Chasing River (Burying Water 3)

More than a year later, she still doesn’t remember everything, but I think that might be for the best.

“A few things.” Her vague answer tells me that they’re memories she isn’t going to share with me. We have an odd relationship. I consider her my family—the sister I always wanted—and she probably outranks any of my childhood friends as my closest confidante. But the Alex I know comes with a do-not-pass door into her past, and what truly happened the night she should have died. She may not remember it all, but she carefully guards what she does remember.

At first I took it personally. I was with her through the months after the attack, caring for her in the hospital. I was with her the day she discovered what my brother had been hiding. If anyone, she should feel that she can trust me. That’s what I assumed at first: that she didn’t trust me. Finally, I decided to just go with it, figuring she’d tell me when she was ready.

Every once in a while, she’ll mention something. It’s always inconsequential, but for her, I’m beginning to think it’s more a matter of safety. I don’t know who her husband was, beyond the fact that he was a maniac with a psychotic temper. But I think silence is her way of protecting me. And Jesse. And, honestly, who knows who else.

So I just let her be, appreciating the present Alex in my life, because that girl is an inspiration.

“So? What’s new? What’s Ireland like?”

“It’s beautiful,” I answer honestly, at least the little bit that I’ve seen. My face was pressed to the glass in awe as the plane descended into rich, grassy hills speckled with tiny white and black sheep.

Gravel crunches on the receiver. I can picture Alex strolling along the driveway, her cornsilk-blond hair hanging free and natural. She’s probably heading toward the barn. She spends a lot of time around the horses. “And the trip?”

I smile at my reflection, though the smile isn’t as wide this time. I’m not sure if that’s on account of my injured lip or my recently doused spirits. “Still worth it.” No one believed I would get on that first plane. They thought that I’d find an excuse, a reason to not leave Sisters—my place of comfort, the town I came back to after college when many of my friends didn’t.

I almost didn’t. I’ve been saving for this trip since I landed my full-time nursing job right out of school. When Alex first met me, it was all I talked about, working extra shifts to earn more money. And then a thirty-three-year-old cardiologist by the name of Dr. Aaron Janakievski came into the picture and changed everything.

I had noticed Aaron around the hospital. Blond, attractive, rumored to be single . . . every nurse in the hospital had noticed him. The few single female doctors had, too. One day last June, Aaron turned around in the line at the cafeteria and asked if we could eat together. I held my breath and nodded, suddenly nervous that I’d say something stupid. I mean, the guy performs open-heart surgery!

I guess I didn’t, because that one lunch in the cafeteria quickly became three, which escalated to dinners off-shift, and evenings at the movies . . . and nights at his condo in downtown Bend. By Christmas, we were tangled in sheets and talking about me moving in with him. It was fast, but he was charming and youthfully attractive and smart and . . . a doctor. Oddly enough, we had a lot more in common than I would ever have believed. Both of my parents had already given their approval, even with the eight-year age difference between us.

I was so sure that Aaron was it.

Just as quickly, though, our relationship crashed and burned. In late February, Aaron suddenly announced that he was moving to Boston, to work at one of the top cardiology hospitals in the country. He’d never even told me that he had applied, or that, during his trips out east to visit with his parents, he was also interviewing for the position. He told me over dinner at his place, and my mind’s wheels immediately started churning, thinking about what life in Boston would be like. If I could get a job there, how much I’d miss Oregon and my family.

There was no need. Aaron ended things with me that same night.

He said that I was beautiful and funny but I was too young, and had lived an isolated existence. I couldn’t possibly know what I wanted in a spouse yet. He was looking for someone with more life experience. What I heard was that I wasn’t good enough for him, something no one had ever suggested to me before. It was a huge hit to my ego.

My plans to travel the world were back on with a vengeance, along with a promise to myself to never again divert my life for a guy.

“So . . . what happened in Halifax?” Alex asks, and I hear the smile in her voice. The last time we talked, I was sitting on a pier for lunch, overlooking the bay. Tables around me were filled—some with entire families, some with couples. One with a lone guy, quietly picking away at a lobster tail, his cappuccino-colored eyes mesmerizing.

It was my last day in Nova Scotia, and I debated simply walking over, filling the spare seat next to him, and striking up a conversation. Everyone knows a person who can do that. Gillian Flanders, a nurse at my hospital, is one of those people. She’ll go to Cancún for a week alone and return with an album’s worth of wild pictures and a dozen stories. I’ve always told her that she’s crazy, but secretly I’ve envied her. I’ve never been that girl who can just walk up to random strangers and start talking, who can openly flirt with a guy, unafraid that I’ll embarrass myself if he’s not interested in me.

Back and forth, Alex and I texted that afternoon by the pier, with her encouraging me to just do it. What was the worst that could happen? By the time I had worked up enough courage, the handsome stranger was paying his check and I was still firmly planted within my small comfort zone.

“I ate lots of seafood.”

She chuckles. “Yeah, I figured. Next time, maybe.”

I smile. “Maybe.”

“Oh! Before I forget . . . In case you want to see a friendly face, Ivy’s in Dublin right now.”

“Ivy?” That’s not exactly what I’d call a friendly face. The last time I saw that girl, that fateful day a year ago when Alex was getting her tattoo, she looked ready to scrawl foul language across my forehead with her tattoo gun. Probably because I pretended not to recognize her. “I don’t really know her.”

“Yes, you do,” Alex pushes. “You went to the same high school.”

“Along with five hundred other kids . . .” I glare at my deep scowl in the mirror and then push the frown line between my brows smooth. “She was a year younger than me, anyway.”

“Just a suggestion.” A horse whinnies in the background, stirring a touch of homesickness inside me.

“What’s she doing here?”

“Working. She’s been there for a few months now, I think? She wanted a change from Oregon.”

Well, I guess Ivy and I have one thing in common, then. Pretty much the only thing, aside from both being female. I was a Rodeo Queen and straight-A student in high school; Ivy was the resident graffiti artist. I’ve always embraced my feminine side, primping my long hair in fat curls or silky smooth and straight, and choosing the perfect outfit and jewelry. Ivy showed up to school one day in my senior year with all her hair shaved off. I’m a nurse, helping save people’s lives. She leaves them with permanent scars all over their skin.