23. Rue
rue
. . .
aftermath
There’s a sandstorm in my head, white noise and grit.
Everything hurts.
Nothing makes sense.
My skin is a network of raw nerves, my pajamas abrasive.
My throat aches like I’ve been gargling gravel, and my mouth tastes worse than Lenny’s breath smells.
My crusty eyelashes cling on every blurry blink, and a pickax swings rhythmically against my left cheekbone.
The dry air sears my sinuses, smelling faintly and bizarrely of burnt cheese.
When I turn my head, my spine crackles like cheap taffy.
Sunlight bleeds around the blackout curtain over my cabin’s bedroom window. More seeps through the doorway from the living room. Even weak, the light makes my eyes sting and water.
I roll blindly, seeking darkness, and the bed disappears from under me. With a pitiful squeal and a thump that vibrates the walls, I land elbows-first on the thin, musty area rug. Groaning and coughing, I heave myself onto my back. Pain radiates from my elbows and pulses through my hips.
As my lungs relearn their primary function, I stare up at the ceiling fan. The white blades whirl lazily, but they look strange. Warped and… soft?
“Good morning, sleepyhead.”
River’s amused voice in my bedroom should be shocking; that it isn’t can only be due to the violent tempest between my ears.
Lowering my gaze from the fan, I find him standing in my doorway. He looks as wrecked as I feel—wrinkled T-shirt and pajama pants, shadows beneath bloodshot eyes, loose hair a tangled mess, stubbled jaw. There’s a small, uneven braid on the right side of his face, tied off with a pink rubber band.
A distorted memory flashes and winks out, swallowed by static.
“Wha—huh?”
River nods like my incoherent appeal is perfectly reasonable. Oddly comforted, I close my eyes. His approaching footsteps resonate through the floorboards, vibrating them against my battered body. It feels good, or at least distracts me from my general unwellness.
“Up you go. It’s already ten thirty. If you sleep all day, you’ll regret it.”
Knowing he’s right, I force my watery eyes to reopen. He stands above me, his lips tilted and a hand outstretched.
With a disgruntled sigh, I raise both hands. He grips them firmly and lifts my dead weight to standing. Vastly overestimating my balancing skills, he releases me too soon. I pitch forward, my face smashing into a rock-like surface.
“Ow. Stupid muscles.”
A rumbling laugh tickles my nose, already sensitive from the dust on the floor. I sneeze twice into his shirt.
“Nasty.”
“You’re nasty,” I mumble.
A huff of amusement heats the top of my head. More warmth flows over my shoulders as he cups them and turns my listless body toward the bathroom.
“Splash some water on your face and brush your teeth. Coffee and food are on the way.”
Grumbling, I lift my arms for balance and take baby steps toward the bathroom.
“Proud of you.”
I flip him off.
Somewhere between brushing my teeth and peeling off my sweat-encrusted pajamas, the noise in my head quiets and memories of last night flood back.
The pool. The cabana. The walk home. Scaring the hell out of River when I introduced Lenny. The wonder on his face as she ate a strawberry out of his hand. His horror when she scent marked his leg before trotting smugly into the woods.
From there, my recollections become watercolor, each bleeding into the next. River gagging at the stench of coyote urine, ordering me to stay in his front room while he showered. Forgetting the order when I had a craving for grilled cheese.
The perilous journey across the porch to my door.
Colorful, undulating patterns on the walls and floors.
Smoke, a screeching fire alarm, and River bursting into my cabin in a towel to turn off the stove and open all the windows.
After, watching him make me grilled cheese and barely tasting it because rainbows kept dripping from his smile.
Now I know why my throat hurts—LSD apparently flips a personality switch for me. I talked incessantly. For hours. River is at least partially to blame. He kept asking questions that, in my addled mind, required answers in the form of twenty-minute-long monologues.
I wasn’t so out of it that I opened my mental vault of trauma, thankfully.
But I still shared way, way too much. Details about my life only Ivy knows and some I’ve never shared—like my worry that Ivy and I are too dependent on each other, outweighed only by my fear that without her, I’d have no one who truly cared about me.
Without me, though, Ivy would be free to focus fully on herself and her dreams.
My melancholy didn’t last long. Before River could put words to the serious look on his face, I dragged him outside and made him spin in circles until we were dizzy and gasping.
We dropped onto our backs on the cold grass and stargazed.
I ran my mouth about my remote job as metadata librarian, my obsession with propagating, and my dream of having a garden to grow my own food.
I also vaguely recall a fervent discussion about time travel, reincarnation, and parallel realities.
Eventually, River tried to convince me the hammering sound in the forest wasn’t a woodpecker but my teeth chattering. I refused to believe him and took off running. He caught me before I made it out of the clearing, threw me over his shoulder, and carried me into my cabin.
He distracted me with fancy French chocolate, then let me brush his hair. I spent at least five minutes running my fingers through the strands, mesmerized by their softness, before giving him pigtails, then space buns, and finally deciding on a small braid near his face.
I can’t remember a time I laughed as often or as hard as I did last night, but there was a cost to letting go.
I stared too much.
Touched him too much.
At one point, I crawled into his lap and pried open his mouth so I could test whether his canines were sharp enough to draw blood. He laughed so hard we almost fell off the couch. Not to be deterred, I shoved my index finger into his mouth and told him if he didn’t bite, I’d never forgive him.
He stopped smiling and bit my finger. There was a moment. An accidental brush of his tongue on my skin. A gasp—mine. His hands clenching on my waist.
Then the arm propping me up buckled, and my forehead cracked against his chin.
In the early hours of the morning, the LSD finally released its hold.
Mentally, I was burnt toast in a garbage disposal.
Physically, I was even more miserable. Chills rolled up and down my body like an external pulse.
Still wearing my bathing suit under a dirt-smeared sweatshirt, I itched everywhere from a combination of dried saltwater and sweat.
River turned on the shower and made sure it was the perfect temperature. I kept my bathing suit on, and he helped me into the tub, then sat outside the open door in case I needed him.
The moment my fingers met the hopelessly tangled mess of my hair, I started crying.
When River rushed in, wide-eyed with panic, I cried harder because I was crying.
Between my flailing gestures and blubbering, he figured out the problem.
And he didn’t hesitate, stepping into the tub and getting soaked for his efforts.
He washed my hair. Conditioned it twice. Then I…
Oh god. Oh noooo.
I peeled down the top of my bathing suit and asked him to wash the rest of me.
And after that, I—
“Princess? Are you alive in there?”
I jump back from the sink and crash into the towel rack, which falls with a clatter to the floor.
“Fine! I’m fine!”
“Sounds like it. Well, food’s here.”
“Thanks,” I squeak.
“And, Rue?”
“Y-yes?”
“I know you’re freaking out right now, but you have nothing to be embarrassed about. Oh, and don’t bother asking me to leave. We’re friends now, so you’re stuck with me.”
Wood creaks as he walks away. I wait for the sound of the bedroom door closing behind him, then snatch the nearest towel and press it to my face to muffle my scream.
It takes ten minutes, a few more screams, and several dunks of my head into a sink full of cold water for me to overcome the urge to climb out the nearest window. In the end, it’s not bravery but the smell of coffee and bacon that motivates me to dress and leave the bedroom.
River relaxes at my kitchen table, casual as can be as he sips coffee and scrolls on his phone. On my side of the table sit a tall glass of water and an empty mug, and on the counter behind him are a large carafe and a stack of to-go containers.
Tempting as the latter sight is, I pause a step outside the bedroom to gauge the distance to the front door and the probability of making it past him.
Without looking up from his phone, he smirks. “I’d catch you halfway there.”
I make a face and resume my shuffling progress toward the table.
“Only because I feel like roadkill.”
“Whatever you need to tell yourself.”
By the time I reach the empty chair, my pulse is fluttering frantically. I don’t know if, when, or how River will bring up the shower or what happened afterward, but I’m desperate to delay the conversation. Forever, if possible.
My soul joins the protest of my joints as I reluctantly sit down.
River gives me a quick smile before finishing up something on his phone. The moment he moves to set it down on the table, I blurt, “You obviously aren’t aware I ran track in college. I’d leave you in the dust any day, any conditions.”
“Challenge accepted.” He grins smugly. “Not today, though. It’s only fair if you think you have a fighting chance.”
Rolling my eyes, I pull the empty mug toward me. “Pass the coffee, Mr. Delusional.”
He scoffs and reaches for the carafe on the counter.
Our familiar banter melts some of the tension in my chest, and I allow myself a tiny sliver of hope. Maybe he doesn’t want to talk about the end-of-night incidents any more than I do.
River offers the carafe, then pulls it back when I reach for it.
“You’re risking your life right now.”
He chuckles. “It’s for noble reasons. Since you were allergic to water last night, you should hydrate first.” He nudges the water glass toward me. “You can do it. I believe in you.”
I debate arguing for two seconds, then compromise with myself by muttering, “You’re not the boss of me” before draining half the glass.
With an approving smile that should annoy me but instead makes me feel annoyingly proud of myself, he hands me the carafe and a small carton of cream. I quickly pour and mix my coffee, then take a gulp that burns my tongue.
River watches me unabashedly, amusement lingering around his mouth. The look in his eyes is more difficult to interpret, the sunlit amber soft but with a concealed edge.
I take another tongue-searing gulp.
His smile widens.
“What?” I grouse.
He lifts a finger, circling it to encompass my head. “Just admiring the new style.”
I have no clue what he’s talking about—until I touch my hair. Heat rises up my neck as I realize I forgot to check the mirror before leaving the bathroom… after repeatedly dunking my face and a good portion of my hairline in water.
Across from me, River is fighting for his life, every inch of his face showing the strain of not laughing. “I’m not saying it’s a bad look. Just… unique. Here.”
With a swipe, tap, and a flick of his wrist, I come face-to-face with his phone’s camera. I reel back in horror, my hands flying to my head.
“I look like Ginger Beetlejuice.”
He loses it. Elbows on the table, head cradled in his hands, his whole body shakes with deep, rolling laughter.
The sound is so merry, I can’t help but grin as I scan the room for an errant scrunchie.
Spying one on the coffee table, I dart over to grab it and quickly tie up my hair.
When I sit down again, he’s wiping tears from his eyes with a contented sigh.
“Are you done?”
He nods. “Thanks for that. Truly.”
“Fuck off,” I say with a laugh. My stomach gurgles, and I quickly amend, “After you feed me.”
“Can’t promise the first, but the second I can do.”
He swivels in his chair, his height and the low counter allowing him to stay seated as he heaps fluffy eggs, bacon, and fresh berries onto two plates. Much to my chagrin, my stomach responds to the sight with a much louder, violently unattractive growl.
“Easy, tiger.”
Fighting a blush, I take a sip of coffee. “Feed me before I bite your face off.”
He hears me, glancing over his shoulder with twinkling eyes. “Empty threat. Only one of us has fangs, and it isn’t you.”
My mouth slackens mid-sip, coffee splashing against my chin and dribbling down my T-shirt.
“Dammit.”
River turns with the loaded plates, brows lifting when he sees me mopping my face with my collar.
“Problem?”
“Nope.”
Ignoring his quick grin, I snatch the plate extended toward me.
“This looks amazing. Thanks. I didn’t know the kitchen delivered to the cabins. Or served breakfast this late.”
“It doesn’t. I may have called Kirk and threatened to complain to PAC’s board about the unlabeled drugs floating around.”
“Diabolical. I approve.”
I grab a thick strip of still-warm bacon and tear into it with a groan of bliss. Four rapid bites later, I’m licking my fingers and reaching for another one.
River coughs. “Here.”
As I lift my head, a cloth napkin smacks me in the face. I manage to catch it before it lands in my food.
“That was rude.”
“The sound effects were rude.”
I frown. “What?”
He blinks. “What?”
I hesitate, then shake my head. I must have misheard him.
River stabs a fork into his eggs and brings the bite to his mouth. His lips part, then close and compress. Clean silver tines slide out. Each chew is slow, precise, his dimple winking in and out of sight as his jaw works. A swallow ripples the strong column of his throat.
He licks his lips. “Hungry?”
I fumble for my fork. “Totally. Just, uh, feeling that chemical jet lag.”
“Mmm.”
The gravelly hum hooks my gaze, dragging it up against my will. His eyes are doing that soft-slicing thing again.
“Eat, Princess.”