Chapter 1: Ruth

“You do know it’s okay to cry,” my Aunt June said next to me, bringing me out of a trance.

I stare down at my black dress and heels, and suddenly don’t know what to do with my hands. I settle with interlacing my fingers in front of me while twirling the simple band on my index finger, the one that looks identical to the one my twin wore on her index finger. My body shutters knowing that the ring, along with the rest of my sister, is currently suffocated by six feet of dirt.

I swear under my breath at my own stupidity for not retrieving the ring when I could have. Perhaps my own thoughtlessness was just fate’s way of telling me that the ring should stay with her. That way, she wouldn’t forget me. I had to believe her soul lived on; she was more than that body laying in the coffin that I had just thrown dirt on.

I’m pretty sure my parents think I am insane. Who else would smile at a funeral? I do that sometimes. I laugh in awkward situations, or when the voices in my head say something particularly cumbersome. I was throwing dirt on the grave, and I smiled. I did it because I was thinking that fate’s sense of humor was twisted. I thought, how ironic that I was breathing when I felt like the one laying down in the coffin. How ironic that even though I was indeed the one breathing six feet up, half of me would forever be in the ground. That’s why I smiled. At least I didn’t laugh. Now, that would have been something to be concerned about.

I tried not to cringe at the great effort it takes to drag my eyes up and into my Aunt June’s face. Every limb on my body feels heavy. It takes tremendous energy to carry the weight added to my organs lately. My Aunt June speaks to me again; empty words I am sure, but I focus on her eyes to avoid any further judgement from her. Please don’t ask me how I am doing.

“I know,” I answer her silently, not entirely sure the answer matched the question posed. I glance to my right trying to make eye contact with anyone that would save me. Talking wasn’t my strong suit. Not today.

“Did you know who made this potpourri?” An unfamiliar voice asked from behind me. I didn’t know whether to feel grateful that I didn’t have to answer any more of Aunt June’s questions or in shock of the actual question at hand. How out of place the question seemed, let alone this man, considering the circumstances. I glance at Aunt June to see if she knew the stranger; a scowl is written on her face laced with curiosity, which told me she is just as confused as I am.

“Well, no young man. I do not know who made this potpourri, and who are you?” My aunt inquires with slight deprecation, no doubt deducing him by his simple clothing.

I don’t wait around to hear his answer, as this is finally my opportunity to escape. I quickly do a pick-and-roll with the aplomb of a ballerina before making a beeline anywhere but here. My feet carry me to the white French doors of my childhood home, and without hesitation, I open the doors and inhale deeply the spring air. I gulp down the smell of freshly cut grass and the potent scent of lilac from the bushes lining our driveway around the corner. The crisp air makes my whole body tense, which only accentuates the massive knots in my back and the fact that I hadn’t stretched for ages. A small breeze sweeps my hair into my face, and I grip the railing of the back porch.

I hear an uneven cacophony of breaths, each exhale resulting in a small gust of fog in front of me. It takes a moment to realize that the noise and the fog is coming from my own mouth. I slam my eyes shut.

This day is too much.

The people.

The potpourri.

The stark contrast between the white interior of the house and the entire black garb within it was all too ominous.

The sorry looks and, even worse, the sorry statements�"it was too much.

I kick off my heels and let my dark mane fall down my back. I don’t need anything too tight�"too constricting. With all the effort I can assemble, I leap over the too-perfect, white railing and instantly am shocked by the damp, wet grass below me. Before I can change my mind, I take one step forward and break into a sprint, willing my legs to work.I cross the manicured lawn towards the river not far from my house. There is echoes of small chatter behind me, but their picayune conversations only push me harder and faster away.

I thought I heard a voice behind me, barely audible, yell, “Wait!” but I don’t care enough to slow down.

Once I get to the riverbank, I slow my pace when the smooth grass turned into rocks. I stumble over the stones like a person walking on a tight-wire, maintaining balance, and hoping not to roll my ankle. When I am one step away from emerging my feet into the moving water, I freeze. A small ounce of adrenaline courses through my veins. Each beat of my racing heart is roaring in my ear.

I don’t think. I walk straight in and let the frigid water permeate my skin. I welcome the shivers that roll up my spine like one massive, slow moving wave. I let the water pierce my skin because I want to feel. I need to feel something.

I look ahead at a spot in the river where the water is moving exceptionally fast, and can’t help but wonder what would happen if I waded out to the rapid. If I went too far. Is this what it feels like seconds before people do it, before then commit suicide? Is it a choice that is premeditated or is it on impulse? Do people count to three or do they just…jump? How do they get to the point where they’d do it?

Now I feel like I actually understand a small part of suicide. I understand the grief that tears people apart from the inside out. I am being torn apart. I wade further into the water, fearful of my own impulses.

“Don’t do it,” a voice says behind me. The voice is hesitant and concerned, and I don’t like it already.

“Leave me alone,” I said through icy lips. I always got cold like that. My lips, my hands, and my feet were always like ice. I intended for my statement to make him go away, but he remains a safe distance judging by the loud exhales he releases behind me.

I can feel him staring at me, just like that feeling I have when people follow me with their eyes or stare at me across a room full of people. Attention, from anyone, has a way of making me feel violated, like they could read my soul as simply as if they were reading a children’s book. People tell me I have a great poker face when it comes to displaying emotions, but I have to disagree. I feel like my face gives me away. You know how some people wear their hearts on their sleeve? Well, I feel like I wear mine on my face. Everyone knows what I am feeling. How could they not? I want so bad to be able to reign my emotions deep inside me. I’d seal them in a treasure chest and lock them up, simply because I need the privacy. I need to feel like there is a part of my soul people can’t touch; a small part that is preserved to keep myself sane.

“No,” the man behind me finally answers. I forgot he was even here.

I didn’t quite know what to say to him now. I never was good at persuading. I remain standing in the water, boycotting conversing in hopes that he will leave me alone with my thoughts. I need this. I need to be alone. The nonsense chatter and the sorry statements continued to echo in my mind; even though, I was almost half a mile from my home.

The man slowly walks closer to me and curses when he trips over the rocks. He wades until his calves are fully emerged, and stands uncomfortably close to me as if he was waiting for me to fall.

I gaze across the river to the cliffs beyond and the multi-colored graffiti etched into questionable, and quite dangerous, locations. If I squinted I could make out the outline of one word�"give. When I look more closely, the word is surrounded by other words and makes a phrase that says something like: “Don’t ever give up.”

How ironic I chuckle.

I didn’t know I laughed out loud until the stranger said:“Interesting isn’t it?” He leaned forward, hinging at the knees, trying to catch my eye.

I looked onwards, and consider pretending I didn’t hear him. He continues to glance at me and then back across the river. His presence, let alone his silence, was starting to make me itch, and frankly it was irritating. Didn’t he realize I ran away because I wanted to be alone?

He puts his hands in his pockets, as if to say he isn’t going anywhere. I take a few more breaths, waiting to see who will break first. Five minutes pass, and a sigh finally escapes me. I could never handle awkward silent moments.

“You shouldn’t play that game with me.” I refuse to look at him.

“What game?”

“The silent treatment game.”

“Oh?”

“I always win,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Aren’t you a humble one,” I say dryly.

“Nope. Not humble. Silence is an old friend of mine though.” The curious side of me wants to ask more questions about his ambiguous statement, like what reasons drove him to silence, and why are they friends? Or why does he refer to an inanimate thing as a friend? Does he have no friends? No words form though, and so I let his friend Silence stand between us.

“When your mom is always working and your dad is--” he pauses, “not around. You get use to the silence I guess.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

He shrugs, “Because sometimes Silence makes for a lonely friend.” We look across the riverbank. I still have yet to look at him.

“Potpourri. Really?”

He smirks and folds his arms across his chest, seemingly quite pleased that he pushed me to the point of talking. “You should be thanking me. I saved you.”

“I don’t need saving,” I say with quivering lips.

“Are you sure? I mean, you are standing up to your knees in a very fast river,” he challenges, “and I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I have a sneaking suspicion that this funeral you just ran from is about someone you love dearly and…I don’t know. I just don’t want a tragedy to happen tonight.”

As if he knew anything about this funeral or the person whom I buried today. For the first time since he arrived I turn to look at him, or I guess, up at him.

He was tall. If it were any day but today, I would have done a double take. He is handsome in the I-already-know-I-am-handsome kind of way. His dark jeans were rolled up to his calves and were currently drenched from the river. His jeans were casual compared to the nice short sleeve shirt he was wearing. The sleeves were practically bursting from his nicely shaped arms. He already seemed like the kind of guy that wouldn’t spend time at the gym, so he likely got by on his good genetics alone. His messy, luscious hair and five o'clock shadow even seemed effortless. His eyes matched the blueness of his shirt, and seemed to be aglow with the dusky color of his hair. I saw specks of olive green surrounding his pupils, and I couldn’t help but wonder if his eyes would stay blue if he was wearing a green shirt instead. I bet girls got lost in those eyes.

I look back across the river and wonder why I am speaking to a stranger. I don’t have the words around who was at the funeral, and why running away seemed like the best option at the time.

I dare to look at those eyes again and say the first thing on my mind. “Why are you wearing jeans…to a funeral?”

He smiles triumphantly. Who is this man? His smile spreads all across his face all the way to the corner of his eyes. I stare with awe. It has been awhile since I have seen a genuine expression of joy. He seems pleased with the interactions we are having, as if he alone could make the sad girl talk. I see his whole body tremble from being in the numbing river as long as we have been, and I feel a small wave of pleasure knowing he is suffering next to me. Serves him right.

It all felt strange, but nothing as strange, I suppose, as losing my sister.

“Well?” I said impatiently.

“Sorry,” he said as if he was just reprimanded. “I was at the reception because…well, I brought you flowers,” he said before quickly adding, “I brought your family flowers. My mother owns a flower and potpourri shop. We did the flowers for you today--for this…occasion.”

I stare at him with a blank face, and didn’t know what to feel. I was a little of everything: annoyed, sad, angry, confused, bewildered, and dazed. The water continued to move swiftly by me and what was once a blue sky this morning was blanketed with enormous clouds threatening rain. I remembered briefly the code I use to have with my sister�"the one I would use when I felt terribly sad, and needed cheering up. I would ask her for a joke, and she would give one. God, they were terrible jokes, but they made me laugh. They did the trick.

I look again at the stranger next to me, now looking directly at me with concern, and asked him to tell me a joke.

“A joke?” he repeated. I nod and wait. He places his hands in his pockets and looks deep in thought, taking my random question in stride. “What did the tree say to spring,” he asked.

“What,” I whisper, waiting for the punchline.

“What a re-leaf,” he blurts and then looks at me out of the corner of his eye, waiting for my reaction. I giggle despite myself. He smiles out of relief. The last bit of laughter is reverberating through the hardened parts of my body. I desperately try to hold onto that feeling. He watches me carefully. I want more of that feeling--any feeling, so I let myself laugh again, not knowing if the laugh is real or fake. I don’t care.

Before I know it, I am full-blown laughing. The noise starts slow, but then crescendos into a loud explosion, a release. There have been so many emotions and unspoken tribulations building in me these past few weeks�"layers upon layers of unbelievable grief. There is a storm in me, and all I can do in this moment is laugh. So, I laugh. An image of me smiling at the grave comes into my mind, and I just laugh harder. My head tilts back, I close my eyes, and open my mouth wider to let all the noise escape. Who smiles at funerals? Me. Who laughs when they should be, when they need to be, crying? Me.

The stranger next to me keeps staring at me, bemused, but not frightened. He is obviously enjoying this. His face transforms into genuine concern when my shoulders start shaking, and massive tears began falling down my cheeks. Crying. Now I am crying. I haven’t cried since I heard the news, so why now? The crying turns into sobs. I cover my face with my hands and lower myself down into the water. I am balancing on my tiptoes. My body is now submerged in the river from the waist down; my dress soaked. My tears continue to fall, disappearing into the current.

A hand rests on my shoulder, the stranger’s hand, and in that moment the fact that he is a stranger is lost on me. He kneels down beside me and awkwardly wraps one arm around my shoulder. I can hear the water rushing around us, threatening to sweep us off our feet. I imagine water colliding with my body and going straight through me.

“Just cry,” the stranger says next to me, “It will be okay.” He makes no movement to get out of the river, but stays with me. I’ve heard that statement so many times in the past two weeks, and each time my insides scream. It won’t be okay, but right now, in this moment, I feel okay. His arm tightens around my shoulder, and I cry.

After what seems like an hour, I wipe the tears from my eyes and look at him. I nod, because I am not sure what else to do. He nods back at me as if he understands. His lips are shivering, but his hold on me remains firm.

“What is your name?” He says softly.

I stare into his eyes, now a cobalt color, and debated whether or not to tell this man my name.

Grief told me not to care, and so I said softly, “I am Ruth.”

“Wow,” he muses.

“Wow what?” I said shifting my body away slightly.

“Oh, I just haven’t heard that name a lot. It’s old school,” and quickly added, “I like it.”

“Yeah…thanks. I guess.” I wiped the tears from my face and stand to leave. “I am sorry. I haven’t cried throughout this whole--,” I used my hands to gesture in the wind, “--this whole thing.”

He looked at me with sympathy.

“Please, don’t.” I said with slight annoyance. “I can’t handle that look anymore.”

“What look?” He scrunches his face, playing coy.

“The one you just gave me. It’s full of pity and ‘I am sorrys,' and I can’t take anymore of it,” I say feeling a meager ounce of pain alleviated off of my concaving shoulders by simply telling someone how I felt.

“Is that why you ran away?”

“That and Aunt June.” I roll my eyes, and he smiles at the gesture. He had a way of watching my every movement, like he was scared I would disappear right in front of him.

“She is a Chatty Kathy once you get on her good side,” he said revealing what knowledge he gleaned from my aunt in such a short time.

Suddenly exhausted, in every shape and form, I slowly unscramble myself from his arms and wade out of the water towards the rocks and grass beyond. If I was lucky I could sneak in the back of the house and up to the bedroom of my youth�"my sanctuary. It was only when I had tumbled my way over the rocks that I realized how my black dress was now skin-tight against my waist, revealing far more than I was comfortable with while with strangers.

I looked back at the man in the river, still standing there with his hands in his pockets. He was staring at me again, but not at my body outlined in the black dress. He was looking straight into my eye with that strange look on his face.

“What is that look right there?” I ask pointedly.

“It’s not pity, I swear.” The palm of his hand flies to his heart.

“I know that!”

He runs a hand through his hair and I hold my breath. He is so handsome.

“Look, I am sorry. Sometimes I don’t know what to say. I’ve never held a stranger in a river before,” he said apologetically.

“That makes two of us.” I say as I turn around and wrap my arms a little tighter around my stomach.

“Can I walk you a back to the, uh, the reception?”

“No. Thanks.” I say, and then think better of my rudeness. “Really though, thank you for what you did back there. I don’t know what got into me. It’s just been a long day…and a long few weeks is all. Riley, she was�"” I struggle to find the right words to say out loud when I barely had the courage to admit them to myself, “--She was my twin.” I try not to wince as I use past tense.

The stranger gives me a new expression I cannot place, but it’s not pity and it’s not concern.

“I need to go,” I say quietly, turning away and walking back towards a home filled with more strangers. I don’t try to conceal myself as I walk, knowing he is probably looking at my behind anyways.