Page 41 of River & Rue

I nod, playing it smooth and casual despite feeling like I’m a dry forest in a lightning storm.

“You think I’d let anyone else speak to me like you do? Not a chance.”

His eyes sparkle like I’ve pleased him, an observation that does nothing for my unraveling composure. Clearing my throat, I drop my gaze to the wooden boards between us.

“I’m probably the last person you want advice from, so take it or leave it, but you need to talk to someone about what you’re going through. It doesn’t have to be me, but I’m willing to listen.”

His heavy exhale is laugh-adjacent. “You want to be my friend, Rue? Should we paint each other’s nails? Braid each other’s hair while we bitch about our problems?”

I have an errant thought of quicksand before I offer him my brightest smile. The same smile he once told me would frighten a blind man.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time. How do you feel about braided pigtails? You and Kirk can be twinsies.”

His lips part in surprise, but that’s all I notice—all I can handle, really. I look over the railing, finding the nearest patch of dandelions.

Seconds pass. Wood creaks, birds chatter, and a bee buzzes past my head. Behind me, my new squirrel friend chomps on the raw peanuts I left on the railing outside my door.

When River finally speaks, the words are so soft my ears strain to hear them.

“I’ll think about it.”

I nod. “Fair enough, just—” My voice cracks, and I swallow before finishing, “If you don’t release the pressure inside you, eventually, you’ll implode.”

“Sounds messy.”

I wait for him to look at me. Then, for the briefest moment, I let him see the truth.

“It always is.”

I walk away.

He doesn’t stop me.

17

river

​. . .​

a long week

I had my first legitimate art show at twenty-six, hosted by a small gallery in London. I’d already made a name for myself as a muralist and graffiti artist, but this was the first time my paintings were on public display.

The gallery was packed with friends, collectors, and critics. Everyone was chatting and laughing and drinking. The energy was electric. I felt like I was on top of the world, like I’d finally found my purpose.

I drank too much champagne and woke up the next morning hungover in a stranger’s bed, unable to remember how the night ended or how many paintings had sold. On my cab ride home, I messaged the gallery and found out.

None.

A few hours and countless text messages later, I had confirmation my worst nightmare was unfolding. All the smiles and handshakes, all the interest and praise… all of it was a lie.

Behind my back, everyone had been laughing at me.

The first scathing review was published online that afternoon. Several more followed over the next days. Peers I’d thought were friends stoked the gossip, eager to see me fail. The next week, the gallery sent me an invoice for shipping my paintings back to me.

The day they arrived at my studio, I got drunk before opening the giant boxes and removing each canvas. I spread them out on the floor. Stared at them for a while. Drank some more. Then I grabbed a knife and a hammer and savagely destroyed each and every one.

When I was done, the canvases were in shreds and the frames reduced to kindling. Drenched in sweat, my arms bloody from half a dozen cuts and splinters, I fell to my knees and sobbed until I could barely breathe. Until there were no more tears inside me, only fatigue and resignation.