25. River
river
. . .
a storm will come
After cleaning up breakfast, I head to my cabin to shower. Leaving Rue isn’t easy, especially after that unexpectedly heavy conversation, but she needs some space to process.
I need some space too.
The shower is as unsatisfying as I expect it to be, my hand a poor substitute for what I want.
I come with a dozen rough strokes, but it barely takes the edge off.
Within minutes, I’m hard again, torturing myself with the memory of her tugging down the top of her bathing suit.
Of water pouring over her shoulders, gliding around and between her heaving breasts, dripping off peaked nipples the same rosy shade as her lips.
And then that soft, hopeful appeal: “Will you wash the rest of me?”
I imagine her asking me again with a clear head. What I’d do. How I’d touch her. Mark her. Fill her.
My second orgasm is deep, long, and borderline painful. I shudder in the cooling water, nerves clamoring, teeth clenched with the effort of holding back a groan.
It’s release without relief.
I stumble out of the shower. Dry off, brush my teeth, yank on a pair of boxers. Leaden feet carry me as far as the foot of the bed, where I slump down and cradle my throbbing head. My body screams for more sleep than the three restless hours I had on Rue’s too-small couch.
But my mind won’t stop churning.
Rue must have assumed I left after fleeing her bathroom. By the time the water turned off, I’d closed the windows, pulled the curtains, and turned off the lights. If she looked into the front room before shutting her bedroom door, she might not have seen me on the couch.
When I first heard the noises coming from the bedroom, I thought she was having a nightmare.
As sick as it is, a part of me was relieved; after all, it was the excuse I’d given myself to stay.
But as I crossed the cabin, the sounds became clearer.
Unmistakable. Rue wasn’t dreaming, wasn’t distressed at all.
My girl was playing with herself, writhing on the sheets like a needy mess.
And like the degenerate I am, I stood right outside her door and listened to every panting breath and little whimper.
She must’ve been amped up from the shower—from me—because not a minute later, I heard a sharp gasp, three beats of silence, and then a thready, stuttering moan.
I was so fucking captivated, I didn’t notice my own orgasm barreling down on me until it hit. All I could do was grab myself through my shorts and hold my breath so I didn’t make any noise. When it was over, I retreated on shaky legs toward the couch where I thankfully had a change of clothes.
Halfway there, a floorboard betrayed me with a creak. A loud creak. The silence that followed might as well have been a scream.
If I were a better man, maybe I’d feel embarrassment or shame. But that would mean I regret listening to her get herself off. And I don’t. I don’t regret—and will never forget—a single second of last night.
The magic of her laughing and twirling in the moonlight.
That crazy grin. Swiping chocolate from her cheek with my thumb.
Her hands in my hair, brushing and playing and tugging.
Her weight on my lap and her finger in my mouth as she commanded me to bite her.
Starlight on her profile. Whispered confessions. Her hopes and fears and wildest dreams.
Does she remember telling me she’s never been in love? Does she remember me admitting I haven’t either?
If the aftermath of her acid trip is anything like the few I had when I was younger, she doesn’t. The night’s contours may be clear, but all its detailed shading is lost to illusory blurs of color, sound, and sensation.
Even if she hadn’t been high, chances are she wouldn’t have noticed me stiffen right after my confession. We were lying outside at the time. The clearing was dark, the moon hidden behind trees. Her eyes were on the stars, not me.
When I said the words, I’d been thinking about Elise and how what I’d thought was love wasn’t. But the moment the confession left my lips, I knew it was a lie.
I have been in love.
For years.
With Rue.
Last night must have been my final fall after a decade of slipping toward her in increments. Like the proverbial frog in a pot on the stove, I didn’t notice the temperature increasing until I started boiling.
Now I’m fucking cooked.
Looking into the past with clear eyes, my obsession couldn’t be more obvious.
Before meeting her, I visited Seattle twice a year.
I’d alternate Thanksgiving and Christmas and stagger my other visit between birthdays or family events.
After Wilder’s wedding, though, I never missed a single holiday.
I’d even show up for random long weekends—weekends Ivy told me she and Rue would be at my parents’ house.
More than a few times, I canceled commitments or spent ridiculous amounts of money on last-minute flights.
No wonder my parents started dropping more and more hints about me moving back to Seattle. They thought I was homesick. At times, I thought I was too. But I wasn’t homesick. I was heartsick and seeking my antidote.
My antidote, Rue St. James, who at this very moment is stripping her bedsheets for this afternoon’s laundry pickup and chatting with the bird pecking at her window screen.
“What am I going to do?”
As my whisper fades, my phone buzzes on the nightstand. A frisson of awareness rolls over me, as inexplicable as it is familiar, telling me who the text is from before I see Wilder’s name on the screen.
Call me right now
Before I can reply, my phone rings. Knowing it’s not an emergency—we have codewords for those—I send him to voicemail and start typing.
He calls again.
I send him to voicemail again, then retype my message and hit send.
Ffs. Stop calling and text like a normal person.
Fuck normal. Answer the phone
I can’t. There’s no privacy in my cabin
Take a walk asshole
I crack a smile in spite of myself.
I’m tired. Can we talk later?
You have two minutes until I call Mom
FINE
Sighing out my annoyance, I shove to my feet and pull on my last pair of clean shorts.
Forty-five seconds later, I carefully close my front door behind me. Opting to avoid the porch steps, I swing over the side railing. My sneakers land silently on a patch of weeds. With a final glance at the empty porch, I head into the woods.
When the cabin is no longer in view, I stop and pull out my phone. As expected, Wilder answers on the first ring and doesn’t bother saying hello.
“What’s wrong?”
“Let’s see. At the top of today’s list is three hours of shitty sleep, but coming in strong at number two is my overbearing ass of a brother.”
“River. Talk to me.”
His gentle tone makes me stiffen.
“Fuck, man. We talked just a few days ago. I’ve already told you everything.”
“Not everything.”
My gut clenches harder.
The public knows my brother as a legendary musician, surly recluse, and sober addict of fifteen years. His friends know him as a devoted husband and father. But there’s another facet to Wilder’s character, one only his immediate family and closest friends know about.
In the six years since the birth of his twins, he’s become abnormally sensitive to those he loves. Including me.
In many ways, I’m grateful for his gift.
Our seven-year age difference and his descent into addiction meant we weren’t close for most of our teens and twenties.
Now, thanks in large part to his habit of calling or texting whenever anything significant happens in my life, I have the relationship with my brother I always wanted.
Until recently, that is. For the last few weeks, he’s been up my ass almost every day. According to him, my emotions have been screaming at him nonstop.
“Aren’t you sick of this?” I ask. “Talk to Granny. Maybe she can tell you how to turn it off.”
“I called her this morning after barely getting any sleep last night.”
Air evacuates my lungs. “Are you saying…” I trail off, the rest of the sentence too ludicrous to voice.
“Whatever you’re thinking, it was worse.
At one point, I woke up convinced a coyote was eating our chickens.
Another time, I smelled smoke and thought the kitchen was on fire.
But the best one was when I sleepwalked outside and lay down half naked on the dirt at two in the fucking morning.
I set off the house alarm. The kids were scared out of their minds.
Eva couldn’t find me for twenty minutes.
She—” He sighs. “Let’s just say it’s a good thing she loves me. ”
I rub my forehead. “I can’t believe this is a real conversation.”
“Says the guy whose grandmother talks to dead people, whose sisters see auras, and who himself controls the weather.”
“I’ve told you a million times. I can’t control the weather, I just… feel it.”
“Ah, my bad. I guess you’re normal.”
“Funny. Can we focus? What did Granny say?”
He hesitates so long I make a preemptive decision to lean against a tree. Sure enough, a few seconds later, I’m glad for the support.
“Have I ever mentioned I’ve always sensed you the most? Out of everyone in my life?”
“What? No.”
Wilder takes a deep breath like he needs steadying too. “I don’t know if you remember this, but toward the end of my using, there was a week when I was sober. I came to the house for Granny’s birthday dinner.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “I remember that night.” It was the first time I’d seen him in months and the last time I saw him before we nearly lost him to his addiction.
“After dinner, Granny gave me a message. Most of it was about me and Eva, but she said something about you too.”
My knees issue a warning, and I lean harder against the tree. “What did she say?”
“That you’d face your own kind of darkness someday and when that happened, you’d need me. I think that’s why I’m so attuned to you. Because I’ve been waiting.”
My sinuses burn. “Shit, Wilder. But this—I mean, compared to what you went through, this is noth—”