Chasing River (Burying Water #3)(68)
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. I glance over to see a lone figure approaching, 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 I watch him lean into the open window of Ivy’s car, 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.