27. Rue #2
He nods. “A street art agency based in London reached out. Courted me. They offered living accommodations, supplies, a monthly stipend. They already had a waiting list of clients and contracts. It was a huge break.”
He laughs, short and rough.
“That’s what everyone thinks, anyway. The truth is, I’d been applying to agencies, here and abroad, since the day I turned eighteen.
All of them far from Seattle. The London agency didn’t offer me shit except representation, and the terms were god-awful—close to fifty percent of every commission.
All they did was negotiate contracts. I had to find the work myself.
But I took it. Lied my ass off to my parents. ”
A tremor moves through his hand, and my fingers clamp down.
“Mom and Dad made sure we all understood our privilege, but it’s not like I’d experienced scarcity before.
And since I’d lied about the agency offer, I couldn’t ask for their help—or I was too stubborn to ask.
It was a bumpy road but good for me in the long run.
I lived in hostels. Scraped by until that contract in Paris came through when I was twenty-three.
The hardest part was lying to my family for years.
But I did it. I couldn’t tell them why I really left. ”
His teeth clench and release.
“A little backstory—I had a lot of acquaintances in high school, but only one real friend. Caleb. He was the coolest. Talented artist, brutally honest, sense of humor drier than the desert. By day, he was this straitlaced nerd with perfect grades, but at night, he was a writer.” He glances at me, lips quirked.
“In graffiti culture, you don’t call yourself an artist unless you want to get jumped. ”
“Noted.”
The smile ticks higher before fading. “We started tagging together our sophomore year. I was horrible at first. Too slow, no instinct. But Caleb was a natural. Small and fast. Ruthless too. “One flash of red and blue, and he’d be gone. Fucker wouldn’t even warn me, just bolt, leaving me with the cans and cuffs. ”
His thumb begins sweeping across my skin. Back and forth, back and forth. I’m not sure he knows he’s doing it.
“Right before our senior year, he started getting sick a lot. When he wasn’t sick, he was tired.
He lost weight. Missed a lot of school. I spent most afternoons at his house.
We’d draw, watch movies, talk about all the places we were going to travel when we were older.
I knew something was wrong, but I was a coward.
If I knew, I’d have to face it. Caleb understood.
He let me pretend until he couldn’t anymore.
Until he spent more time in the hospital than at home.
Leukemia took him a few days before he turned seventeen. ”
I whisper, “I’m so sorry.”
He squeezes my hand. “A week before Caleb died, I tried to talk to my parents. I wanted to go to the hospital—see him one last time, say goodbye—but I was terrified. I think I was hoping they’d come with me. Or drive me there. Something. But, uh…”
His jawline firms. I blink against the sting in my eyes, wishing there were something I could say or do to take this from him. But I can’t. His pain, like mine, has lived in the dark so long it’s in our marrow.
“My parents had recently found out Wilder was an addict. On top of that, Olive was going through her klepto phase, and Ivy’s school was trying to force psychiatric intervention after she told her teacher she could see auras.
Then there was me, the kid they never worried about.
Even when I got my misdemeanors, it wasn’t that big of a deal.
Sure, they were pissed. I was grounded, et cetera.
But it wasn’t like I was doing drugs, stealing, or causing major property damage. I was making art.
“They didn’t blow me off on purpose. They were distracted, overwhelmed by everyone else’s problems. But I needed them—I needed help.
I tried to ask for it. I tried so fucking hard.
I remember every second I stood there stammering.
” He shakes his head. “But they couldn’t see me struggling.
I was invisible. Something inside me started shutting down that day, and it turned off completely when I spoke at Caleb’s funeral.
By the time things calmed down at home, I’d already decided to never need them again.
I love my family, but I haven’t really felt a part of it since then. ”
His glassy eyes lift to the cloudless sky, and he finishes in a whisper, “It’s taken seventeen years for the part of me I thought was broken to turn back on. For me to say all that out loud. Thank you for being here and listening.”
A tear lands on my wrist, then another. My tears.
River makes a soft sound, then lifts our joined hands. His lips press to my tear-damp skin. It’s not a kiss. Somehow, it’s worse. More intimate. A gentle, intentional absorption of my aching heart.
Another truth flutters inside me, chasing the fading heat of his mouth. A truth worthy of his offering. A secret I’ve never spoken.
But I’m not brave enough.
Before it can leap, I clip its wings.