Page 50 of Hearts Adrift
River’s on the edge of the bed in the guestroom. I’ve just gotten him settled in and introduced him to our cats Arial and Roman. He seems to have finally given up his fight for me and accepted my wish for us to stay totally professional while he hides in our guestroom.
Except that isn’t my wish at all.
I want River. And I want him badly.
I want to tell the whole loud world out there to fuck off so I can date him in peace, like a normal person, a man I want to know, a man I want to let inside me—in so many more ways than sexually.
But maybe it’s only because of our insane situation that we met at all. That this thing between us is even possible.
The scandal paved a path for our lives to cross.
And so here we are.
I’m about to leave him be, a foot out the door, when he says, “That night when we stood out on that rocky shore … breaking the rules, as free as the fucking wind …” He lets out a small laugh, shakes his head, then pierces me with his sensitive eyes. “It was honestly one of the best nights I’ve had in my life, even despite the circumstances.”
I wonder for a second what circumstances he means. Having broken into the bungalow and requiring my return that night. Or spontaneously jumping the fence and having moved me tofollow him down the rocks.
Or the moment I slipped and nearly knocked myself out, only to have him catch me.
And stare down into my eyes.
Like the hero of a short film we were suddenly part of, a very short film with an uncertain beginning and uncertain ending. Maybe I’m still in that tiny film when I smile back at him and reply, “That …wasa really nice night.”
A really nice night, I say back.
Suddenly the wordnicehas a large burden on its four-lettered shoulders, to stand in for all the far more superior words that could better describe that deeply personal and beautiful moment we shared on that shore.
“Goodnight, Finn,” he says softly.
I swallow, then leave before I do something reckless.
And that night, I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling for a solid hour, wondering if River is doing the same thing, or if sleep has already found him, or if he’s standing naked at his window for no reason at all, staring into the dark sea.
The days that follow are quieter than I expect. It’s kind of funny, the unusual truce we all settle into. River in the guestroom. Me pretending to keep my distance. Brooke running her social media mission like a professional life hacker clacking at the keys of her laptop or the screen of her phone—with the occasional fun update to me and River about how her online campaigns are going, reminding us why we agreed on this peculiar living situation at all. We don’t ask why she’s whispering when we’re the only ones in the house all day long.
Despite my initial worries, there aren’t as many close calls as I feared there’d be. Heather’s been staying out late nearly every night doing this and that. Dad, too. And when they’re home, they stay downstairs the entire time.
As it turns out, it’s far easier to hide a celebrity in yourupstairs guestroom than anyone could’ve ever predicted.
During the day, River roams free from his prison of the guestroom, and everything feels beautifully mundane. We have breakfast together. Lunch, too, often with Brooke. His coffee mug ends up in the sink next to mine. I’ll catch him humming a funny tune to himself while he’s filling Arial and Roman’s food bowls, then petting the cats as they rush up to eat. His and Brooke’s laughter leak down the hall when I’m in my room, I just assume it’s because of another funny comment they got from one of Brooke’s posts.
It’s impossible not to feel a certain way, watching how he is with my sister. How it’s like to sort of live with him.
Even if it’s partly in secret.
I could even imagine Heather and Dad, in some ideal, magical situation, folding right into this scenario, too. I bet Heather would be over Theo in a heartbeat. River would be her new obsession. My dad would treasure him, too.
But we’re not in that alternate reality where all things work out. Here, life is messy and everyone gets in the way of everyone else. No one’s fully happy. Everyone pretends to be. Except for maybe Brooke, who wakes up each and every morning lately like it’s Christmas.
There are times when River and I are chilling in the same room, maybe reading or browsing our phones, and we don’t say much at all. But the silence feels charged, like both of us are holding our breath.
And every day that passes, the line we agreed to never cross feels thinner—and thinner, and thinner.
Was it an impossible ask, for us to keep our cool, when we are both so obviously holding back our desires, like two dams on the brink of bursting every single day?
One evening, the three of us get a bit too lost in a new angle Brooke wants to try, brainstorming clever hashtags, whenHeather comes home unexpectedly. We scramble to get River out of sight and succeed the moment Heather appears at the top of the stairs, question-loaded daggers in her eyes. “What’re you two up to?” she asks, suspicious at once. Brooke and I share a look, then shout, “Nothing!” at the same time. She doesn’t press the matter further, rolling her eyes and likely writing us off as “just being our goofy selves” before heading back downstairs, grumbling about her being the only dang adult in the house.
That night just before I turn in, River catches me at my bedroom door. “Close call earlier, huh?” he whispers.
