Page 14 of The Ripple Effect

McHuge finally speaks. “What about the podcast?”

In exchange for six comped spots, Renee agreed to feature us on her video podcast, even if she didn’t bring McHuge into her psychology cool kids’ club. It isn’t the big prize, but it’s in Spotify’s top fifty podcasts. It would have helped. A lot.

Sharon’s tight jaw is answer enough. “Gone. The leak forced her hand. If she could have quietly sent her team, we’d have had a chance. But she can’t publicly tie herself to a questionable venture.”

McHuge looks up from his study of the firepit. “What does she want us to change? Anything she needs, we’ll give it to her.” Babe pushes her nose into his hand. He buries his fingers in her fur and absently tugs her ruff.

It’s been three hundred–plus days since someone tugged my hair, and the last person to do it is sitting across from me, his cheeks still pink, his eyes shadowed like a reflecting pool deep in the forest of a fantasy novel. At a moment like this, I didn’t expect the complicated shiver that works its way from the crown of my head to the base of my spine.

I’m envious of adog, for god’s sake. I pull the knot out of my shirt and tug it down over my stomach, suddenly caring what he sees.

Sharon shakes her head. “Our focus now is making sure the accusations from the hit piece don’t stick. Everything we can do to make the Love Boat look professional, aboveboard, windproof, waterproof—you name it, we make it happen. But…”

Sharon’s the type to plow ahead, not pause. Her hesitation fills me with dread, which unlocks the floodgates of fury.

“Rip off the Band-Aid,” I snap.

“Easy there, killer.” She gives me a quelling look. “But, we designed the camp around Renee. She wanted visual appeal and creature comforts, stuff that would look great and make good copy in her magazine. So we got a designer, splashedout on luxe tents, real beds, high-end meals from a trained chef. Our price point isn’t the accessible one we originally wanted, but we were willing to compromise in exchange for the reach we’d get with Renee. Not many people are willing to pay that price tag on a new venture without a celebrity endorsement, though. And a pulled endorsement is even worse. We’ve already had two canceled bookings from the second session and four from the third. Unless we can stem the tide, we’re looking at a midsummer shutdown. Maybe sooner.”

A hard, deep ache flares to life behind my breastbone. There must be a way through this problem.

“You can’t find any more funding for the first summer? I mean, don’t most new businesses run in the red for a while?” I’m uncomfortably close to pleading.

Sharon gives me a look so compassionate I tense, preparing to dodge a hug. “I love the Love Boat, too, but this is business. If the company isn’t viable, propping it up only delays the inevitable.”

Sharon’s wrong about me loving this project. I’m only upset because sympathy makes me feel horrible. I never come closer to crying than when someone’s being nice to me.

Crying never solved anything. And I have to solve this problem, or I lose everything.

Sharon rises from her log. “Why don’t we take the day. Let it simmer, reconvene on an as-needed basis. We still have a launch to prepare for,” she says, looking askance at McHuge’s messy pile of wood. “We’re not beaten yet, kids.”

For the rest of the morning, everyone acts like we’re beaten.

Jasvinder tucks his long, dark-brown hair into a tight knot and furiously rechops the wood even smaller, his tall, wiryclimber’s frame tight with disappointment. He was hoping to parlay his work here into a foothold in the insanely competitive Grey Tusk market; no doubt he’s wishing he backed a different horse.

McHuge hardly smiles when the raven he’s been taming comes to eat his apple core at lunch. Babe sticks close by, leaning into his leg at every opportunity.

Those two may not be able to see a difference in me, since my emotional baseline is smoldering rage, but I’m not fine, either.

If the Love Boat folds, I have nowhere to go. Literally. At this very moment, Br!an is probably lying on my couch, feet propped on the signed sublease agreement. I refuse to turn up on Liz’s doorstep—again—when she has a new frickin’baby. Any place I could rent on short notice would be insanely expensive, which is why Br!an was so eager to lock down my place.

This is the end of the road. It’s this job or moving someplace affordable and far away.

Liz and I would promise to keep in touch. She’d text me as much as she could, which might not be very much, if the past few days are any indication. We’d video chat weekly at first, then less often as time went on. She’d call other people to babysit or watch a rom-com or pick her up when she forgets to charge her car battery. She’ll pin someone else with that direct gaze and make a joke so dry it takes them a full five seconds to laugh.

It’s those little things that cement relationships together like a thousand tiny drops of glue. Without them, the bond can’t last.

By unspoken agreement, McHuge and I don’t go canoeing in the afternoon. I’m guessing he feels what I feel, that the way the camp looks suddenly matters more than ever.

At four o’clock, I finish sanding the log chairs and take a break to retrieve the afternoon snack Jasvinder left after he rechopped his kindling, unloaded his supplies, and headed back to town.

On my way to find McHuge, I take in the pale-gray afternoon sky screened with green boughs that whisper in the river breeze. The forest is alive with birdsong, still damp from last night’s rain.

It felt like I was catching my breath here. I was sleeping well for once after working my ass off all day, drifting off to the sound of McHuge turning pages in the tent next to mine. Sometimes he’d murmur through the nylon walls to Babe, who prefers curling up in a sheltered spot underneath McHuge’s rain fly to sleeping in the tent. The first night, I asked whether he was worried about bears, but he laughed and said both the bears and the dog were too smart to tangle with each other. I have to admit Babe is nothing if not sensible, which makes her dislike of me into a pretty stinging indictment of my character.

It actually seemed possible McHuge and I would get past the awkward, polite stage and maybe have a decent working relationship. I didn’t realize how much I missed talking to someone at work, beyond the brief, goal-oriented interactions with customers or food workers.

I like this job, surprisingly enough. And I love Liz. I love Pendleton. What would I do to protect the only things I let myself love?

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