Page 37 of River & Rue

I can’t stop staring at the cluster of small yellow flowers growing beside the bottom step of the porch. Close enough to touch. The perfect size for making crowns.

My mother referred to dandelions as garish weeds, and my father routinely blamed them for destroying his lawn. Every year before they bloomed, he’d mow over them so they wouldn’t go to seed. But it never made a difference. They came back twice as dense the next year, and the next, until they wrapped around the whole house.

Thanks to Teddy.

On our walks to and from school, we’d pass a field with an old, gnarled oak growing precariously out of a half-eroded hill. Every spring, the field exploded with dandelions. At least a few times a week on our way home, we’d hop over the rotted, single-plank fence and trudge up to the oak, collecting as we went. I’d pluck small flowers with long stems, and Teddy would pick just as many fluffy seed-clouds.

We’d take our bounties around the oak and sit where we wouldn’t be seen from the road. While I braided us flower crowns, Teddy would pick out the biggest seed-cloud, make a wish, and blow. Then he’d strip the heads off the rest and stuff the resulting mess into his pockets. When it came time to leave, we’d discard our crowns on a decaying pile of my previous efforts. But Teddy’s seeds left with us. Little by little, every single seed would find its way out of his pockets as we cut across our front yard.

After he died, I couldn’t bear to walk past the field anymore and found a different route home. The next time I saw it was right before I left town.

The oak was long gone, the field leveled and filled with tract homes.

A flower crown sits in my lap, a second halfway to completion, when I finally hear the hum of the golf cart outside the clearing.

My fingers pause as I consider making a break for it, but I hesitate too long—familiar footsteps are already moving up the path. River’s walking slower than usual, but he doesn’t seem to be limping.

That I recognize his stride without seeing him should probably concern me, but all I feel is relief.

Keeping my head bowed so the brim of my baseball hat conceals my face, I resume work on the crown. The closer he comes, the faster my fingers move. Trim, split, braid, link.

I expect him to walk past me; naturally, he does the opposite.

“What are you doing, Ruin?”

After hours of worrying about his well-being, his teasing words land like flakes of salt in a wound.

“What does it look like I’m doing, your highness?”

I stiffen as soon as I hear the trap I laid for myself—a trap River’s satisfied hum tells me is about to spring closed.

“It looks like you’ve been sitting out here all morning. Were you worried about me?”

“You wish. I just came outside a few minutes ago.”

“Then why are you still muddy?”

I shrug, pretending to focus on connecting the final piece of the crown. “Maybe I like being muddy.”

The amusement in his voice disappears. “Do you think if I can’t see your face, I can’t tell you’re lying? FYI, your voice completely changes.”

I almost crush my newly finished crown. “Shouldn’t you go lie down? Or are you miraculously healed?”

He exhales a bitter laugh. “Is it that hard for you to look at me? To say, ‘I’m glad you’re okay, River’?”

Beneath the bitterness is something that interrupts my breath with a silent gasp. Something I’ve never, ever heard from him before.

Vulnerability.

My defensive walls fracture, revealing an uncomfortable truth. How can I expect him to ever treat me differently if I don’t make the same effort? If I don’t answer his honesty with my own?

The behavior doesn’t come naturally—not with him—but I seize an ember of courage. It’s not enough to look at him, but it does fuel the necessary words.

“You’re right. I was worried. It’s my fault you got hurt—I was on the wrong side of the path. I haven’t showered because I wasn’t sure when you’d be back or if you’d need the hot water. I’m really glad you’re okay.”

Surprise coats his swift inhale.

“I appreciate that. Don’t beat yourself up too much though. My back was already on thin ice before we collided.” His voice is soft now. Gentle currents. “Kirk bullied me into acupuncture, and it helped a lot.”