Page 22 of River & Rue

“Something like that, yeah. I’m not sure I’d even blame you. He’s objectively hot.”

I mimic gagging. “Gross.”

Maya chuckles at my antics, but her eyes remain skeptical. “If you don’t like him, why defend him?”

Fighting an urge to fidget, I lower my gaze to the pine needles beneath my feet. “As strange as it sounds, my dislike isn’t about who he is as a person. It’s more… how cilantro tastes like soap to a tiny percentage of people.”

She smirks. “He tastes like soap?”

“Metaphorically.”

She laughs. “Fine, carry on. River is your soapy cilantro?”

“He is, but I’ve spent a lot of time with him and his family. I’ve also been the unwilling bystander of his bi-monthly video calls with Ivy for almost a decade. I probably know as much about him as I do my best friend.”

I pause to digest that fact with a shudder, then refocus on Maya.

“It’s not a PR stunt. River really is that guy—kind, patient, generous, humble, et cetera. He’s also sensitive to injustice and highly aware of his privilege. Honestly, it’s disgusting how likable he is.”

“Sounds like a real loser.”

“Total loser.” My smile fades. “I don’t know why he’s here, or why he’s not acting like himself, but Penelope is wrong. I’m certain of it.”

Her eyes hold mine for a long moment before she nods. “I believe you.”

My shoulders sag. “That’s a relief. I was going to be bummed if you told me to fuck off.”

I’m rewarded with her laugh.

We resume our trek toward the Lodge, the doors now open and spilling light across the empty steps.

Halfway across the patio, Maya nudges my shoulder with hers. “At some point, I want to hear more about your history with River. It’s giving step-siblings, enemies-to-lovers romance.”

I suck in air so fast I have a coughing fit. As an unrepentant, grinning Maya pats my back, the first raindrops land around us. I look up and receive a fat drop right in my eye.

11

river

​. . .​

golden goose

Claudia is an impassioned speaker; I’ll give her that much. She’s managed to hold the attention of the room for over five minutes, an impressive feat, given the amount of alcohol consumed by her audience over the last hour.

I listen with half an ear, eager for her to finish so I can get the fuck out of here.

Dinner was an endurance test I would have failed if not for Dan saving me my preferred seat—not that anyone else would have taken it. I’m on the corner at the end of the Lodge’s sixteen-foot-long monstrosity of a dining table, closest to the exit and farthest from everyone else. Dan’s body also provides an excellent buffer from stares, both the curious and contemptuous.

The setup normally allows me to ignore everyone else and enjoy a chef-prepared meal in peace.

Not tonight.

I barely tasted my food, too distracted by the frenetic quality of conversations around the table. The posturing, pretension, and peacocking. There’s an unsettling vibration in the air, like a steel trap drawn to maximum tension and poised to snap closed any second.

I’ve spent most of the evening tuning everyone out as best I can and watching the storm via the Lodge’s western-facing windows. They normally offer stunning sunset panoramas, but today they’re dim, the view obscured by sheets of steady rain. Every handful of seconds, rumbling thunder chases muted flashes of lightning in decreasing intervals.

The storm is at least partly responsible for my edginess and the frenzied atmosphere. We’re animals, after all. Regardless of how evolved we may be, our brains are coded to react to threatening weather. Senses are heightened. Fuses shorten. Impulsivity and anxiety increase.