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Rhue

I am not supposed to be in Ithaca.

Harvard was my ticket. Their lacrosse team fell in love with my stats, my charm, my ego. I was bound to be their darling – a no bullshitter on the ice, heated, hungry, and scorching hot on the outside.

But things changed. I changed. With all of that, so did my goals and my vision for life as well as the path I’ve chosen to take.

The anger, though, remained. I’m not stupid enough to think it will ever go away.

The Echeveria bloodline is filled with angry men paying for the past, current and future sins of their fathers.

Speaking of fathers—mine thinks I’m shitting my dreams away.

Truth is, it’s his dreams that I’m taking a big fat dump on.

Daddy dearest wanted Harvard, I chose Cornell.

And hockey might as well be the new fucking lacrosse.

At least it is for me. It has to be. Anything to put my old life behind me.

Anything to show the old fart that his needs and his wants don’t make the whole damn world go round.

To prove to him that he can’t have everything .

Nineteen years of my life, sure, he had those.

My girl, he got her too. My future, though, my future is mine. He can’t have that.

I take a deep breath, scanning the world around me.

Collegetown is always moderately crowded, from what I’ve seen so far.

It’s only been a few days since I’ve set foot in Ithaca, but that conclusion is one that is yet to be proven wrong.

There are never too many people, yet it’s never quite empty, either.

Life moves forward here with students happily buzzing about their day. The storefronts are clean and mostly shabby chic. Flower shops open out onto the streets with bursts of roses and white lilies, their intoxicating fragrances reaching all the way into my car.

I flick the window button and seal myself in. For most people, the smell of flowers is a pleasant smell. All it does is remind me of death.

Of my mother’s funeral.

Of all the people with tight fists gripping bouquets of flowers.

The wreaths on my mother’s grave.

The fucking garden that was made out of our dinner table.

I shake my head. Memory lane is like a trip into hell and it’s not nearly cold enough out for me to want to take that ride.

It’s been a year since I buried my mother. The pain should have subsided by now. Except— it hasn’t. It just lingers somewhere in the background, dull and cold and ghostly.

I’m not sure if that makes me a good person – the fact that in some way, shape or form, I’m still mourning her loss. What I do know is that I’d do any damn thing to banish that feeling forever.

I gaze out the window again, shifting my thoughts to something else as I watch the cars go by. It’s not exactly rush-hour, but the traffic’s still thicker than pudding.

I wonder how many of these cars will end up in Cornell’s student parking lot.

For the ones that do, I wonder what they came here for.

What they’re hoping to get out of their degrees.

What awaits them back home. If they’re better than me and happier than me.

Or if, like me, they’re burdened with emptiness, a shit father, and a broken sister who they’ve tried and failed to fix.

Red light. I stop. There’s music playing in the background, but I don’t pay much attention to it. My mind keeps wandering.

Time might be perceived in a linear fashion, yet I tend to be all over the fucking place, suffering the past and the present, the memories and the experiences with an equally shattering intensity.

Green light. I’m driving again. It’s better when I’m focused on something. I’m always keeping busy these days. Whenever I stop, I unwittingly delve into the chain of events that brought me to where I am. I end up missing high school and the world as I knew it before Mom died. Before I saw Dad with…

I shake my head. I need to get a proper fucking grip.

There’s still some Redbull left in my can, currently abandoned in the cup holder.

It’s a shitty drink, but it’s the only thing that gets me going in the morning—besides the pills, of course, but they’re doing regular urine tests at Cornell, so I’ve had to kick them to the curb.

Plus, coming down from uppers is a fucking nightmare.

I promised myself a clean slate, a fresh start, and this should be it.

Ithaca. Aspen trees. Pretty shop fronts.

Clean pavements that get hosed every morning.

Florists and small craft-beer bars that don’t stay open past midnight.

It’s much quieter than what I’m used to in Rochester, but nobody knows my face here, so that’s an immediate bonus.

Being a stranger has never felt so fucking good.

By the time I see the university clock tower rising ahead with its grey cap and sand-colored masonry, I’m already feeling a little better. More focused. Crisp, even. Something akin to a freshly squeezed lime over a glass of ice.

Once I park my Lexus in the parking lot, I know that this move was the right one. Here feels more like home than my father’s house ever could.

I briefly check myself in the side mirror, just to make sure I’m all there. My reflection speaks volumes. My eyes are slightly bloodshot, but that just brings out the dark blue in them.

My black hair is cut half-an-inch too short, my beard a little more stubbly than usual.

The look is different from the one I’ve been sporting for as long as I can remember.

I’m not sure I like it, but I wouldn’t exactly say I hate it either.

Different is good. Different is refreshing.

Different is just what the fuck I need. That and a long, long break from home.

I feel my jaw clench just at the thought of going back to that place.

My father will expect me back in the summer, but I’m planning on milking this whole living on campus deal for as long as I can.

Screw what the therapist said about showing up and being present in order to help our family heal.

Anyone who signs a contract with my father is a person I can’t trust.

My phone rings. I check the time first. I’ve got ten more minutes, tops, before I’m officially late to class. The caller ID demands my full attention, however. I made a promise to myself to never reject my sister’s calls.

“Laura...”

There’s a second-long silence before she responds. “Shit. You’re busy.”

“I’m about to head to class,” I tell her. “And don’t be such a potty mouth. It’s unbecoming.”

“Well, fuck off, then,” Laura giggles. “Sorry. I was just hoping to get you to confirm for brunch next weekend. I completely forgot it’s Monday morning. We can talk about it later.”

I can almost see her by her window, looking out, her gaze lost over the rolling hills that surround our mansion just outside of Rochester.

She’s probably still in her pale blue satin robe, flanked by three different maids while wishing they could just leave her the hell alone so she can finish her coffee in peace.

I miss her, but I need to be away from that place for a long time.

“I’m not coming back home this weekend,” I say. “I thought I told you…”

“Oh, no, that’s fine. I’m coming to Ithaca!”

Why doesn’t that sit right with me?

Don’t get me wrong, I love my little sister. She’s the only blood relative I have left who’s worth a damn. So why do I loathe the idea of welcoming her here?

“I’m not even fully unpacked yet,” I reply, feeling like shit for shutting her down, but doing it regardless. Then again, Laura never was an easily scared kind of girl.

“You’re shit at organizing, Rhue. You and I both know you’ll need the help if you don’t want to be living out of a suitcase for the next twelve months.”

She’s in a good mood, and I’d be a dick to ruin that. Besides, this is her way of telling me not to push her away.

I promised Mom a long time ago that I would look out for Laura. I failed once and almost lost her. When that memory resurfaces it becomes a heck of a lot harder to push an agenda that doesn’t have much to do with her.

“Fine, I guess.”

With my concession loudly spoken, she smacks a kiss at me and hangs up. If I know my sister the way I think I do, there will be a text follow-up wishing me well and reminding me to plug her into my calendar.

I grab my bag and head for the main building first. I’ve already gone through orientation, but I still need a few minutes to move around and understand which hallways lead to where. The closer I get to the building, the bigger it grows.

Cornell University is a giant made of stone and steel. A place that has nurtured many great minds.

Politicians, athletes, anthropologists, historians, archeologists and world-class scientists walked out of here with their degrees and blindingly bright futures. When it comes to this place, I am nothing more than a smudge on the fabric of humanity.

The purpose of my presence here is to become something bigger.

Something better.

Something worth a damn.

It takes a few turns, but sooner rather than later I find my first class. It’s packed, but that shouldn’t come as a surprise. Anthropology is one of Cornell’s fortes. It has been for decades.

Despite how well lit the auditorium is, I’m unable to make out any of the faces. Everyone’s sitting and waiting for the professor to come in. His desk is at the bottom, an old walnut framed by a huge blackboard that covers two thirds of the entire wall.

As for the rest of the room, it pretty much smells of smart people in here. For a moment, I find myself riddled with anxiety, briefly poked by some kind of imposter syndrome.

Fuck it. I belong here. I earned my spot here. Fair and square.

I find an empty seat in a row close to the door. It’s safer to stay out of the professor’s sight, for the time being.

Exhaling deeply, I take out a notebook, a pen, and the infamous brochure, to which a bibliography has been stapled. There’s a ton of books I need to buy, apparently. I’m in the middle of mentally mapping my schedule around getting these books when the soft scent of lilac tickles my nose.

It’s a familiar scent. Far too familiar. And it— rattles me.

At first, that’s all there is; the scent and the memories associated with it fighting to pummel my mind. I manage to keep them at bay for a few seconds before my head starts to spin, putting one and two together, trying to figure it out.

Suddenly, an ice-cold claw pierces the back of my neck and goes all the way down and through my spine. I know that fucking perfume better than I’ve ever wanted to know a damn thing in my life.

My head turns slowly.

So slowly, in fact, that time seems to have stopped.

Her profile is an etching of the kind of sins that should never be committed. The small nose. The full lips. The bright eyes where ancient Irish forests grow.

The auditorium’s overhead LED lights cast a warm glow upon her face, not illuminating it completely, but giving enough to allow imagination to carve its own path. I breathe in. Somehow, it’s as though I can almost see the lilacs coming off of her in delicate wisps.

For a moment, I imagine her naked in the morning, spraying the fragrance onto her soft skin. But the beauty is short-lived when she looks at me, and the sparkle of instant recognition blows everything to hell.

It really is her.

Not someone drenched in the same odors.

Not a lookalike or a copycat, but… her .

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I hear myself mutter.

I sound defeated. For good reasons, too.

“Rhue?” I don’t even register the moment the tranquil beauty of her oval face shifts into this colorless mask of true horror. But I can’t say that I mind it.

I make her feel like this. Good! She should be fucking mortified.

Of all the places in the world, this is where our paths cross. It’s un-fucking-believable.

The universe must be fucking with me. I pause on that thought, knowing better than to think these kinds of coincidences are normal.

This could very well be my father’s doing.

This is the kind of bullshit he would do to punish me for choosing Cornell over Harvard.

For carving my own path instead of walking the one he picked out for me.

I steady my gaze on Madison Willis, my former tutor. The woman that made my balls blue and my soul sing before she broke the shit out of my heart.

The woman I found in my parents’ bedroom with my father on top of her, pounding her like the ten-dollar whore that she is. The Madison who ruined my family.

Yet here the bitch sits.

Like she thinks I’ll give her a hand at destroying me, too.