Page 67 of River & Rue

Rue must have assumed I left after fleeing her bathroom. By the time the water turned off, I’d closed the windows, pulled the curtains, and turned off the lights. If she looked into the front room before shutting her bedroom door, she might not have seen me on the couch.

When I first heard the noises coming from the bedroom, I thought she was having a nightmare. As sick as it is, a part of me was relieved; after all, it was the excuse I’d given myself to stay. But as I crossed the cabin, the sounds became clearer. Unmistakable. Rue wasn’t dreaming, wasn’t distressed at all.

My girl was playing with herself, writhing on the sheets like a needy mess. And like the degenerate I am, I stood right outside her door and listened to every panting breath and little whimper. She must’ve been amped up from the shower—from me—because not a minute later, I heard a sharp gasp, three beats of silence, and then a thready, stuttering moan.

I was so fucking captivated, I didn’t notice my own orgasm barreling down on me until it hit. All I could do was grab myself through my shorts and hold my breath so I didn’t make any noise. When it was over, I retreated on shaky legs toward the couch where I thankfully had a change of clothes.

Halfway there, a floorboard betrayed me with a creak. A loud creak. The silence that followed might as well have been a scream.

If I were a better man, maybe I’d feel embarrassment or shame. But that would mean I regret listening to her get herself off. And I don’t. I don’t regret—and will never forget—a single second of last night.

The magic of her laughing and twirling in the moonlight. That crazy grin. Swiping chocolate from her cheek with my thumb. Her hands in my hair, brushing and playing and tugging. Her weight on my lap and her finger in my mouth as she commanded me to bite her. Starlight on her profile. Whispered confessions. Her hopes and fears and wildest dreams.

Does she remember telling me she’s never been in love? Does she remember me admitting I haven’t either?

If the aftermath of her acid trip is anything like the few I had when I was younger, she doesn’t. The night’s contours may be clear, but all its detailed shading is lost to illusory blurs of color, sound, and sensation.

Even if she hadn’t been high, chances are she wouldn’t have noticed me stiffen right after my confession. We were lying outside at the time. The clearing was dark, the moon hidden behind trees. Her eyes were on the stars, not me.

When I said the words, I’d been thinking about Elise and how what I’d thought was love wasn’t. But the moment the confession left my lips, I knew it was a lie.

I have been in love.

For years.

With Rue.

Last night must have been my final fall after a decade of slipping toward her in increments. Like the proverbial frog in a pot on the stove, I didn’t notice the temperature increasing until I started boiling.

Now I’m fucking cooked.

Looking into the past with clear eyes, my obsession couldn’t be more obvious. Before meeting her, I visited Seattle twice a year. I’d alternate Thanksgiving and Christmas and stagger my other visit between birthdays or family events. After Wilder’s wedding, though, I never missed a single holiday. I’d even show up for random long weekends—weekends Ivy told me she and Rue would be at my parents’ house. More than a few times, I canceled commitments or spent ridiculous amounts of money on last-minute flights.

No wonder my parents started dropping more and more hints about me moving back to Seattle. They thought I was homesick. At times, I thought I was too. But I wasn’t homesick. I was heartsick and seeking my antidote.

My antidote, Rue St. James, who at this very moment is stripping her bedsheets for this afternoon’s laundry pickup and chatting with the bird pecking at her window screen.

“What am I going to do?”

As my whisper fades, my phone buzzes on the nightstand. A frisson of awareness rolls over me, as inexplicable as it is familiar, telling me who the text is from before I see Wilder’s name on the screen.

Call me right now

Before I can reply, my phone rings. Knowing it’s not an emergency—we have codewords for those—I send him to voicemail and start typing.

He calls again.

I send him to voicemail again, then retype my message and hit send.

Ffs. Stop calling and text like a normal person.

Fuck normal. Answer the phone

I can’t. There’s no privacy in my cabin

Take a walk asshole

I crack a smile in spite of myself.