Page 4 of River & Rue

My already flushed face burns hotter as I realize the sound of trickling water isn’t a heat-driven fantasy.

He’s peeing.

I gape at his back, too shocked to do anything but imitate the tree I’m leaning on. Or maybe I’m a victim of Stendhal Syndrome, my senses overcome by such unexpected beauty. Public urination aside, he’s questionably beautiful, as alluring as the murals in Paris that gained him worldwide attention last year.

He hasn’t given any indication that he knows I’m standing here, which seems impossible. Beyond my violent meet and greet with the tree, my approach hasn’t been subtle. I’ve been stomping, cursing, spitting out flies, and slapping mosquitoes off my arms.

I’m still frozen and staring at him as he zips his fly, turns, and sees me. The only sign of his surprise is a slow blink, but the glassiness in his unusually colored eyes is likely responsible for his lack of reaction—not to mention his lack of situational awareness.

After a good ten seconds of us staring at each other, he clears his throat and pulls the joint from his lips.

“Is it over?”

Given the warmth of his physical palette—brown hair, tan skin, golden eyes—his voice is jarring, as cold and turbulent as his namesake. I flinch at the impact of it, sucking in a breath that feels like drawing liquid through a too-narrow straw.

As I process his question, confusion wrinkles my brow. “Is what over?”

He nods in the direction of the backyard where over three hundred people are loudly celebrating. Unable to tell if he’s serious or just really, really high, I shake my head.

“But I’m leaving.” I cringe internally. “Not that you care. Or should care. Obviously.”

River’s eyebrows draw together and upward, caught somewhere between amusement and bewilderment.

“You’re Olive’s friend, right? From school?”

That he actually recognizes me barely registers because the way he says school makes me feel like a child. At twenty-five, he’s only five years older than me, but in this moment, it might as well be fifty. I’ve never been out of the States—had never even left Oregon before heading to San Diego for college—while he moved overseas at my age and frequently travels to places I only dream of seeing.

“I’m Ivy’s friend, actually.”

“Same difference.”

I bristle on behalf of my best friend, who struggles with feeling like she lives in her twin’s shadow.

“No, it’s not.”

He rolls his eyes. “Okay.”

Oblivious to my rising annoyance, River inspects the joint in his hand—now a smokeless nub—then flicks it into the trees. As he pulls the dress shirt from his shoulder and slips his arms into the sleeves, I tell myself to stop staring. To move. To leave before this situation becomes any more disastrous.

Instead, I slap another mosquito off my arm, leaving a smear of blood behind. Hissing, I press on the new welt.

“You shouldn’t scratch it. You’ll make it worse.”

I frown. “I’m not scratching. I’m applying pressure.”

A breeze moves through the trees, stirring leaves above us. An errant beam of sunlight catches his face, making his eyes flash a pure, glowing gold. In spite of my irritation, their unearthly beauty makes my breath hitch.

Until those same eyes narrow, dark lashes lowering and transforming them from angelic to sinister.

“Yeah… with your moving nails, in a motion referred to as scratching.”

My blood boils, and all the stories Ivy has told me about him turn to steam. River isn’t funny, or kind, or sensitive.

He’s an asshole.

My vision swims, no longer seeing him but every patronizing, sanctimonious bully I’ve ever met.

“Maybe instead of offering unsolicited opinions to strangers, you should reflect on why you’re getting high at your sober brother’s wedding.”