Page 19 of The Ripple Effect

“Are you coming in?”

“No,” I say. “We’re too tired for a slumber party. Give me your left hand.”

He holds it out, palm up. I put my hand in his and turn it over, taking the “will you marry me” handhold I was taught to use to look for veins. I’ve held thousands of hands this way. When I’m starting an IV, I always know what to say:Nice and still now. Relax the hand. Little poke—one, two, three, ouch! All done.

Tonight I have no idea what words to use. Even if I were good at easy intimacy, I’d still be shocked by the first touch of his broad palm against my own hand. Even if I weren’t avoiding his eyes, I’d still be preoccupied with the calluses below his fingers and the tiny, almost imperceptibly raised scars that tell the story of a life lived outdoors. His skin is as warm as Iremember from that night at the festival. He smells clean, like tea and toothpaste.

I touch the ring to his left fourth finger. He startles a little at the kiss of cool steel.

“What—”

“Don’t freak out. It’s from Costco.”Damn it. “I mean, I know our conversation this afternoon was weird. We kind of argued. A little. No one wants their engagement to be like that, no matter why you’re doing it. So I thought we could… try again?” I don’t slide the ring on. I’m not sure what I’m waiting for, but I’ll know it when I see it.

“You got me a ring?” He looks at the black steel band, then up at me. His face is a collection of inscrutable lines in the twilight, everything straight where it’s usually curved, still where it’s usually mobile.

“Yeah. I picked a rounded profile, so it wouldn’t catch on things. Smooth, like a river stone. It reminded me of you, I guess.” I shrug. “You want a relationship story, so… this could be ours.”

“This could be ours,” he repeats.

“Yeah. I asked you to marry me, you lost your cool—”

“Stellar.”

“You did, though,” I argue. “You know I’m right. You went off and thought about it for a while, you came back, I gave you this ring. And when I did, you knew we could pull it off. Because wecanpull this off, Lyle.” And if we do, I get to keep everything I’ve been afraid to lose. No hard choices, no slow friendship fades.

He uncurls his fingers. I only have to wiggle the ring over his knuckle a little bit, then it slides home, clasping him like it’s made-to-measure.

I didn’t expect this moment to have such weight. I didn’t expect our eyes to pop and lock, and lock, and lock.

It’s too much. “Screw that sales guy who didn’t think I could eyeball the size,” I announce, sweeping the mood away like it’s good weather and I’m La Niña. “That ring is perfect.”

“Yeah,” McHuge agrees, his face carefully blank. He tugs his hand out of mine, and the moment ends.

I was right about one more thing: I lie awake for hours afterward, replaying his hand sliding away from me.

Chapter Five

Morning on the Pendle River is so beautiful I can almost forget my launch day nerves.

A gold rush of sun sparkles off the water where the barest morning breeze strokes it to life. A stone’s throw from shore, a pair of loons dive for fish, their sleek bodies curling under the surface, then popping up in unpredictable places a minute later.

The air is hypersaturated with scents and sounds, so full it can hardly hold them all: cedar, damp earth, liquid birdsong. Every winged dinosaur in the valley is staking out a musical claim to a mate and a nest, the trees full of flashing wings in black and brown and white, green and violet and red.

I’m no expert, but I can identify chickadee calls and the gurgle of baby crows hidden high in a cedar treetop. And Steller’s jays of course—everyone points those out when you’re named Stellar J Byrd. Bold and pretty with their stiff black crest and lightning-blue plumage, they’re smart enough to steal a chunk of your sandwich if you’re not careful.

Unless you’re McHuge, in which case you would give the birds your lunch and go without.

As if to prove my point, McHuge leans to his right, reaching out one long arm with a handful of apple slices. He spends some time arranging them on the stool two seats away from where he’s sitting. When he’s satisfied, he turns back to his breakfast bites—hammy, eggy, creamy little mouthfuls wrapped in golden pastry that I can’t get enough of. It’s been a while since I’ve had an obsession with a new food—the kind where every time I taste it, it’s just as good as the first crispy, buttery, shockingly satisfying bite. I’ve got a huge crush on these things.

I’ve long since polished off mine, but McHuge still has two left. I’d steal them if Jasvinder didn’t make McHuge’s with mushrooms.

“Did you make ahappy facewith your—”

He only has to look my way, grinning, and I fall silent. He doesn’t smile much, I realize with a burst of surprise. Or maybe he doesn’t smilethisway. Like he’s truly happy, instead of trying to give you something. The microcurl at one corner of his lips holds a hint of mischief and excitement that’s almost boyish, despite the fact that he’s six feet one million with a beard straight out ofGame of Thrones.

Sure enough, thirty seconds later, the raven he’s been befriending drops down at the edge of the clearing, tilting its head before cockily hopping closer. The dog raises one eyebrow, then the other, but her chin stays on the ground.

McHuge sits still, body loose, stealing sideways glances from under his lashes. He could physically take anything from anyone in this clearing, but what he wants is to style fruit into an emoji this bird can’t even read.

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