Page 13 of River & Rue

At the thought, at least 40 percent of my stress drains away. When guilt sees the opening and tries to weasel its way in, I force it back. This isn’t solely about what I want. Whether Rue knows it or not, I’m protecting her too.

From the moment we first met at Wilder and Eva’s wedding, Rue and I have had a weird dynamic. Charged. Barbed. While we’re generally more teasing than toxic, it’s still problematic—at least for me. Whenever she’s around, I invariably find myself doing or saying stupid shit.

Today, however, was a new low for me. Bottom rung of the decency ladder; certified-asshole behavior.

Remembering my outrageous accusation that my parents were paying her to be here, I cringe in shame. Her anger was beyond justified. But what haunts me most—and for the worst reasons—is how tears turned her irises a stunning indigo. The color was so textured and rich; for the first time in months, I felt a spark of artistic curiosity. I still feel it now, an itch beneath my skin that moves every time I try to scratch it.

Can I capture that color on canvas? Can I capture her?

The questions prompt another line of thinking. One that stirs a different and far more dangerous speculation.

There was a time when I imagined doing a lot of things to Rue, including making her cry. But not those kinds of tears. Never those. Only the sobbing-my-name, I-can’t-come-again kind.

Would tears of passion also turn her eyes indigo? Or would they take on a different hue? Perhaps cobalt or navy?

The itch of curiosity becomes a familiar, tingling heat: want and need. I scowl at my lap as my shorts get tighter, somewhat surprised but mostly annoyed. With my body. With myself.

I haven’t entertained these kinds of thoughts about Rue in years. Not since the day she slammed a door, both physically and metaphorically, on anything ever happening between us.

I thought her rejection cured me. That my inconvenient desire had been put to rest once and for all.

Apparently not.

7

river

​. . .​

contagious chaos

Two and a half years ago, I was in San Diego for twenty-four hours, an intentional layover to see my sisters before I flew back to London. The twins weren’t on speaking terms at the time, so I spent the first half of the day with Olive and the second half with Ivy and, by extension, Rue.

Most of the day is a blur, but I remember meeting them for drinks at a bar before we walked a few blocks to their condo. I offered to order us dinner, but Ivy insisted on cooking, then kicked me out of the kitchen when I tried to help.

I ended up hanging out with Rue. In her bedroom. Alone.

I’d had a single cocktail several hours before—I wasn’t drunk. But I felt drunk, almost euphoric, from being invited into her private space. From sitting on the edge of her bed, the soft, fresh scent of her all around me. From the manuscript pages she’d dropped into my lap after a conversation I don’t remember. And from the way she paced back and forth, rosy-cheeked and nibbling on her thumbnail as she pretended not to watch me devour line after line.

Reading the first three chapters of her novel was an awakening. Her words turned a key in my head, unlocked a door I hadn’t known existed, and gave me a glimpse into her inner world. What I saw rocked me—a landscape I’d never visited but inherently recognized and never wanted to leave.

She gave me her art. Her vulnerability. Her pain. And I was immersed. Spellbound. Hopelessly aroused.

When I finished the last page and looked up at her, I knew she felt it too. The weightlessness. The recognition and longing. The need we’d both ignored for so long.

Or I thought she did.

Forgetting the fact I was catching a flight in six hours, she was my sister’s best friend, and we’d been at odds for years, I tried to kiss her. She dodged me, bolted from the room, and slammed the door behind her. We ignored each other the rest of the night, and I left without saying goodbye.

Thankfully, with time and distance, I came to my senses. There was a logical explanation for my momentary insanity—I’d confused a connection to her art with a connection to her. It was a common enough occurrence in my profession, one I hadn’t recognized in the moment because I’d never been on the other side of the equation.

Humbled but ultimately relieved, I put the experience behind me. A few months later, I met Elise and fell in love. I forgot all about that night, about Rue and my short-lived delusion.

I’m only hard right now because I haven’t had sex in months and there’s a naked, attractive woman showering less than ten feet away, the sound of the water so loud there might as well not be a wall separating us.

I’m an artist. A visual thinker. Of course I’m going to imagine it. Imagine her.

Wet. Soapy and slick.