Page 25 of River & Rue

“She’s not my…”

My voice stalls as my gaze finds Rue. Her face is alight as she chats with the woman beside her. Maya, presumably. I can’t see much more than Maya’s profile, but she’s definitely striking.

Rue throws her head back and laughs. Throaty and unfettered, the sound of it cuts through the general din in my ears. Sinks inside me. Settles in my bones.

I can’t believe I ever made fun of that laugh. It’s fucking immaculate.

“Isn’t she gorgeous?” Dan murmurs reverently.

God help me, but I’m not looking at Maya when I answer him.

“Yes, she is.”

12

rue

​. . .​

the fallacy of verbosity

I’ve been keeping an eye on Penelope all night. Partly in expectation of her making a scene, but primarily because she’s sitting directly opposite me and constantly draws attention to herself.

When I first saw her on the steps earlier, she looked formidable and fierce. And a lot taller. In reality, she’s dainty and disarmingly adorable, with rounded pink cheeks and doe-like eyes. Her British accent is musical, her movements graceful as a dancer’s, and there are small flowers tucked into her long golden braid.

She’s also obnoxious.

The dichotomy between her looks and temperament is unnerving, like one of those old black-and-white photos of toddlers smoking cigarettes. An hour after the fact, I’m still struggling to reconcile her condescending first words to me—“You must feel terribly out of place.”—with the sweet smile on her face as she said them.

By the main course, I stopped cringing every time she blatantly hijacked neighboring conversations and recentered them around herself. I was grateful instead that Maya and I were among those she deemed unworthy of notice.

By dessert, I’d learned next to nothing about the other artists and far too much about Penelope. From her time as a child actor on stages around London, to her teen years as a regionally famous model, to becoming an award-winning abstract landscape artist at twenty-four.

Will Penelope and I be friends this summer? Highly doubtful. Still, it’s hard to condemn her outright when I’ve met her type before. More class clown than bully, their attention-seeking behaviors are most often bids for connection. At heart, they’re deeply insecure about their own worth. Although they crave drama, often stirring it purposely, they rarely follow through with any threats of confrontation.

Case in point—she hasn’t said one word about River, or even alluded to him, all evening. As far as I’ve observed, she hasn’t even looked at the end of the table where he lurks like a grumpy shadow behind Dan.

By the time Claudia wraps up her welcome speech, I’m convinced Penelope’s plan was all bluster.

I’m so convinced, in fact, that in the lull after Claudia’s toast, I don’t register Penelope standing until she knocks her spoon repeatedly against her water glass. Only when I see the vindictive gleam in her eyes do I understand how wrong I was.

I see her clearly now. I recognize her with every fiber of my being.

She’s not the clown.

She’s the bully.

Maya shifts in her chair and whispers, “Shit. She’s actually going to do it.”

Even though Penelope isn’t looking at me—even though she doesn’t give a single shit about me—my heart starts racing.

My ears ring.

The room fades.

The group of kids circles us. Close in around us. Their words are taunting, their eyes cruel. Some of them hold sticks, others rocks.

Teddy tugs on my shirt, his voice cracking with panic as he begs me to run⁠—