Page 16 of River & Rue

Plot twists never surprise me.

Today, however, I’ve been confronted by a fact I’ve spent years avoiding by virtue of mental gymnastics. A thousand somersaults of that never happened and just as many backflips of out of sight, out of mind.

There’s a single, glaring exception to my life’s rulebook.

One plot twist I never see coming.

One person whose presence rattles me like no one and nothing else… and he’s currently throwing a temper tantrum on the other side of the appallingly thin wall between our bedrooms.

River must have stepped out while I was in the shower because I didn’t hear him leave. But holy shit did I hear him return a minute ago. I thought someone was breaking into my cabin.

Half dressed and halfway to a heart attack, I’d armed myself with a bedside lamp and was contemplating my stance on defensive homicide when I finally realized where all the noise was coming from. Not from an intruder—from the jackass next door making an unholy racket as he stomped into his bedroom.

There are two thuds from what I assume are his shoes hitting the floor, followed by the sound of tearing Velcro. A vision of his swim shorts sliding down his thighs invades my brain. I lift an imaginary flamethrower and blast the thought away, then use it several more times when his footsteps move across the room, and I involuntarily picture his dick swinging.

The sink in his bathroom turns on, the whine and rattle of old pipes making me wince. He brushes his teeth aggressively, rinsing and spitting multiple times like there’s a bad taste he can’t get rid of.

When he’s done brutalizing his mouth, he turns on the shower. The roar is so unexpected and outrageous, I nearly throw the lamp I’m still clutching.

Less than a minute later, I hear every word of his long, creative curse when the water goes cold.

Whoopsie.

The shower cuts off, the curtain screeching on its rod as he yanks it open. More curses—these liberally sprinkled with my name—reach my burning ears.

A towel snaps open, rasping over his body. The same body I’ve been blissfully unaware has evolved to include an Adonis belt.

On River, the distinctive, deep-cut V of muscle is less come hither and more flashing runway to a lifetime of regret. Just as off-putting were the dusting of hair on his broad, tanned chest and the darker, thicker trail hugging his navel and disappearing into his shorts. And those flat pecs with their little man-nipples? Bleh. I hope the one I twisted is sore for days.

He eventually hangs the towel on its rack and leaves the bathroom. Drawers open and close. He dresses. Walks to the kitchen. Fills a glass from the tap. Opens a window. A handful of seconds later, I hear a soft, familiar squeak as he sits on the love seat in the front room—mine squeaks the same way.

Finally, when a whole minute passes with no new sounds to distract me, I put the lamp beside me on the mattress and cover my face with my hands. Because there’s no doubt anymore. No avoiding the truth.

If I can hear everything he says and does next door, the reverse is also true.

Which means he heard me scarfing down the trail mix in my welcome basket and belching peanut dust. He heard my imaginary conversation with my dead brother. My talentless singing as I opened every cabinet and drawer while unpacking. He heard my entire conversation with Ivy and knows I lied about him being happy to see me. And he knows I’m responsible for the toilet in the Lodge.

One thing is for certain: I can never look River in the eye again.

Tragically, there’s little chance I can avoid him entirely for the next month and a half. Or the next few hours. Even if I’d prefer going hungry tonight over being in the same room as him, Claudia made it clear that attending the official welcome dinner in the Lodge is mandatory.

But I definitely don’t have to be here when he leaves for dinner.

I finish dressing as swiftly and silently as possible, then tiptoe into the front room to grab my phone, cabin key, and the postcard-size map from my welcome basket.

I open the front door a millimeter at a time, cross the threshold, and close it just as slowly. My breaths are shallow, my body on edge as I carefully lock the door, pocket the key, and pad across the porch toward the stairs.

When wood creaks under my feet, my imagination interprets it as River’s door opening. Hit by a million volts of flight instinct, I sprint down the stairs and out of the clearing.

If he happens to see my run of shame? Oh well. Wouldn’t be the first time; chances are it won’t be the last.

9

rue

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impostor syndrome