Chasing River

by K. A. Tucker

  “It smells freshly painted.”

  “Yeah, just this past weekend. They have to redo it every so often, when all that republican stuff takes over.”

  Five minutes. I’ve had five minutes to think about something else—namely, what kind of trouble Ivy is getting me into—before my thoughts returned to River.

  My stomach tightens.

  “What kind of stuff?”

  She shrugs, pulling a can from the bag. “Flags . . . Gaelic words that I can’t even read . . . black fists . . . I think a lot of it isn’t even from people who understand the politics or have anything to do with the IRA. They’re just kids trying to be rebellious.” She tosses a can my way.

  I fumble to catch it. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

  She stares at me for a moment, as if she’s trying to figure out if I’m kidding or not. “Leave your mark on Dublin.”

  “My mark?” I frown, staring at the dried pink lines running down the sides of my can. “But . . . look at me!” Diamond earrings, yellow dress, cowboy boots. Not exactly dressed for the occasion.

  She rolls her eyes. Reaching into her trunk, she grabs and tosses something at me. “Put that on. It should fit.”

  I hold up the paint-spattered black material, identifying it as a smock. Pulling it over my head, it comes to mid-thigh. Ivy appraises me. “That works. And if not, they’re only clothes.”

  Darting over to the driver’s side, she leans in to turn the music on the radio up, her other hand shaking her can of black paint. And then she dismisses me, spraying the first curved lines of what no doubt will be a masterpiece, because Ivy is experienced, and an amazing artist.

  And I’ve never done this before.

  I simply watch her in her zone, an almost indiscernible sway to her hips with the beat of the music, her arms limber and expert with their strokes.

  “You going to just stand there all night?” she finally says, never looking over her shoulder once.

  I stare at the white wall in front of me, in shadows and yet somehow gleaming. “I don’t know what to do.”

  She purses her lips, then steps away from her work to come over. In seconds, she’s outlined a jagged blob. “Beginner lesson. Fill it in.”

  I smile. “I can do that.” I test the nozzle, pushing it. A splash of pink hits the wall and I jump.

  “Hold it like this,” Ivy says with a laugh, adjusting the can to a vertical position. “And no closer than this.” She demonstrates, her color smooth and controlled, perfectly within the line.

  I try again, creating another blob. “I’m terrible at this.”

  “So what? Everyone’s terrible at something. Even Amber Welles.” She moves back to her artwork, leaving me to mine, and my thoughts. Her words remind me of something Mary Coyne said to me. It was at Poppa’s Diner, weeks before finishing my last semester of college classes, when I told Mary I was taking the nursing job that was waiting for me at my mother’s hospital. She quietly nodded and smiled, but there was a look in her eyes that I couldn’t read, that bothered me for days. Finally I asked her to meet with me again, and I asked her about it.

  She hesitated, but finally admitted that she was hoping I’d take time off and travel, open my eyes to more than the small-town bubble that I seemed so intent on coming back to so quickly. She said that she sees a lot of her younger self in me. The daughter of a teacher and a father who held rank in Ireland’s police force, a girl firmly embracing the set of beliefs she was raised on and her comfort zone. A planner, a risk-avoider, someone who didn’t understand much about people outside what she thought they should be doing. She even used Jesse as an example. I’d made enough comments about him over the years for her to see that I didn’t approve of any of his life choices.

  Mary said her years traveling changed her as a person. Made her wiser, more appreciative, more open-minded. She felt like she had “found” herself. She wouldn’t be the person that she was today had she remained in her small town outside Dublin.

  I adore Mary as a person—she’s got a breezy, youthful personality, but she’s also smart and intuitive. Her words resonated with me, slowly at first. I began wondering how much of the Amber I know would change outside of the world that I know. I began dreaming of different places around the world, researching them. Imagining myself on some adventure where no one knows me and I know no one.

  I can certainly blame my travel bug on Mary. I can’t wait to tell her about this. I wonder if she’ll consider spray-painting the side of a Dublin building a valuable experience.

  And what would she say about River? Will I ever tell her?

  Will I tell anyone?

  Maybe I should talk to Alex. She’s the only person I know who might have something besides judgment to pass on. She knows firsthand what it’s like to be involved with a guy whose past is shady, whose associations may be questionable. She’s a good person, with strong morals and values. She’s also a forgiving person. Has Jesse ever done anything outright illegal since he met her? Did he lie to her about it? I can’t decide what I’m angrier about—that my heart-stopping foreign fling is a convicted felon or that he didn’t warn me about that detail before he slept with me.

  He obviously figured that a night like last night would never have happened had I known.

  A heavy weight has settled on my chest. I struggle to remove it, and I fail, my thoughts constantly drifting to River while I leave my mark on Dublin. I’m sure it will be nothing like the mark Dublin has already left on me.

  For the most part, we’re left alone. One car turns down the street, slows on its way past, and my heart rate spikes as I glance over my shoulder, afraid that the people will think we’re doing something illegal. But they keep going. Voices carry in the quiet night, late-night revelers leaving bars in the area. It doesn’t matter what time of day or day of the week it is here—if the doors are open, the places are busy.

  Soon enough, I’ve gotten the hang of this, though my fingers are a used paint palette of colors, my manicure ruined. I start envisioning what I can add to the Technicolor blob when I hear footfalls coming down the sidewalk. A lone figure approaches, his face hidden within the deep cowl of his sweatshirt. My panic automatically sets in.

  “Ivy,” I hiss, nodding behind her. She glances over but doesn’t stop bobbing to the music, doesn’t seem at all concerned as he heads directly for us.

  I gasp as he leans into the open window of Ivy’s car. I’m about to yell at him, yell at her, before this guy robs us.

  The volume of the music spikes.

  He was only turning up the radio.

  Slapping hands with Ivy, he nods once to me as he passes, finding a spot farther down. He pulls a can out of his pocket and begins spraying the wall.

  I smile at myself, at my own reaction. Legitimate, I tell myself, but also unnecessary in this odd community that Ivy belongs to. The three of us work away in the middle of the night, in a dark alleyway, respectful of each other. It’s a world I don’t understand, would never see myself venturing into. It’s a world outside my comfort zone.

  But so is Ivy.

  It’s almost two when I call it quits, stepping back to admire my own work. An obvious beginner’s effort—the lines sporadic and splotchy—but still . . . it’s my mark on Dublin for as long as it’s here. “I think I’m ready for sleep, Ivy,” I announce, peeling off the smock. My mind has worked itself in so many circles where River is concerned, it needs unconscious peace.

  Our silent partner in crime left already, leaving a blue clown-like mask and his tag on the bottom right corner.

  “I’m done, anyway.” With one last stroke, she caps her can and tosses it into a plastic bag.

  I was so busy with my own thing that I wasn’t paying much attention to what she was doing. But now I see it in full. “Wow,” I murmur, taking in the woman’s face. Ivy’s used colors to shadow the contours of her features and strands of hair in a way that I didn’t know would be possible through a simple can of spray paint. “That
’s amazing.” I commend her.

  She looks over. “And that . . .”

  I study my work next to hers, a mess of colors and indiscernible shapes, and I burst out laughing. “Looks like I’m taking my aggression out on the wall.”

  She snorts. “Well, I definitely know you didn’t spray-paint Poppa’s Diner now. Even that was better than this.”

  Simon’s car comes to a squeaking halt in its parking spot. I’m actually impressed with myself for making it to and from Ivy’s without crashing. And I owe that to River.

  Having switched my phone back on, a message from Alex fills the screen, asking me how things are going. I’m hit with the sudden urge to call her and divulge my secret. Maybe she can help me make sense of everything I’m feeling right now. It’s only dinnertime over there, so there’s still plenty of time to connect with her tonight.

  There’s also a text response from River:

  Okay.

  That’s all. Disappointment and hurt drag my body down as I unlock the front door and step into the house I fled from hours earlier. It’s exactly as I left it in my hurry. Turning the deadbolt behind me, I kick off my boots, grab a glass of water from the kitchen, and climb the stairs, hoping a night’s sleep will relieve me of the burn in my heart. This time last night, I was curled up in that bed with River, blissfully ignorant. Setting the glass and my phone down on the nightstand, I shed my dress and my bra, letting them fall to the ground in a heap that I don’t bother to hang, as I normally would, exchanging it for a thin cotton tank top for sleep.

  I don’t see him there until I turn around.

  Standing in the doorway, his hands tucked into his pockets, his eyes glued to me. Staring at me, his face—illuminated by the harsh streetlights that shine into the bedroom—easy to read. Apologetic, yes. But also filled with sadness, and frustration, and regret.

  River’s here.

  In my house, in the middle of the night.

  Waiting for me.

  At least ten heartbeats pass into the silence before I manage to speak.

  “Is it true?”

  He sighs, and hangs his head.

  TWENTY-THREE

  RIVER

  She knows.

  I can feel her anger and her distrust radiating. The charade I’ve been starring in these past few days—the white knight, riding in to save her and sweep her off her feet—is effectively dead and buried.

  She knows who I really am now, and she’ll never look at me that way again.

  “Amber . . .”

  Her eyes flicker to the bathroom. She’s planning to run from me. She could probably make it, too, though she’s not going to get anywhere beyond that, the bathroom on the second floor, her phone on the nightstand. I guess she could always open the window and scream until a neighbor calls the gardai.

  “You left the door unlocked when you went out earlier,” I explain slowly, taking a step forward. “I was worried about you. I didn’t want anyone breaking in, so I waited for you.”

  Her hard swallow cuts through the quiet room. “In my house. In the dark.”

  “I didn’t know how you’d take to seeing lights on when you came home. So, yes, in the dark. I was in the living room when you came in, but you walked right past me.” For hours I sat there, staring out the front window for her car, for any other cars, wondering when she might finally return, my leg twitching with anticipation over how she might react to finding me in her house, despite my best intentions. It didn’t stop me from doing it, though.

  When she finally did return, she moved past me in a blur, not noticing.

  And I didn’t say a word.

  She shudders.

  “I know this doesn’t look good.”

  She stands there, rigid, like a doe about to bolt from a hunter. “Where’s your car? It’s not parked out front.”

  “I parked it down the street because, again, I didn’t know how you’d take to seeing it.” I was afraid she’d call the gardai and speed past.

  “You just stood there and watched me change.” This time her voice is softer, sounding almost embarrassed.

  “I did,” I admit. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t say this, but you look beautiful tonight.” She had obviously made an effort for me. Until Duffy showed up, and ruined everything. I take another step. “I’m not going to hurt you, Amber.”

  “Why are you here then?”

  “I just want to talk. That’s all. I had to see you in person, explain everything.”

  Her jaw clenches as the tears begin to well in her eyes. She’s fighting them. “Did you set the bomb in the park?”

  “No. I would never do that. I swear. On my granddad’s grave.”

  “But you know who did,” she whispers. “You lied to me, that first day in the bar. You weren’t just jogging in the park.”

  That, I can’t deny. “It was for your safety. And mine. I figured it was best to leave you in the dark.”

  “I don’t know how you could justify that with . . .” Her words trail off, her gaze flickering to the bed.

  “I honestly didn’t think this,” I gesture between the two of us, “would happen. I mean, look at you.”

  “I can’t believe I let it happen.” She hugs her arms over her body, hiding her chest. Her words—her regret—cutting into me.

  We simply stare at each other from either side of the bed. I don’t know what to say, where to start. I don’t know exactly what she knows. I don’t know what she’s told Duffy.

  Finally, she takes a deep breath. “Are you a part of the IRA?”

  “No.” I make sure my eyes are level with hers.

  “But you were?”

  I hesitate. “Not in the way you think.”

  She swallows hard again. “And you’ve been to prison.” She spits the word prison out like it’s toxic, just like I expected her to.

  I never wanted her finding any of this out. I wanted to be better than this. “Yes.” I step forward, and she immediately takes steps away, until her back is against the wall.

  “Amber, please trust me.”

  “The IRA, River? I may be some stupid, ignorant tourist, but I know enough to know that they’re terrorists. You were a terrorist!” Her face twists up, as if she’s going to vomit.

  “It wasn’t like that,” I deny, though I know it’s not a valid argument. “You’re right. The IRA today is a bunch of terrorists.” I slowly edge around the bed frame. “I have nothing to do with them anymore.”

  “But you did.” She closes her eyes. “God, I’m so stupid.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  A weak chuckle slips through her lips. “Innocent people don’t run. You ran.”

  “I had to. With my history, they wouldn’t have believed me. They would have arrested me.”

  “And I fell for your entire act: that smile, that charm, finding my wallet . . . Oh my God. Was that staged? Did you get that guy to steal my wallet so you could swoop in and be the hero again? Play me for an even bigger fool?” Tears slip out at the corners of her eyes and crawl down her cheeks at an agonizingly slow rate. I can’t handle seeing her cry.

  I use the moment with her eyes shut to close the distance between us. “It wasn’t an act.”

  Her eyes spring open and she gasps slightly, hugging her body tighter.

  “I won’t hurt you,” I say, realizing that beneath her anger, she’s actually terrified. “For Christ’s sake, I jumped in front of a bomb for you, and I didn’t even know you back then. Now?”

  Thick, combustible air hangs between us.

  “This isn’t me, River. I don’t do one-night stands, and sleep with convicted felons, and—”

  “I know. I knew it the day you showed up at the pub.” I heave a sigh. “I should have put an end to it right then. I’m sorry. But I couldn’t help myself. You were just so beautiful, so different from the girls I know, and . . .” I can’t resist reaching out to run my knuckles along her slender bicep. “The way you looked at me.” Then. Not now. Not ever again. �
��So you told Duffy I was at the Green?”

  Wide eyes stare at me, panicked.

  “I saw his business card downstairs, Amber. It’s okay if you did. I don’t want you getting in trouble for this. I’ll deal with it.” He hasn’t shown up at the pub with handcuffs yet, but it’s only a matter of time before he does. And I end up back in jail.

  “I didn’t.”

  It’s so soft, I’m not sure I heard it. I lift my gaze to her eyes, to her lips, willing the words to repeat themselves.

  “I didn’t tell him. He came here with mug shots of both you and your brother, and asked if I recognized either of you. And I said that I didn’t.” She swallows. “I lied for you.”

  I shouldn’t be relieved, because Amber could get into a lot of trouble, but I can’t help it. “Why would you do that?”

  Her head shakes before the words slip out. “I don’t know.” She wipes the tears from her face, her hands moving aggressively, as if she’s angry at herself for crying. “Why does Duffy think you set that bomb?”

  I let that question hang for what feels like an eternity, reminding myself of the promise I made to take my secret to the grave, of the danger of admitting it out loud.

  “Because my brother did.”

  A fresh wave of tears spill out. “Why?”

  There’s just no way around this anymore. I reach out for her arms. They fall from their folded position easily, allowing me to slip my fingers through hers and pull her toward the bed. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

  “So, Aengus doesn’t know that I found you?”

  I peer over at Amber lying on her back in bed, her delicate hands resting against her stomach, her eyes glued to the ceiling. Her thoughts hidden in the darkness. She’s been in that exact same position for almost an hour now, listening to me explain every last detail that I can remember about that day. And why.

  Because my brother is IRA.

  She looks like a frightened statue. Not frightened enough to run from me, though. I cling to that.

  “No. And he didn’t let on that I was in any way involved, either.”