a quick breath, but my head is full of static. Now that the moment I’ve been waiting for has arrived, I can’t think of a single thing to say.
“Sorry,” she says with a sigh. “You probably already knew that.”
I clear my throat. “I didn’t, actually.”
“Liar.”
The familiar, lightly mocking tone sends a pulse of warmth from my head to my feet.
I take a step toward her. Her lashes flicker, but she otherwise doesn’t react, her gaze staying on the moon. I feel absurdly victorious, like I’ve completed the first hurdle in taming a wild animal—a thought I’ll take to my grave because I’d like my balls to stay attached to my body.
“I thought it was only visible in winter. Isn’t the ring made of ice crystals?” Somehow my tone is calm, the complete opposite of my adrenaline-flooded insides.
She nods. “It’s not as common this time of year, but it has more to do with altitude and light refraction than surface temperature. That misty effect between the moon and the ring is actually from clouds high in the atmosphere. Clouds mean moisture, and moisture at altitude freezes.”
Fighting a smile, I hazard another step forward. “Is meteorology a hobby of yours?”
She makes a soft sound of amusement. “I googled it a few minutes ago.”
My grin breaks free. “I wasn’t lying, by the way. I’ve only seen the ring once, back when I was a kid. My dad called it something else. A storm ring, I think. He said it meant snow.”
Rue finally looks my way. After five days without eye contact, the connection zaps me behind the ribs.
“You’re the weather whisperer,” she says. “Is California going to have a freak snowstorm in July?”
“Hmm, let me see.”
I lick my index finger and lift it above my head, then close my eyes.
Laughter bubbles in her voice. “What are you doing?”
“Shh. I’m communing with the clouds. It’s an ancient and delicate process.” I relax and open my eyes. “No snow or rain anytime soon.”
A wry smile flashes, then she sits up and swings her feet to the ground.
“You don’t have to leave,” I say quickly, retreating a few steps. “I can go. Or do you want to leave? I can stay. Whatever you want.”
Her eyes lift, flashing like quicksilver.
“Who are you, and what have you done with River?”
Improbable laughter catches in my throat, but my voice emerges rough. “I’ve been asking myself the same question for months.”
Her eyes linger on mine, unreadable in the shadows cast by her lashes. Then the moment passes. She stands and moves to the foot of her lounger.
I’m relieved—only relieved—when she unwraps the towel to reveal a one-piece bathing suit. She shakes out the damp fabric, then knots it around her waist. Or she tries to.
As she fumbles with the corners and mumbles to herself, I can’t help but feast—from a purely artistic perspective—on the monochromatic art of her body in the moonlight.
Every curve and angle of her is a study in shading and contrast. Bare feet, strong calves, flaring hips.
The dim valley of her waist and the graceful bend of her torso.
Shadowed throat and pearly profile. The bowed slope of her upper lip.
I ache for a pencil and paper.
She twists, still fighting with the towel, and a tendril of wet hair flies and sticks to her chest. When I trace its path downward to an expanse of creamy cleavage, my body’s immediate, aggressive opinion finally yanks me back to reality.
Tearing my eyes away, I focus on the distant shimmer of moonlight on the ocean and take slow deep breaths.
I have to believe this attraction will fade over time. It’s just biology. Chemicals I can’t control. Long months of abstinence after more than a year of performative intimacy. The illicitness of the fantasy of her; the fact she’s forbidden fruit.
Even if Rue feels the same temptation, anything physical with her is a dead end. Not only would it fuck up any chance of long-term peace between us and ruin every family gathering forever, Ivy would disown me.
Besides, I strongly suspect we’re the opposite of compatible in bed. I like being in control of my partner’s pleasure. Rue would be more likely to argue about my technique and yank my hair than submit to my whims. Every orgasm would be war.
Why does that possibility turn me on even more?
A muted screech comes from my right, followed by a wet slap against the pool deck.
“Stupid fluffy bullshit. Pool towels are supposed to be thin, assholes.”
I bite my cheek so I don’t laugh. The pain has an added benefit of distracting me from a raging need to look at her—specifically at the area the towel concealed. Her creamy thighs and the space between.
Aaaand I’m getting hard again.
Fuck.
I toss aside my T-shirt, kick off my sandals, and walk to the edge of the pool. Rocking onto the balls of my feet, I prepare to dive.
“River?”
She’s behind me. Right behind me, so close my shoulder blades twitch.
My momentum halts, but I don’t turn around. I can’t. The moonlight is too bright for me to adjust myself discreetly. She’ll see how hard I am for her, and with no easy excuse like accidental friction, tonight’s tenuous progress will crumble.
I turn my head slightly so she knows I heard her and that I’m listening.
“Is your back okay now?”
“Yeah. Turns out Kirk isn’t entirely full of shit—a few sessions of acupuncture straightened me out. No pain at all during my runs for the last week.” I clamp my teeth to stop rambling.
“I’m so glad to hear that.”
For one second, I marvel at the relief in her voice. The proof that she genuinely cares.
Then her foot pushes into the back of my knee, destabilizing my center of gravity right as her palms land on my back and shove.
I fly into the pool.