Page 12 of River & Rue

I understand now.

For the last hour, I’ve been lying on my bed, listening to literally everything going on next door through the shoddiest wall in existence. I’m talking paper-thin, fake-wood paneling and zero soundproofing.

My initial hope was to catch a nap before dinner, but for whatever reason, I have yet to reach for my noise-canceling headphones. Morbid curiosity, probably.

The longer I listen, the more confirmation I have that Rue St. James is fucking nuts.

She talks to herself a lot—like a concerning amount. When I first heard her muttering and occasionally laughing, I thought she must be on a phone call, but then she actually called my sister. On speaker, no less.

That, at least, was entertaining. With a deadpan, fatalistic air, Rue told Ivy about arriving and running for the nearest bathroom, only to realize after a harrowing exorcism that the toilet wouldn’t flush. While trying not to panic, she attempted to fix the issue by scooping water from the sink into the empty tank by hand, which didn’t solve anything and resulted in a soaking wet T-shirt.

I had to bite a pillow to keep from laughing along with my sister.

Rue eventually gave up and went searching for someone to inform. She found Claudia waiting for her outside the Lodge, but when she told her what happened, PAC’s eccentric founder laughed like she was joking, then swept her on a tour.

As her recounting neared our meeting at the pool, I’d braced myself to hear what a jerk I was. But to my surprise, Rue said I’d been happy to see her and seemed, quote unquote, totally great.

Ivy was thrilled by the news.

Other than Rue being chaotic as hell, I have no idea why she lied. But whatever the reason, I’m relieved she did. Ivy and boundaries don’t normally coexist, especially when it comes to our family. I have no doubt she’ll convey everything Rue said to our parents, toilet fiasco included. Had Rue told the truth about my reaction to seeing her, I’d have been inundated with texts within the hour.

There was a time I would have been elated to be the recipient of my parents’ focus. Their care, questions, and advice. Even their worry.

But I’m not a kid anymore.

The last time I needed them, truly needed them, I was seventeen. At the time, their primary focus was Wilder, who was strung out on drugs and hiding it from everyone. Whatever energy my parents had left went to Olive and Ivy, who, thanks to puberty, had devolved into rabid animals.

I don’t begrudge my parents for overlooking me back then. It’s not their fault. I’d played the role of their only relatively stable child my entire life. They couldn’t see what I didn’t show them—what I didn’t know how to show them.

Feeling like a side character in my family was nothing new, but that was the last time I let it bother me.

I love my parents, and I know they love me. But I don’t need them worrying about me. I don’t need their help. Their advice. Their meddling.

I don’t need them anymore.

Rue’s call with Ivy ended a few minutes ago, and now I’m listening to her sing one of my brother’s songs. She’s belting it out off-key, most of the lyrics garbled because she doesn’t know the words. Coming from a family of singers with perfect pitch, the auditory assault is excruciating.

Adding insult to injury, her performance is accompanied by arrhythmic thumps as she opens and closes every drawer in her bedroom and bathroom.

When she finally shuts up, I sigh and close my eyes, willing sleep to take me swiftly.

Then her shower turns on, and it sounds like a fucking train running through the walls.

With an aggrieved groan, I sit up and swing my legs off the bed. If this is what I’ll be forced to cope with every day, I’m not going to last a week, much less six.

Unfortunately for my sanity, the resolve I felt at the pool still holds.

I don’t want to leave.

Rubbing my temples, I attempt to think over the sound of a hurricane contained by old pipes. A torturously long minute later, my thoughts finally clear enough for a solution to surface.

I’ve only been to my assigned studio space once, when Claudia showed it to me on the day I arrived. It’s not far from here, down a nearby path and isolated in its own small clearing.

At first glance, the wooden shack looked about as sturdy as the backyard fort my dad built when we were kids, which lasted all of a week before Wilder’s foot went through the floor and my mom demanded it be torn down. The inside of the studio was a nice surprise, though—far bigger than it appeared from outside, with finished walls and flooring, insulation, electricity, and two screened windows. If memory serves, there was also a half bath and a mini fridge.

All I need to do is convince Kirk to hook me up with an inflatable mattress. Hell, a sleeping bag would suffice. I’ll toss a tarp over the canvases and boxes of supplies so I don’t have to look at them.

If I can sleep in my studio, I’ll only need to come back here to shower. And since I’m staunchly anti-group activities, that means I’ll only see Rue at meals in the Lodge. Or I can ask about taking my meals to go. Avoid her completely. If I’m lucky, it’ll be like she’s not here at all.