27. Rue
rue
. . .
journey to the stars
Hands on my hips, I squint at the giant metal contraption standing in a pool of late afternoon sunlight. On the other side of the clearing, River crouches to wipe debris off a plaque.
For the last few hours, we’ve been working our way around the property.
The grounds are littered with small art pieces, and we visited a few of them—including the copper sculpture garden—but the bulk of our time has been spent hunting down the seven large-scale installations spaced along the northern and eastern borders.
Each was built and donated by an artist who passed through the summer program.
There was a spiraling structure made entirely of giant wind flutes, a tunnel of interlocking wooden archways filled with gravity-defying cairns, an obelisk with dozens of tiny metal birds suspended in the air around it, and an enormous, lifelike vagina you could walk into.
My favorite, though, was the twenty-foot-tall dancing woman molded from wire.
River’s was the massive, anatomically correct heart made of steel and stained glass.
The installation I’m staring at is the last of the seven, ambiguously listed as J.S. on the back of my map.
I have no idea what it’s supposed to be or do, but it looks like a decaying metal flower. A small platform with a bench sits in the center of a multitude of oblong metal components. They rest limply on the ground, some solid, others hollow, and still more made of wire mesh.
River’s footsteps approach, and I turn toward him expectantly.
“What did it say?”
“The artist’s name is Spider Jelly, and it’s an interactive sculpture. We have to use the bike pedals on the platform.”
“I’m sorry, did you say Spider Jelly? What does J.S. stand for then? Jelly Spider?”
His grin appears. “Not quite. Journey to Secrets.”
I make a face. “More like Journey to Suffering.”
“Oh, come on. It looks fun.”
“Nope. Uh-uh. I’m not getting in that thing.”
“Coward.”
I give him the stink eye. “That’s rich coming from the person who wouldn’t let me try the tire swing by the Zen garden.”
“The anchor rope was chewed down to three threads, you maniac.”
“Pfft.”
“Just imagine how you’ll feel if I do it, but you don’t.”
“Peer pressure. Classy.”
“Just appealing to your competitive nature.”
I glance at the installation, then sigh. “All right, fine. At least we’ll die together.”
River laughs and grabs my hand, pulling me toward the platform.
“We won’t die. Worst-case scenario, we’ll have side-by-side hospital beds.”
“Expect pudding wars.”
“I’m counting on it.”
He squeezes my fingers. I pretend the simple gesture doesn’t light fireworks under my skin, just as I’ve pretended with all of his casual touches over the last few hours. But mind over matter has only helped so much—the matter doesn’t give a shit about the lies I tell myself.
My underwear is wrecked. My cotton bra is sandpaper on my sensitive nipples. I feel feverish, tender everywhere, sunburned in places that have never seen daylight. If I don’t attend to myself soon, I might lose my damn mind.
Maybe I already have.
I follow River up narrow metal steps and settle beside him on the shallow, too-small bench. Our bodies press together shoulder to calf. When he moves to align his feet to the pedals on his side, his arm grazes the side of my breast.
“Should we head back after this?”
The question comes out breathless and, dare I say, suggestive. Ducking my head to hide my embarrassment, I make a show of adjusting my feet on my pedals.
“Sick of me already?”
“That goes without saying, but I also told Kirk I’d have the golf cart back at the Lodge before dinner.”
“Don’t worry, Princess. I’ll get you there.”
Dammit.
I shift on the hard bench, swallowing a gasp when the seam between my legs rolls over my clit. Closing my eyes tightly, I wait for the ache to downgrade from critical to barely tolerable. When it does, I blink back into the present.
And my heart slams to my spine.
River stares at me from inches away. Sunlight catches in his eyes, accentuating cliffs and chasms of amber, gold, and citrine. He’s not quite smiling, but there’s a hint of gaiety around his mouth that makes me want to stab him. Repeatedly.
“Everything okay?”
“Absolutely. What’s next?”
His gaze flickers, stalling for a beat on my mouth before swinging to the plaque mounted in front of us. As I surreptitiously check for drool, he brushes off accumulated dust to reveal etched instructions.
Shading the small paragraph with his hand, he reads it aloud.
“before embarking on your journey, two must free secrets three—one never before spoken, one asked and given free, and one a wish the stars alone receive.”
My pulse taps an adrenaline-soaked cadence. “That’s surprisingly poetic.”
River smirks. “High praise indeed. Should we play Rock Paper Scissors to see who goes first?”
“You actually want to do all that? Why bother? Let’s just use the pedals and see what happens.”
His grunt is pure affront. “You made me sit inside the giant vagina to ‘meditate on the womb of Mother Earth’ for ten minutes because of the artist’s instructions.”
I grimace. “Point taken.”
Swallowing heavily, I scan the instructions again. They aren’t as daunting the second time, but my skin still crawls.
“For the first one, can it be something I’ve never told you specifically? Or does it have to be something I’ve never said out loud?”
River hesitates. “It doesn’t matter to me, but if you’re uncomfortable—”
“Don’t be silly! I’m completely comfortable.”
I smile.
His wince suggests my effort lands closer to constipated than congenial.
“We’re skipping the secrets.” He gives one of the pedals a testing push; it doesn’t move, but one of mine squeaks a little. “Oh, okay. That’s pretty cool. Looks like my right pedal helps move your left one and vice versa on your side, and all four have to move for anything to happen.”
I inhale the tang of warm metal and balsam and him. My exhale is a surrender I didn’t plan and can’t control. The only choice remaining is whether I relax into the fall or fight it.
And I’m tired of fighting.
“Has Ivy told you my real name? The name I was born with?”
River’s gaze lifts, curious yet cautious. There’s a hint of stiffness in his shoulders. Perhaps, like me, he senses impending impact.
“Your name isn’t Rue?”
I smile slightly. “It is now. I legally changed it to Rue St. James when I was nineteen. But I was born Prudence Baker.”
Shock flares in his eyes. “Really?”
I nod, my gaze drifting to a nearby tree. A bird watches us from a low branch, black-crested head angled inquisitively.
“Ironic, right? My parents, the respectable Chasity and Robert Baker, were hoping for a sensible, modest daughter. They got me instead—a girl who climbed trees and skinned her knees and befriended the neighborhood raccoons.”
River’s silence is a tilted cup, expectant but not demanding. I pause, waiting for that clench in my stomach, the warning that I’ve already said too much. But it doesn’t come.
The bird sidesteps on the branch, then settles.
“When Teddy started talking, he couldn’t say Prudence.
He called me Poo for a while.” My lips twitch at the memory.
“Prue stuck for a bit, but then I became Rue. Always Rue. Our mother hated it. It probably reinforced her fear that no matter how hard she tried to mold me into Prudence, I’d never be that girl.
Rue became a secret between Teddy and me.
My true identity, only safe in our bedroom or in the trees.
I chose St. James because of Teddy too. He… ”
My throat closes. River’s hand covers my clenched one, surprising me into a swift inhale. He guides our palms together, then threads his fingers through mine. When he squeezes gently, I feel it all over. A hug of comfort and support that reminds me I’m not alone.
“You can stop if you want,” he says. “I think that more than qualifies.”
I lick my lips, considering his offer. Then I shake my head. I’m mid-fall, after all. There’s no thwarting gravity.
“Teddy and I shared a bedroom growing up. He had trouble falling asleep when he was little, so he’d crawl into bed with me.
I’d read to him by flashlight, the comforter over our heads so our parents wouldn’t see the light.
That lasted a few years before we were caught.
Part of our punishment was losing the privilege of books in our bedroom.
“That’s when I started telling stories. We had a few that evolved over the years, but Teddy’s all-time favorite was about an intrepid teenager named Lucky St. James.
He was an interdimensional traveler whose planet had been destroyed, so he zipped around the universe, exploring and searching for a place to call home. So there you have it—Rue St. James.”
Our avian listener tilts his black-crested head and blinks. Wings flutter and stretch wide. He hops off the branch, trusting he’ll survive the fall. And he does—he flies.
“Thank you for telling me,” River says softly.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye. He’s staring into the middle distance, a faint frown creasing his brow. My hand is still in his. I know he’d release me if I pulled away, but I don’t.
“If you ever call me Prudence, I’ll tie you down and pluck out your eyelashes.”
Aureate eyes flash my way, glinting with amusement, but his expression is solemn. “I’d never. I can’t think of any name less suited to you.”
My lips curl the tiniest bit. “Are you calling me reckless?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. You’re spontaneous. Whimsical.”
I laugh. “All right, Thesaurus. Your turn.”
River nods, his gaze dropping to his lap. The change in him is subtle—a slow-growing stillness, tightness that isn’t quite tension. I see it for what it is. Armor.
His fingers flex against mine.
“A secret never spoken, huh?”
“Same rules apply, so it can be something I don’t know.”
He nods. “You probably know I moved overseas at twenty. Did Ivy tell you why?”
I hesitate, thinking. “All I remember is that you had a big opportunity.”