Page 17 of The Ripple Effect

My chest felt crumpled, like trash. Sloane had a fierce mom, a career she was hoping to move to the big screen, and a deep desire to avoid any connection with her bio-dad. I, on the other hand, had a sketchy past, an uncertain future, and a wardrobe from the supersale rack at the Gap. Of course she knew I needed her to give me things, and I had nothing to give in return.

A couple of months later, Sloane sent a message to my university email address. There’d been a mix-up; could I give her my new number to call? When I sent a briefreply—thanks, but no thanks—she was confused, then upset. She left me anemergency contact number to use “if ever you need anything, Stellar.”

She’d been right the first time, though. We had nothing to offer each other.

With my mom, I hadn’t needed enough; with Sloane, I’d needed too much. I learned two good lessons that summer.

“And?” The painful hope in McHuge’s voice brings me back to the present.

This is what loving a job does to you: it hurts you. It’s fine for me to like being here, like the work, even get along with McHuge, but I need to not get emotionally enmeshed.

“It was late Friday afternoon in New York. I’m hoping to hear back tomorrow.”

He heaves a slow sigh. It’s very que será, será. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Just looking out for my job.”

The sound of the river fills the silence. Babe grumbles softly from where she’s settled between our tents, snapping the air like she’s chasing a pesky insect.

“Is that all, McHuge?”

“We can leave the rest until morning, if you’re tired.”

“Tired” is not the word. Even if I hadn’t shoveled, raked, and hauled since sunup, today’s emotional roller coaster would have worn me out. But.

“I don’t like leaving work undone. Let’s do it now.”

He makes a soft, pleased rumble, like he was hoping I’d say that. “Okay. Good. I was thinking we should agree on what’s going to happen between us. And what’s not.”

“Draw all the lines you want.” And I’ll draw my own in return.

“I don’t want to pretend when we’re not in public. Anything we do, we do for the guests.”

“Fine with me,” I say.

“Good.”

His obvious relief offends me. I’m not a difficult person. I only argue over things that matter.

“I’ll tell Sharon about the engagement,” he offers when I don’t speak.

“I don’t think we should tell anyone.”

A note of anxiety colors his voice. “Do you think she’d tell us not to?”

“No. She’s pretty pragmatic, and she did tell us to do literally anything. But she might want plausible deniability if this goes wrong. Tobin, too.”

It feels serious now that we’re discussing potential downsides—like keeping secrets from Tobin. And Liz. I don’t always tell her what’s going on with me if the time isn’t right, but I’ve never withheld something that could affect her family finances before.

“So only you and I will know it’s fake,” he says.

“It’s notfake. People are allowed to get married for reasons that aren’t love. Companionship, finances, tradition, kids. Businesses. Any reason they want, except maybe immigration. If the couple says it’s real, it’s real.”

“Valid,” McHuge says, somewhat reluctantly. “But it does need to look like we at leastwantto get married. If we bump into each other in front of the guests, we can’t sprint in opposite directions.”

“That wasonetime.” I was working down by the shore and didn’t realize he’d joined me. His footsteps are light and sneaky for a man of his size.

“You ran into the river to get away from me, Stellar.”