Page 3 of River & Rue

“Who?”

Please don’t say⁠—

“River!”

White noise roars in my ears, momentarily drowning out her voice.

“…showed up at our parents’ house a few days ago, completely out of the blue, and borrowed a car to drive down there. Now you don’t have to worry about not knowing anyone! And get this—he told my mom he’s thinking about moving back to the States. So no pressure, but I’m relying on you to convince him to stay.”

All I get out is a wheeze, my pitiful protest lost in Ivy’s effervescent laughter. The rise of several voices in the background of the call swallows my second attempt at words.

Oblivious to my full-system crisis, Ivy chirps, “Gotta go. Make sure you give River a big hug from me, okay? Love you!”

She hangs up at the same time my forehead hits the steering wheel.

The first time I met Ivy’s older brother, I told him to eat a dick.

He deserved it.

On that day nine years ago, a standard of behavior was established, and in all of our interactions since, we’ve only deviated—or almost deviated—one time.

So no, I will not be giving River a hug, no matter how much Ivy means to me. Nor will I be spending a single ounce of mental effort convincing him to move back to the States. I much prefer there being an ocean between us.

For the next six weeks, I’ll be staying as far away from him as humanly possible.

2

rue

​. . .​

anti-meet-cute

NINE YEARS AGO

Ivy’s parents live about an hour outside of Seattle, in the type of neighborhood where the nearest house is a mile away and hidden behind trees old enough to remember smogless air.

A few hours ago, beneath a giant sycamore in the backyard, Ivy’s oldest brother, Wilder, married Eva Sullivan. I’ve never seen so many celebrities in one place, much less been close enough to rub elbows with them.

If it weren’t the armpit of August, hot as hell and twice as humid, I might’ve enjoyed the deeply emotional ceremony. At the very least, I’d appreciate the novelty of attending the wedding of world-famous rock stars. But along with the moisture in my body, the swampy heat has slowly siphoned my civility.

I endured as long as humanly possible, making it through the cake cutting on willpower alone. When I told Ivy I was heading to my hotel, her quick approval and pitying eyes confirmed what I already suspected—I look as destroyed as I feel.

As much as I dread next month’s credit card bill, I’m glad I listened to my gut and declined her offer to stay with her family tonight. Touring the mansion and meeting her parents earlier was awkward enough, but having her twin sister, Olive, refer to me as “the charity case” in front of the entire bridal party sealed the deal.

I don’t belong here.

I am, however, regretting my choice to walk around the house instead of through it to meet my rideshare. The property is basically a miniature forest, which means I’m now trekking through wilderness on blisters and borrowed heels. Every time I stumble, my pit stains absorb more of my dignity.

Despite being past eight o’clock, the air continues to impersonate a steaming wet blanket. It’s even worse under the trees. Hazy sunlight filters through dense branches, each fading beam hosting swarms of tiny flies. I’m pretty sure I’ve swallowed at least a dozen.

When I finally glimpse the driveway, I’m so relieved I forget to watch my step. I promptly trip on a root and careen toward the attached tree. Throwing out a hand blindly, I manage to catch myself on rough bark.

In the moment of impact, I see him.

About twenty feet away, Ivy’s other brother, River, stands facing away from me. Thin streams of blue-tinged smoke curl around his neck, phantom horns rising over his dark, unkempt hair. The white button-down shirt he was wearing today lies limp over one shoulder. A white tank top exposes his broad shoulders and muscled arms, which flex occasionally as he…

Oh my god.