Page 21 of River & Rue

My relief sours to dismay. “What gives them the right to say whether or not someone belongs here?”

A dry smile plays on her lips. “I take it you haven’t run into River Ashburn.”

My brain trips and twists its figurative ankle. All I can do is stare at her, aghast.

This is about River?

I must have driven through a portal on my way here, after all, because in the dimension I come from, River is one of those rare, universally loved celebrities. It’s even a running joke among the Ashburns that Wilder is their dark horse and River their unicorn.

I’m convinced his pretty face does most of the heavy lifting, but as much as it pains me to admit it, there are some valid reasons for River’s wholesome image. Unlike his brother, he’s sociable and unfailingly kind to fans, press, and the public at large. There are no disgruntled exes. No embarrassing or sordid photos. No scandals at all aside from a few misdemeanor trespassing charges from his graffitiing days—and those are considered a key part of his lore rather than a pattern of illegal behavior.

Even his staunchest critic, who regularly tears him apart online and in print, was quoted last year saying, “I hate his art, but I’d have him over for dinner any day of the week.”

Not that I’ve ever considered our mutual enmity a badge of pride—because that would be absurd—but until this moment, I’d thought the only person on the planet who didn’t love River was me.

Abruptly conscious of Maya’s stare and my too-long silence, I clear my throat. “I’ve seen him. He’s in the cabin next to mine.”

Her eyes widen. “Damn, I’m sorry.”

A strange sensation twists in my chest. Almost like… Nah, I can’t possibly want to defend him. My tongue tangles, and I end up shrugging.

Maya peers down the path, then wraps her cardigan tighter around her chest. “I’m not on Team Pitchfork, but I get where the others are coming from. We fought our asses off for this, and let’s be real—there’s no way Claudia made him endure that hellish interview process.”

I nod reflexively as my thoughts race. Caught up in my own drama today, I hadn’t considered the broader ramifications of River’s presence at PAC. Of course other artists might have a problem with it. He doesn’t need this opportunity, and he’s occupying a residency spot that could have gone to someone who does.

Which begs the question: why is River here? Moreover, why hasn’t he used that famous charm of his to defuse the situation and win everyone over? The man is allergic to conflict and a compulsive peacekeeper; I’ve seen proof countless times at Ashburn family gatherings.

Unease crawls over my skin, and my jaw is so tense it cracks when I unclench it. “I can understand why people might be upset, but isn’t this level of response extreme?”

Maya chews her lip. “Yesterday at lunch, Penelope was going off about how River being here was a last-minute thing. She said he called Claudia a couple of weeks ago demanding an invitation, and Claudia ended up booting another painter from the program to make space for him. So he didn’t take an empty slot. He stole it from someone else.”

My stomach plummets at the same time my blood pressure rises. “That’s a serious accusation. Does Penelope have proof?”

“Not sure. The mob mentality was freaking me out, so I split. But after meeting River, I wouldn’t be surprised if it were true.” She scoffs lightly. “His entire personality is a PR stunt. The real man is a rude, entitled asshole.”

Her assessment shouldn’t bother me—I’ve called him much worse—but my chest is tight and my palms damp beneath tense, curled fingers.

All I can think about is River’s haunted eyes. How in all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him as volatile as he was today. And yet the behavior itself was innately familiar. He’s a wounded animal just like the limping stray tabby who followed me home earlier this year. That cat was a vicious bastard, fighting me every step of the way even as he yowled nonstop for help. After I burritoed him in a blanket and tweezed out the splinter between his toe beans, he was a sweetheart.

River’s splinter is clearly an emotional one—and none of my business. I’m not about to wrap him in blankets and ask where it hurts. If he wants to alienate himself by acting like an asshole, that’s on him.

But the rumor stuff I can’t let slide.

For Ivy’s sake, obviously.

Aware I might be snuffing out the new, fragile flame of camaraderie, I brace for Maya’s rejection.

“I don’t know why River’s being a dick, but he wouldn’t have come if it meant another artist would lose their slot. Or if it did happen, he didn’t know about it.”

There’s a flash of surprise in her eyes, followed by disappointment, before her expression goes carefully blank. Her voice is equally impassive.

“And you know this after meeting him once?”

I shake my head. “I’ve known him for years. His sister Ivy and I have been best friends since our freshman year of college. To be clear, though, I’m not in the River Ashburn fan club. We can’t stand each other. I also had no idea he would be here until this morning.”

She slow-blinks. “I was not expecting you to say that.”

My face scrunches. “Let me guess. You thought I was going to say he seems nice because he smiled at me?”