Chasing River (Burying Water #3)(67)

“Did I?”

She hesitates, as if she doesn’t want to admit something. “It’s because, for a long time, I wished I was you. My family and I moved to Sisters because my parents wanted to get far away from San Francisco. They decided a remote mountain town would be good. I didn’t know a soul, and we didn’t have a lot of money. I looked ‘different’ from other kids,” her fingers air-quote that word. “You seemed to have everything going for you.”

I don’t know what to say to that. It’s flattering, but sad, and probably not an easy thing for a girl like Ivy to admit. “Well, thank God you weren’t—otherwise your relationship with my brother would have been really inappropriate.”

For the first time, Ivy’s head tips back and laughter bellows out of her, making me giggle. It feels good.

“Does Alex know about you and Jesse?”

“No . . . At least, I didn’t tell her. Figured she wouldn’t want to hear about it. So, let’s keep that between us.”

A secret between Ivy and me.

Climbing out of her chair, she collects my food carton and heads over to dump it into a trash can.

“For what it’s worth . . . I’m sorry I never said hi to you in the hallway,” I offer with complete sincerity.

Her hands slow for just a moment, and then they’re tying a knot into the top of the bag, sealing the odors in. “So, are we going to sit here and be all depressed about whatever this * did? Or should we go do something?”

I take in her outfit—head-to-toe skulls and cheetah print. “Do you have something in mind?”

She loops her hands together and stretches her fingers. Loud cracks fill the silence.

She definitely does.

“Do you have something else in mind?” I ask, casting a furtive look to the left and the right of the narrow side street. Light streams on either side of the building, but where we stand next to this vast painted brick wall, we lurk in shadows, marginally visible by the lights shining from Ivy’s Civic. Technically, Ian’s. They share an apartment a block away from the shop, and she ran over to grab the keys.

“We’re not doing anything wrong.” She reaches into her trunk and pulls out a plastic bag. I immediately recognize the telltale sounds of spray cans banging against each other.

“Ivy!”

“Relax. It’s just like the bowling alley back home. They allow it as a way to keep the graffiti centralized. And this wall . . .” She takes big steps backward across the quiet road, without looking. “Just look at it! Such a clean, white canvas.”

“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.