Page 37 of The Ripple Effect

I like that smile. Yes, I do, and I should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve realized last night or this morning or half a week ago that summer would be long, and I’d need to force my brain to remember—and convince my body to forget—that I’ve already been down this road with him.

But none of my vital organs are cooperating. I have to clench my thighs against the memory of moments when it seemed like the real him peeked through—when wild power surged behind his kiss, dangerous and past the edge of control, making him growl and yank me close before he remembered he was supposed to be giving.

I need to firm myself up on the inside. I want a heart that won’t scuff after meeting a steel-toe boot, not one soft enough to hold an impression of Lyle’s fingerprint. It’s nice that we can laugh about the business, but it doesn’t have to mean anything deeper.

His winking smile fades into an expression of gentle invitation. “You should come salute the sun with us tomorrow. You might like it.”

“No, thanks. Running filters my personality. Makes everything less scary.”

“You’re not scary. You’re…”

“I’m begging you to not finish that sentence.” I don’t needhim to embarrass us both by fumbling for something nice to say. Besides, I like being scary. “I’m going to shower and change. Anything you want from the tent?”

We’ve figured out discreet ways to ask for privacy when guests may overhear us. Unfortunately, ginger skin is the least discreet organ system ever. Lyle’s face may be composed, but his pinkened neck tells me he’s involuntarily pictured walking in on me. And now I’ve accidentally imagined that scenario too. Fantastic.

“There is something, actually. If you see my field notes, can you stick them in my pack? I tidied up before campfire last night, and now I can’t find them.” He’s diligently keeping his stuff contained, though I told him I didn’t mind. His gear is like him—never quite neat, but never messy either, some perfect shade of clean yet tousled that pleases me to look at. It feels friendly, like I could let go of my rigid tidiness. Which I won’t.

But I could.

“I haven’t seen it, but I’ll keep an eye out.”

I’m about to leave when I remember the knots. How it felt to watch his fingers fly through twists and loops, how it untied my stomach to have him do something he didn’t care about at all because it was important tome.

I pivot back around. “I could help you look.”

Oddly, this doesn’t feel like I’m paying him back for the knots. It’s more like Ifeelhis frustration and anxiety.

He shakes his head. “You don’t have to.”

He said those words the night of our hookup. One second I was sunk in the deepest postorgasmic bliss I’d ever experienced, muttering, “Stop. I’ll fall asleep before I can do you,” as he stroked my hair.

The next, he was murmuring, “So fall asleep,” and that’s when I lost my damn mind.

My other partners had all understood the one-night assignment: a vaguely clinical exchange of I-do-this-to-you and you-do-that-to-me to establish that neither person was a selfish asshole only interested in their own good time. A touchhere, a redirection tothere, everyone’s pleasure dulled a little by the effort of paying attention. That’s how it was the first time with someone, which—except for my relationship with Jen—was my only time with someone.

With Lyle, it was exactly what I didn’t let myself want. He deflected all my attempts to please him, and I shouldn’t have liked it. I should have known better than to float on the high of his undivided attention, the languor mixed with desperate anticipation, the freedom to be wholly in my body. I touched him only because I wanted to, accepted the gift of not worrying about anyone’s pleasure but my own.

But when he tried to skip his turn, I popped up from his king-size mattress like a frenzied jill-in-the-box. That was a trap and it was absolutely fucking not happening. There would be no outstanding balance on my account at the end of this night.

“You don’t have to,” he said. In response, I practically barked orders at him: “Reach up. Hold the headboard. Don’t let go.”

It was hot, until it was over and I realized I’d done the same thing I did with Jen. Maybe Lyle was her polar opposite, but it didn’t matter—I was making a balance sheet with someone who didn’t understand give and take. Worse, his best friend was married to mine. An eternity of uncomfortable encounters at backyard barbecues loomed like a prison sentence.

I left him sleeping. Left his kind, confused texts on read. Double-checked the guest list on every Evite for a whole year. I made sure we were nowhere near each other at 11:59 on New Year’s Eve—or at any other time. I tried not to wonder if thepeople who came after me had heard,You don’t have to,and taken him up on it.

We’re not going to sleep together again. But if we’re going to work together for the summer, and if I’m going to own a piece of this company by fall, we can do better than giving only what we have to.

I take a step toward him. “Wouldn’t it be better if we searched together?”

“Mornings are busy. I should have been tidier, anyway. Go. Shower while there’s still time.”

He sounds as chill as ever, but I know he likes to write in his book the same way I like to run. If I couldn’t find my running shoes, I would lose my damn mind.

“I have time for this. Come on, Lyle.” I extend my hand. “Five minutes, then I’ll shower whether we’ve found it or not. You’ll feel better.”

I wait, knowing he’ll have trouble taking instead of giving, remembering how much he liked what I gave him with my hands and mouth after he said I didn’t have to.

Gingers aren’t the only people who blush around here, I guess.

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