Page 18 of The Ripple Effect

“I was startled!”

He sighs. “You wouldn’t have been so startled if your body recognized mine.”

I plaster both hands to my forehead and keep my mouth shut. I can think of at least five ways to respond to that statement, all of them far too revealing. “Fine. We can do chores together over the weekend. I’m sure the startle reflex will settle down after we throw some accidental elbows while raking. What else?”

“We should talk about… touching.” I feel the solar storm of his blush from here.

“Easy. We won’t be doing that.” I know the engagement was my idea, but I draw the line at making out. That’s basic preventative medicine.

“I think we have to. We supposedly had a whirlwind romance. People will expect an occasional peck on the lips, minimum.”

“Apeck? No one sayspeck, McHuge. Were you born a hundred years ago?” Although if hewerean immortal time traveler, his Summer of Love vocabulary would make perfect sense.

His sigh sounds like he’s let his head fall back in aggravation. I really do bring out the best in him. “Isay peck. And we should peck, or people will get suspicious.”

I think of his lips, soft against mine. His eyes at close range, like a pair of chemical weapons. “No, thank you. You can… you can put your arm around me and leave it there. That’s a love thing.”

“I put my arm around a lot of people.”

“Andleave it there,” I say crossly. “I’ve seen you put your arm around Tobin for five seconds. Liz, maybe a little longer. Leaving it there for like a minute? That’s a love thing.”

Silence falls, and I realize I just told McHuge I’ve watched how long he puts his arm around people.

He clears his throat. “Last thing. We need a relationship story. People will be curious about our history.”

I’d rather not talk about my history. People claim they won’t judge you by your past, but if that were true, they’d look at your actions and keep their questions to themselves. My past is a knife, the kind of thing you don’t hand to just anybody—as I learned the day I left Grey Tusk General, when my department chief said he guessed my apple didn’t fall far from my dad’s tree.

“You’re an improv comedy teacher. You can improvise,” I point out, very reasonably, in my opinion.

“Yes, and you and I could end up telling two different stories.”

“Couples tell separate versions of the same story all the time. That’s why they come to relationship camp.”

“Brand-new couples are notsupposedto need relationship camp. We’re supposed to be—”

All over each other, my imagination supplies when he breaks off.

“So we tell them the truth. Or a version of it. You and I had a thing last year, but the timing wasn’t right. We ran into each other through mutual friends, one thing led to another, yada yada, I asked you to marry me.”

I’m worried about the drawstring bag. It could easily fall to the bottom of my backpack. I’m not 100 percent certain where it is, now that I think of it. I should make sure it’s not lost. It was only sixty dollars, but I’m not made of money.

I unzip my sleeping bag, flick on the solar lamp, and rummage in my pack. My hand finds the stiff, cheap felt bag exactly where I left it. I open it and shake my gift into my palm.

“Everything good?”

“You’re worried about believability, and I have something for that. I’m coming over. You decent?”

“What?!” Hurried rustling comes from his tent.

“You’d better not tell me you sleep in the nude, McHuge.” Although he didn’t wear anything when he was with me last year.

Get your mind out of the gutter, Byrd.

“I’m putting on a shirt, give me a minute.”

“No need to get specific.” I unzip my door and shove my feet halfway into my boots. Babe lifts her head as I cross the ground between my tent and his. It’s late, but I don’t need a flashlight; the sun never fully sets at this time of year this far north.

By the time I’m at his door, he’s got it unzipped. Behind him, the solar lantern illuminates details I’ve been careful not to notice before tonight: dark-green sleeping bag, extra long; vintage trekking backpack covered in pockets, most of them open; a shadowy pile of books in one corner.

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