Chasing River

“We’re not doing anything wrong.” She reaches into her trunk and pulls out a plastic bag. I immediately recognize the telltale sounds of spray cans banging against each other.

“Ivy!”

“Relax. It’s just like the bowling alley back home. They allow it as a way to keep the graffiti centralized. And this wall . . .” She takes big steps backward across the quiet road, without looking. “Just look at it! Such a clean, white canvas.”

“It smells freshly painted.”

“Yeah, just this past weekend. They have to redo it every so often, when all that republican stuff takes over.”

Five minutes. I’ve had five minutes to think about something else—namely, what kind of trouble Ivy is getting me into—before my thoughts returned to River.

My stomach tightens.

“What kind of stuff?”

She shrugs, pulling a can from the bag. “Flags . . . Gaelic words that I can’t even read . . . black fists . . . I think a lot of it isn’t even from people who understand the politics or have anything to do with the IRA. They’re just kids trying to be rebellious.” She tosses a can my way.

I fumble to catch it. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

She stares at me for a moment, as if she’s trying to figure out if I’m kidding or not. “Leave your mark on Dublin.”

“My mark?” I frown, staring at the dried pink lines running down the sides of my can. “But . . . look at me!” Diamond earrings, yellow dress, cowboy boots. Not exactly dressed for the occasion.

She rolls her eyes. Reaching into her trunk, she grabs and tosses something at me. “Put that on. It should fit.”

I hold up the paint-spattered black material, identifying it as a smock. Pulling it over my head, it comes to mid-thigh. Ivy appraises me. “That works. And if not, they’re only clothes.”

Darting over to the driver’s side, she leans in to turn the music on the radio up, her other hand shaking her can of black paint. And then she dismisses me, spraying the first curved lines of what no doubt will be a masterpiece, because Ivy is experienced, and an amazing artist.

And I’ve never done this before.

I simply watch her in her zone, an almost indiscernible sway to her hips with the beat of the music, her arms limber and expert with their strokes.

“You going to just stand there all night?” she finally says, never looking over her shoulder once.

I stare at the white wall in front of me, in shadows and yet somehow gleaming. “I don’t know what to do.”

She purses her lips, then steps away from her work to come over. In seconds, she’s outlined a jagged blob. “Beginner lesson. Fill it in.”

I smile. “I can do that.” I test the nozzle, pushing it. A splash of pink hits the wall and I jump.

“Hold it like this,” Ivy says with a laugh, adjusting the can to a vertical position. “And no closer than this.” She demonstrates, her color smooth and controlled, perfectly within the line.

I try again, creating another blob. “I’m terrible at this.”

“So what? Everyone’s terrible at something. Even Amber Welles.” She moves back to her artwork, leaving me to mine, and my thoughts. Her words remind me of something Mary Coyne said to me. It was at Poppa’s Diner, weeks before finishing my last semester of college classes, when I told Mary I was taking the nursing job that was waiting for me at my mother’s hospital. She quietly nodded and smiled, but there was a look in her eyes that I couldn’t read, that bothered me for days. Finally I asked her to meet with me again, and I asked her about it.

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.