Chasing River (Burying Water #3)(74)

“I hate cemeteries,” he finally says in a mumble.

“This one was beautiful, you have to admit.”

“I spent plenty of time in old cemeteries, growing up.” His eyes flash to me. “Ma likes to pay her respects to her relatives, and she’s got a lot of them in the ground.”

I hadn’t really given much thought to his parents in all of this, until now. “How did your parents handle you and Aengus going away?”

“Da has always had high blood pressure. The night we were arrested, he had a heart attack.” Knowing eyes flash to me. “So . . . not well. Our uncle Samuel had died some years before, and Da had nobody to help run the pub except Ma and Rowen. Rowen wasn’t even out of high school yet and he was there every night and weekend. He was supposed to go straight to college, but he set that aside, practically living in Delaney’s so my dad wouldn’t have to work, on account of his health.”

“Rowen’s never been involved with any of that?”

“No. He’s never even seen the inside of a prison cell, something no Delaney man for many generations can claim.”

The trail splits off. Most visitors veer to the left. I’m not in the mood for crowds, so I head right, toward the lower of the two lakes, a trail lined with gnarly-rooted trees climbing a steep slope to the left and the lake to the right. Ahead are the soft green rolling mountains, nothing like the ones that loom from my window’s view back home, rocky and jagged and capped with snow even in the summer months. “Your mountains are so different from mine.”

“How so?”

“They’re softer, warmer. Not quite so threatening.”

“You should see the Cliffs of Moher. They’re impressive.”

“I’ve heard. I was planning on driving up there.” I only have four full days left in Ireland. I probably should have gotten there already. My days here have disappeared, consumed first by the bombing, and then by River.

A clearing leads us down to the water’s edge, to a crop of stones that reach into the water, their surfaces dry and bathing in sunlight. It’s mid-afternoon now, and the sun is warm enough to cause a light sheen of sweat to gather along the back of my neck. I’ve always loved being near the water on a warm day. So I peel off my jacket and pick my way over the rocks until I’ve found a perch on a sizeable boulder off to the left, under the canopy of a leggy tree.

“I’ll take you, if you want,” River offers, his strong arm swinging with a practiced angle to send a small stone skipping along the water’s surface. “To the Cliffs.”

I don’t answer him, using that moment to take an extra-long sip from the water bottle tucked in my purse.

Because I just don’t know.

“Come on, Amber.” I sense him closing in, his feet finding my boulder, which is perfect for me but too narrow for two people to sit on. Unless one sits behind the other, which is what River has figured out. He settles himself behind me, and a moment later his legs wrap the outsides of mine and his chest is pressed against my shoulders, and his hand is stealing the bottle of water right out of my hand to take a sip, a move that the charming Irish bartender I knew from just a day ago would do with ease. “I’m the same person I was when you met me.”

I sigh. Is he? I desperately want him to be. Despite everything I now know about him, he still affects me. I know that I still affect him . . . I can feel exactly how much against my lower back.

“Please let me. You’re only here for a few more days,” he whispers, resting his chin on my shoulder, his fingertip slowly drawing a pattern on my bare thigh using a drop of spilled water.

And then I’m off to England, Spain, France, and Italy . . . and a bunch of other countries. Will I be thinking about him as I walk through the streets of each one? Wondering what he’s doing?

Wishing I’d just accepted these days for what they are and enjoyed his company? This was always a fling. There was always an expiration date. Yet I think, subconsciously, I hoped that the fairy tale would prevail. That somehow this could turn into more. Some romantic whirlwind that would withstand distance and time. But it can’t happen.

“I’m never going to see you again, am I? You can never come to America. They’ll never let you in.” A spikey lump forms in my throat, because I already know the answer.

His chest falls against mine with a heavy sigh, his breath skating against my bare shoulder before strong arms wrap around me, holding me tight.

In the country café of a quaint village just outside Dublin—complete with curving cobblestone streets and vibrantly colored storefronts—I finally ask the one question I haven’t yet asked. “What are you going to do, River?” I dip my voice low enough to avoid the attention of the server puttering behind the counter. “Duffy already suspects your brother, maybe you. How is this ever going to end well?” I hear my dad’s influence come through in my words—I’ve heard him say the same thing to Jesse more than once. Obviously under different circumstances, but the message was still the same: Do the right thing.

“It’s not,” he agrees, his finger tracing the bright red circles that smatter the vinyl tablecloth, a heavy weight settling onto his shoulders.

“What?”

He hesitates. “Duffy told me that they’re after Aengus.”

“They?”