Page 17 of River & Rue

I eventually slow to a walk, then stop to take in my unfamiliar surroundings. Before I even pull the map from my pocket, I know I’ve fucked up. Instead of paying attention to my route as I should have, I slipped into the meditative headspace of running—aka, my preferred dissociative coping mechanism.

From the energizing warmth in my muscles and the sweat already cooling on my neck, I estimate I ran about two miles. Maybe less, given I’m not usually a trail runner.

Regardless, my mental timeout has cost me more than needing another shower.

My sense of direction—not great to begin with—is completely screwed. On the map, the multitude of pathways look like cooked noodles, meandering, circling, and switching back with no rhyme or reason. There are no buildings in sight, either, so I have no idea where I am relative to any of the illustrated landmarks.

Making this latest blunder extra spicy, my phone has no service or Wi-Fi, and I can’t see the position of the sun. Not that I’d be able to, anyway, because there is no sun. Above the trees, the formerly blue sky has been swallowed by dark-bellied storm clouds.

I scowl up at them.

“Lost?”

Releasing an undignified squawk, I spin around to see a smiling woman on the path behind me. She’s around my age, clearly one of the artists, and drop-dead gorgeous. A colorful scarf holds her long braided hair back from her face, and she looks effortlessly chic in a cropped T-shirt, denim overalls, and combat boots. Speckles of either paint or clay dot her boots, legs, and toned golden-brown arms. Since all the speckles are the same creamy color, I decide they must be clay.

Ivy and I took a pottery throwing class once. That shit is hard.

“Are you okay?” asks the woman.

She’s no longer smiling. Her brow is furrowed, her light-hazel eyes full of concern. And that’s when I realize I’ve been staring at her blankly—with my damn mouth open—for god only knows how long.

Heat floods my face.

“Hi! Yes, I’m totally fine. Sorry about that. Just lost in my head for a minute. Happens a lot, unfortunately.” Laughing awkwardly, I tap my temple. “It’s a mess in here.”

In the aftermath of my word vomit, imagining Teddy congratulating me for planting a flag on Peak Cringe.

The woman’s answering laugh sounds genuine, but I only relax when she says, “Sounds familiar. My sister calls it too many tabs open in her head browser.”

I grin back. “Exactly.”

She extends her hand, and I clasp it gratefully.

“Maya Michaels. Sculptor and ceramicist. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you’re the writer?”

“Guilty. Rue St. James. Great to meet you, Maya.” I relinquish her hand, then make a split-second decision to add, “Sorry for staring like that. I’m sure you hear this all the time, but you’re next-level stunning. I thought I was hallucinating for a second.”

Contrary to the reminder Ivy gave me before I left—that compliments are a great icebreaker—Maya’s smile falters. As I scramble to figure out how I messed up, she clears her throat in that I’m suddenly uncomfortable way I’m oh-so familiar with.

“Thanks, Rue, that’s nice of you to say. But you should know I have a boyfriend.”

The blood in my face does a U-turn. “Oh, shit—no. I wasn’t hitting on you. Fully and unfortunately attracted to men myself.”

She peers at me for a beat, then laughs softly. “Sorry. Almost everyone I’ve met so far seems to have left their inhibitions at the gate. I figured I’d get ahead of it this time. Speaking of—do you have a boyfriend?”

The word summons an image of Dustin’s face as he dumped me last month. Pretending he’s a bubble, I pop him with a giant spear before shaking my head.

“Single but not here to mingle. Whatever the opposite of mingling is, I’m here for that.”

An easy smile tips her lips. “In that case, you might want to be ready with your own fake boyfriend. Mine is a tight end in the NFL whose name I can’t disclose for privacy reasons.”

I choke out a laugh. “Noted.”

Maya’s gaze flits from my sweaty hairline to my dusty sneakers to the map crumpled in my hand. By the time her eyes meet mine again, she’s obviously perplexed.

Join the club.

Sparing her the effort of having to ask what I’m doing, I smile brightly. “I was taking a quick jog before dinner and got turned around somewhere. Is it just me, or does this place have a serious lack of signage? What if we lose our maps?”