Chapter Twenty-Three
‘Silver suits you,’ Henry declares, once the campfire crowd has dispersed and River has left my side to go grab us more drinks. He leans up against the trunk of a tree, eyes taking me in from top to toe. ‘You look … different. Shiny. It’s nice.’
Nonchalant. Elegant. Uninterested. Having the best time ever without him.
‘Maybe I am different these days.’ I raise my arms, gather my hair and pull it over one shoulder.
River said earlier that I should use any excuse to show off my armpits because they are – apparently – ‘very good armpits’.
‘Maybe I’m in the mood for a little … excitement. ’
‘You’re acting differently too,’ Henry remarks, eyes narrowing a touch. ‘That comment before? About the navel-gazing?’
Do not apologise. Do not apologise.
He grimaces. ‘Please tell me that’s not in direct response to having read the manuscript pages I gave you?’
‘Oh, of course not …’ I say at once. ‘I mean, uh … I haven’t even thought about your pages, not one bit. I … I spit on your pages!’
‘Excuse me?’
Ugh, I’m getting this wrong. And I am also maybe a little drunk from the beers. And even if I weren’t drunk, I’ve never been good at hiding my true feelings. Josie used to say I wore my heart on my face.
I take a deep breath.
‘What I mean is … I’m here to have fun this weekend. You can’t snap your fingers and have me come running, Henry.’
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise because, of course, that’s what I’ve always done.
And happily. But what he said earlier has really gotten my goat.
If there’s one thing I cannot stand it’s literary snobbery.
The notion that books written for joy and entertainment and connection can’t also be beautifully done? Bullshit.
Henry holds his hands up in a gesture of innocence.
‘Okay! Relax, Gertie. My goodness, what has gotten into you?’ He gives me an imploring look.
‘You know I didn’t mean that about romance readers, right?
I was just teasing.’ He uses his forefinger to chuck beneath my chin.
‘I’d never intentionally do anything to hurt you. You do know that, right?’
I’m not sure I do.
‘May I cut in?’
I spin around to see River at my side, looking breathtaking in his white shirt and jeans, two condensation-covered beer bottles in his hands.
He leans down, right there in front of Henry, and, without any ado, presses his lips to my neck, making an ‘mmmm’ sound as he does.
I inhale sharply at the pleasant sensation of rough stubble on my skin.
Some girls just ain’t ready to be kissed like that.
My mouth goes dry. I’ve never liked the feel of stubble before. I always used to grumble when Henry went a couple of days without shaving, but right now? I feel myself go a little light-headed.
Get a grip, Gertie. Focus on the plan.
I turn to River, and crawl my fingers confidently up his torso, laying a palm flat on his chest so that I can feel the steady beat of his heart beneath it.
‘Hi, baby,’ I say, my voice croaking a little. I grab one of the bottles of beer off River and take a hefty swig.
‘Baby?’ Henry snorts.
‘Sorry to interrupt, buddy.’ River barely glances at Henry. ‘I was hoping this outstanding woman would do me the honour of joining me on the dance floor.’
My eyes widen. We did not discuss this bit. We did not discuss us dancing. The sexy leg-crossing, the flirting with each other, the neck kiss, the hand on his chest was all pre-agreed. But dancing?
Henry chuckles. ‘Sorry, mate, Gertie doesn’t dance.’
‘That can’t be true,’ River says, looking only at me.
‘Two left feet,’ Henry explains. ‘It’s adorable. She’s adorable.’
River’s nostrils flare. ‘Oh, I’d say she’s more than adorable.’
‘Is that so?’ Henry is still smiling, though it no longer reaches his eyes.
‘It is. I’d say she’s … astounding. Dazzling. Sublime. You know, adorable is such a weak description for someone like Gertie. Ain’t you supposed to be a serious writer, Henry? Come on, Owl. Let’s go bust a move.’
As Henry’s cheeks flush with fury at the insult, his mouth opening and closing without making a sound, River grabs hold of my hand, lacing his fingers through mine.
‘Don’t you dare look back at him,’ he hisses as we head over to the area between two trees where a small group of people are already dancing.
‘Oh my God,’ I breathe. ‘He’s so mad, though.’
‘He’s rude, is what he is. Trying to humiliate you like that at the campfire. Turning his nose up at your life’s work in front of your peers. I’ll tell you something, that man would not last a half-hour on Oakley Ranch. They’d demolish the windbag faster than a prairie fire with a tail wind.’
‘He didn’t really mean what he said about romance. I think he’s just needled about you being here with me, which is what we want, right? It’s making him sharper than usual – evidence that it’s bothering him.’
‘Well, either way, you held your own. Masturbatory prose?’ He chuckles. ‘Perfect. You got quite a sharp tongue yourself.’
River grins down at me as he places our beers onto a poseur table by the makeshift dance floor.
‘Henry was right about one thing, though,’ I tut. ‘I am really bad at dancing. Like, genuinely terrible. And I am telling you, it is not adorable.’
Keeping hold of my hand and pressing his other hand against my back, River draws me right to him. He smiles, eyes twinkling beneath the fairy lights. ‘Oh, but you ain’t ever danced with me, Owl.’
*
As the scatter of stars above glitter like nature’s own disco ball, and the scent of the nearby wildflower meadow sails beneath my nose on a cool breeze, something magical and wonderful happens.
I discover, quite unexpectedly, that I am not the worst dancer on earth at all.
I might … I might actually be a very natural talent.
I might, in fact, be a genius dancer. Has this been my hidden talent all these years?
Is that what Josie meant when she told me I had wasted potential?
Should I try to go pro? Is this my new career when my current career implodes because I still can’t seem to write a damn word?
Am I destined for a life in the performing arts?
I’ve danced two songs with River and to my surprise and delight I feel completely, weirdly, at ease in my body.
It’s doing exactly what I want it to do, and that almost never happens.
The dancing area of the forest floor is now crowded with tipsy revellers, red-faced and shiny with music, alcohol and really good barbecued chicken wings.
As the music builds in tempo I start to shimmy, which makes River laugh out loud.
‘This is a move we are not familiar with in Bedlam Creek.’
‘I saw it on a Beyoncé video,’ I explain over the revelry.
‘A what?’
‘Beyoncé!’ I repeat a little louder, but he doesn’t seem to hear me. ‘Shall I teach you the move?’
‘Sure,’ River says. ‘I can use it to impress the beautiful ladies back home.’
‘And maybe help you to find one to settle down with?’
‘Never!’ He scowls, lifting his chin, eyes flashing with humour.
‘Okay, so here’s how you do it – put your hands on the back of your hips and just do a sort of infinity sign with your hips, but also be bending your knees.’
‘Like this?’
I burst into laughter, doubling over as River does an extravagant hip circle, so out of step with his general rugged, tough-man stature. He’s concentrating so hard that his tongue pokes out the corner of his mouth.
‘Hmm, yeah, I’m not sure you should be doing that in front of anyone back home, let alone the beautiful ladies.’
‘What? You mean this isn’t hot?’ River embellishes the move with some fist pumps, and I find myself laughing so hard, I can’t catch my breath.
When the music switches to ‘After the Love Has Gone’ by Earth, Wind and Fire, everyone not in a couple leaves the dance floor with a disappointed groan at the change of pace.
‘Okay if I take you in a little closer?’ River asks.
‘Yes.’
As soon as River presses his body against me my heart starts to thud. Really thud. I wonder if he feels it too because he halts slightly, eyebrows dipping into a frown, before clearing his throat and spreading his palm across my lower back. I immediately tense at the heat of his touch.
I peek up at him. Yep. He has noticed the stiffening.
Definite tension. Which … science. It’s just science.
It doesn’t mean anything real. And while I look very nice tonight in my silver dress with my hair all swishy, it does not escape my notice that River is in a whole other stratosphere of attractiveness compared to me.
He will always be the hottest person in any room.
I’m warm at best. Plus, as he said, I ain’t his type.
And anyway, he’s not my type either. Henry is my type.
Henry. The whole reason we’re here. Shit.
I’d almost forgotten that this whole dance was supposed to be making Henry jealous.
I peer around the crowd to see if he’s watching us, if it is in fact making him jealous.
Huh, I can’t see him anywhere. Where is he?
I stop dancing and take a step back from River to stand on my tiptoes.
I scan the area – there’s Jim boogieing away with some fellow mystery authors, and there’s Zo, flirting hard with a publicist I know for a fact to be gay. But no Henry. ‘Where did he go …?’
I catch a flash of purple out of the corner of my eye. I glance over to the wooded area on the other side of the clearing, but whatever I saw has gone.
I pad slowly across the dance floor, weaving through the dancing couples, moving towards the darkened area.
‘He’s probably just using the bathroom, or …’ River trails off, eyes suddenly hardening as his attention snags on something to the far left of the woodland. I frown, following his gaze.
My heart tumbles.
There’s Henry.
Partially hidden behind a huge tree trunk, lit only by the glow of the moon.
Henry.
Kissing Marisol Keats.
Kissing Marisol Keats with an intensity that makes me feel like I’m intruding to witness it.
Kissing Marisol Keats like it’s not the first time he’s kissed her.
Oh.
No, no, no.
‘Oh Gertie,’ River says. ‘Are you—’
‘I’m fine!’ I say, starting to laugh maniacally. ‘All is well!’ And then, pulling off my high heels, I drop them on the ground and make a run for it.