Page 98 of River & Rue

From the outside looking in, sure, nothing terribly significant happened between River and me over the last ten days. Physically, at least. But we spent the bulk of every day together, and there were thousands of moments. Tiny drops of closeness that grew a different, no less dangerous kind of intimacy.

Every morning, we ran a circuit around the property, then ate breakfast together. After showering, I set up for work on the porch. He sketched for an hour or two, showered himself, then forced me to eat a healthy snack before disappearing to his studio. For lunch, he either coaxed me to the Lodge or, if I was deep in the zone, brought me something back. I worked until three or four, then resurfaced to find him waiting with another snack and a plan for the hours until dinner.

We’ve gone swimming, explored more of the property, and visited Dan, Maya, and Jae in their studios. Yesterday, we hiked the narrow trail down to the coast and sat on the small beach until the rising tide forced us away.

I think of our bedtime ritual of tea on the porch. Of whispers through the wall and falling asleep to the sound of him singing.

“We’ve talked a lot,” I add belatedly.

“Boring!”

A memory from three nights ago ambushes me—River’s low voice on the other side of the wall.

“Two fingers, Rue. Sink them nice and deep. Tell me what you feel like.”

“Warm. Soft. Wet.”

“Mmm. Now add another finger. Two, if you can. Pump them. Slowly. Move those beautiful hips and fuck your hand like it’s my cock.”

Blinking fast, I return to the present.

“A few times late at night, we’ve, um…” I cough, then mumble, “dirty-talked through the wall.”

“Ohh. Masturbation wars. That’s more like it.”

My lips twitch in spite of myself. Turning around, I lean a hip on the dresser. Then I remember what happened against this dresser and hurry back to the bed. I attempt to cinch the top of the backpack closed, but it doesn’t cooperate.

“You don’t need half of what’s in there,” Maya says dryly. “It’s only two nights.”

“I recognize your logic, but I have a thing with being unprepared—namely, I don’t like it.”

“You’ll like carrying that for three hours even less.”

I sigh. “Good point.”

“Dump it out, and I’ll help you repack. We still have an hour before we have to be at the trailhead.”

Grabbing the nylon straps, I heave the bag upside down and shake its contents all over the bed. Maya sits up and begins separating items. She holds up two bottles of sunscreen, a small saucepan from my kitchen, and my bag of yarn.

“Really?”

Grimacing, I rub the back of my neck. “I thought there might be time to crochet. I’ve been trying to learn for a year.”

She laughs and tosses the bag across the bed. The saucepan thumps on the floor, followed by three cans of soup, a baggie with forks and spoons, six granola bars, and four apples. Maya then turns to me with the driest of dry looks.

“Kirk and Gavin are bringing food and cookware.”

“But what if we get separated? Or they don’t pack enough for everyone?”

“Rue.”

I groan and drop onto the bed. “I know, I know. Thank you for helping me. I might have ventured a little too far down the paranoia pipeline.”

“You don’t say.”

I throw a pair of socks at her, and she throws them over her shoulder.

“But—”