Chapter 3 — Riverbend Connections
Cressida
The soft crunch of gravel beneath Cressida’s sneakers blended with the melodic murmur of the river as it wound its way through Riverbend Park. The early afternoon sun filtered through the canopy of trees, spreading warm, golden light across the path in dapples that danced with every breeze. The air carried the mingling scents of wildflowers, fresh grass, and damp earth, grounding her in the moment. Somewhere in the distance, children’s laughter rippled like a melody, punctuated by the occasional bark of a dog. It was the kind of day that demanded to be captured—not in the pristine precision of a photograph, but in the messy, unapologetic strokes of a canvas.
Cressida’s steps slowed as she approached the old wooden bridge spanning the river—a weathered sentinel of the park and a faithful refuge for her over the years. The beams, worn smooth by time and touch, bore the layered stories of countless visitors. Carvings and graffiti painted a tapestry of anonymous declarations: initials framed in hearts, bold statements of rebellion, and shapes etched by hands seeking permanence in fleeting moments. It was chaos in its purest form—perfectly imperfect.
Sliding her bag off her shoulder, she crouched beneath the bridge, where the air grew cooler and carried a faint trace of dampness. She let her fingers skim the carvings, their grooves familiar as old friends. Her gaze stopped on one in particular: a small heart encircling the initials “CV,” paired with an abstract swirl she’d carved into the wood when she was sixteen. Her fingers traced the uneven lines, riding the rhythm of her younger self’s uncertainty. That swirl had been an accident—a slip of the hand. At the time, she’d cursed it, but now it felt oddly fitting. Messy. Real. A clumsy attempt to leave her mark on a world that often felt too big to hold.
Cressida reached for her sketchpad, folding her legs comfortably beneath her. The carving’s imperfections called to her, their rough edges and accidental flourish worth recreating. As her pencil moved across the page, the memory of that night came flooding back: the ache of feeling invisible, the desire to leave something behind. Her hand paused on the paper. She glanced at the carving again, a bittersweet tug pulling at her chest. The swirl wasn’t just a mistake. It was a part of her, a testament to the raw, unpolished beauty of being human.
Her thoughts drifted, as they often did, to Evander Quinn. She wondered if he’d had time to stew over the painting she’d left at his clinic. The image of his sharp blue eyes narrowing behind his glasses, his jaw tightening in restrained disapproval, made her smile faintly. There was something endlessly entertaining about shaking up his perfectly ordered world. She wasn’t sure why provoking him felt so rewarding—maybe it was the way he bristled at chaos, or maybe it was the glimpse of something deeper she thought she’d seen beneath his polished exterior.
A soft rustle of footsteps on gravel pulled her from her thoughts. She looked up, expecting to see a jogger or a family passing by, but instead, she saw Evander himself. Silhouetted against the flickering sunlight, he moved with deliberate steps, his lean frame perfectly composed even in the casual light-gray sweater and dark slacks that somehow looked as though they’d been ironed by the breeze. His presence struck her as both startling and oddly inevitable.
“Dr. Quinn,” she called, her voice lilting with teasing warmth as her fingers stilled against the wood. “Didn’t take you for the nature-loving type.”
Evander stopped mid-step, clearly startled. His gaze swept the graffiti-streaked underside of the bridge, his lips pressing into a faintly disapproving line. For a moment, it looked as though he might turn and leave, but then he adjusted his glasses, inclining his head with polite precision. “Miss Vaughn,” he said evenly. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Likewise,” she said, slipping her pencil behind her ear as she straightened. “Let me guess: you’re here to analyze the Fibonacci sequence in the wildflowers?”
His lips twitched—an almost smile. “Hardly,” he replied. “A colleague suggested it was a good place to... unwind.”
“And how’s that going for you?” she asked, her head tilting as she studied him.
He clasped his hands behind his back, his posture as composed as ever. “It’s... a work in progress.”
Her mouth quirked into a grin. “Well,” she said, gesturing to the space beside her, “you’re welcome to join me. Though I can’t promise it’ll help you unwind. My world’s a little messier than yours.”
He hesitated, his gaze flicking toward the graffiti-covered beams before returning to her. Slowly, with a kind of deliberation that felt almost ceremonial, he stepped closer and crouched beside her. His long legs folded with the care of someone trying not to disrupt the chaos around him. For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the murmur of the river and the occasional rustle of leaves.
“Do you come here often?” he asked, his voice calm but tentative.
“Whenever I need to reset,” she said, her gaze drifting back to the carvings. “This place... it’s like an old friend. Familiar, but always ready to surprise you. You?”
“This is my first visit,” he admitted, his tone almost self-effacing. “I suppose I’ve never made time for places like this.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” she said lightly. “You strike me as someone who color-codes his calendar down to the second.”
He glanced at her, a faint glimmer of amusement sparking in his blue eyes. “And you strike me as someone who considers ‘winging it’ a legitimate time-management strategy.”
She laughed, the sound bright and unguarded. “Touché, Dr. Quinn. Touché.”
His gaze shifted to the carvings, his expression softening as he studied their chaotic blend. “Did you create this one?” he asked, nodding toward the heart and swirl.
Cressida nodded, her fingers brushing the carving again. “A long time ago. It was... one of those nights, you know? When the world feels too big and you feel too small. I wanted to leave something behind. Something to say, ‘I was here.’”
Evander’s hand reached out, his fingers grazing the rough surface just beside hers. His touch stilled, as though absorbing the meaning in her words. “Did it help?”
“For a while,” she said, her voice quieter now. “But I’ve always been scared of permanence. I like chaos because it doesn’t last. It’s easy to walk away from. Permanence... that’s something else entirely.”
He frowned slightly, his brows knitting as he withdrew his hand, clasping it neatly in his lap. “Even fleeting things can leave a mark,” he murmured. “Like this carving—it’s weathered and faded, but it’s still here. Part of this place now.”
Cressida blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected thoughtfulness in his reply. “You’re full of surprises, Dr. Quinn.”
He met her gaze, and for the first time, she saw something unguarded in his expression—an undercurrent of vulnerability beneath the polished surface. “I suppose we all are.”
The moment lingered, the air between them charged with an unspoken understanding. Then, as though realizing he’d revealed more than he intended, Evander straightened, brushing the dirt from his hands with deliberate motions. “I should let you get back to your sketching,” he said.
“And you to your unwinding,” she replied, her voice teasing but soft. “Though next time, don’t be afraid to leave your own mark. Maybe a pocket watch etched into the bridge?”
His brow arched, his tone dry but faintly amused. “I think I’ll leave the graffiti to the professionals.”
As he turned to leave, Cressida watched him go, her sketchpad resting forgotten in her lap. Her fingers lingered on the carving, tracing its imperfect lines as her thoughts lingered on the man who had just walked away. Evander Quinn was an enigma—precise, reserved, yet carrying an undercurrent of something deeper, something waiting to be unraveled.
And she had every intention of unraveling it.
