Page 35 of The Ripple Effect

“I’m allowed to play roles other than psychologist, Stellar.” He steps between our beds, looking the tiniest bit pissed. “I’m allowed to be your friend. I’m allowed to be worried about you as a person. I see how hard it is on you to be this angry, never trusting anyone or anything.”

I step over my cot to where he’s standing in the relatively high-ceilinged center of the tent. “It’s easy for you to be perfect. I’m sureyou’renever angry. But whenI’mangry, that tells me to pay attention. It saves me. Sometimes you have to choose between being a nice person and protecting yourself.” My mom was never angry—not when I got held back in second grade after changing schools too many times, not when my dad’s irate marks pounded on our door in the middle of the night demanding their money back, not when we got run out of town. She never used the power of anger to protect herself. Or me.

McHuge reaches out, hesitates for a second, then cups my elbow. I don’t know how to describe the sensation except to say he’sgentlingme, like I’m a skittish thoroughbred and he’s thehorse whisperer, coaxing me close enough to smell the goodness of him: zinc and bergamot and mountain wind.

“I’m not a perfect person. I’ve made mistakes. I’ve been taken advantage of. But I’ve gotten more wins than losses from believing people are essentially good.”

When he lets go, I want him back.

“No one’s asking you to be perfect, Stellar. I’ve counseled a lot of doctors in the last five years; I know how hard it’s been for you since 2020. A lot of people let you down. But you can trust me. I won’t ignore problems because I’m afraid of a bad review from Brent. Or from any guest, for that matter.”

He’s being so kind, but instead of being happy and reassured, I feel tears push to the surface. “Can we get rid of him? Send him home with an apology and a gift card? I have a bad feeling about this, McHuge.” If Brent were a rapid, I’d portage around him. Too many hazards, no tongue of safe green water to get us to the outwash.

“I…” He exhales like the forest—trees shifting with a gust of wind, then settling again. “I don’t see how we can cancel his trip. But almost everyone responds to kindness. And I promise I will manage him.”

I sigh, hands on my hips, eyes on the orange floor. “He already has something bad to write about. We swam on thefirstday, McHuge. And it was my fault.” Outside, steps crunch past on the path. “Argh, someone’s up. We’re late with morning chores.”

“One bucket of water won’t make or break the session. I’ll get started; you get dressed.” He grabs a gigantic pair of wool socks and unzips the door. Sitting with his feet outside and butt inside, strapping on his frayed, well-loved pair of river sandals, McHuge looks up. “And a swim isn’t a failure. An expert can keep you from tipping, but sometimes people need to go in.”

Babe trots over with a low, pleasedwoof. McHuge gives her a good-morning ear rub, then stands, ducking a little to see inside the tent. “You’re still upset. With any other coworker, I’d bring it in for a hug. I don’t want to presume, but…” He cocks his head in invitation.

He hugs everyone at the Love Boat except me. Tobin, Sharon, even fussy Jasvinder, though our chef insists on taking a few moments to prepare himself first.

Minutes after he cupped it, my elbow still glows with calm; imagine what he could do to my wholebody. But I don’t know how to get from where I am to where he is. How do I let go of anger when it’s the only thing anchoring me?

We’ve been sharing a tent for fewer than twenty-four hours, and already I’m in danger of forgetting that his compulsion to give everything to everyone is the worst possible match for my desire—myneed—to keep things balanced. I could never relax and feel safe around him; I’d always worry he’d find someone who needed him more.

He straightens up, his head disappearing behind the triangular lines of the rain fly. “Cool. I won’t ask agai—”

My face is in his chest before he’s finished talking, my neck bent to lay my forehead and nose into the negative space between his pecs, my hands flat against his stomach. His body tightens in surprise, then softens, letting me press farther in.

It’s not a hug. He’s outside the tent; I’m inside. I don’t put my arms around him, and he doesn’t put his around me. But his hand comes to the back of my head to brush through the softening length of my undercut, gentle and deliberate. It feelsstupidgood, all tingles everywhere.

He’s altogether too skilled at fiancé touches—first the arm around the shoulder, now this. You can’t get this kind of contact from just anyone. It’srare.

My brain stops boiling like a patch of dangerous current. I want to stay here and think until things make sense.

I tried trusting people at the hospital, and ended up getting gaslighted and brushed off.

But McHuge isn’t brushing me off.Yellow flag, he said.I will manage him.And he does have a way of managing people. Including me. So if I’m going to start trusting things, maybe I can trust that.

“I wish we’d agreed to use nicknames for each other,” he says softly, fingers riffling through my hair. “If we had, I’d sayIt’ll be okay, Stellar J.” The way he says my name sounds different than it does in my head. It’s not sharp like a crust-stealing scavenger, but soft—a trill of birdsong.

“I already call you ‘McHuge,’” I mumble into his xiphoid process—the little knob of bone that sticks down from the bottom of the sternum. It’s a landmark for CPR. If you want to restart a heart, you find that bone first.

“You can call me Lyle, then.”

Startled, I take my face out of his chest. That night echoes between us, from his eyes to mine and back again:Call me Lyle.Time circles back to that breathless moment of possibility when we knew something would happen, but it hadn’t happened yet.

For a second, I don’t know what’s real between us.

“We would do this… for the guests?”

Under my hands, his body loses its softness. “Sure. For the guests.” His lips press tight. “I’d better get that water going.”

And then he’s gone.

For the rest of the second day of camp, I think about that moment, even when I’m yelling, “Set your angle of attack, power,power, let the current turn you. Yes! Don’t fight the river! Don’t fight the river”—then watching as boat after boat wobbles, tilts, and flips its frustrated occupants. I remember it when I’mstanding with my arm around my co-instructor, whose name I don’t use, because I don’t know what his name is anymore.

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