Page 40 of The Ripple Effect

That strikes a fucking painful chord. My failed relationship, my failed career, and the friend I’m terrified to lose: apparently, Sloane has all those pain points, too.Stars: they’re just like us.

“I think you’d be a good sister,” she offers, her voice shaking as we bounce over a rocky section of road. “Loyal, judging by how long you can successfully hold a grudge, my little star.”

She earns a glare for calling me “little,” but she only grins. “Don’t you want to text each other on our implanted microchips in thirty years? I’ll bitch about my hip pain and how the lines around my mouth make me look like Dad. And you’ll say, ‘Shutup, I have the same lines.’” Her half-shouted “shutup” is very me.

I bark out a laugh. “So what’s the catch? We become friends or… what?”

“No catch.” She shrugs. “I’m not going to rage quit the course. Or tell everyone you’re faking your engagement.”

“What?!” The truck lurches as I reflexively tap the brakes in terror. “Why would you say that?”

“I’m anactor, Stellar. I know fake relationships, on-screen and off. But I won’t tell anyone. I won’t even tell McHuge you like him.”

“I don’tlikehim,” I snap, flushing when I realize I’ve fallen into her trap. “Because Ilovehim.” My voice goes strangled over the word “love.”

Sloane laughs. “Did you seriously think sleeping in the same tent was enough to fool anyone? Please tell me you have an exit strategy.”

I give up trying to maintain the pretense. “What do you mean, ‘exit strategy’?”

“If you’re fake dating, you either have to fake break up or you get found out. Usually the latter.”

Sloane’s forecast puts an icicle of fear right through my heart. Lyle and I can’t fake break up in thefirst session. And we absolutely cannot get found out—not with Brent in camp.

I peer through the Mystery Machine’s plume of dust. We’re a few minutes from the put-in spot—not much time.

“Say you couldn’t fake break up. How would you work that problem?”

Sloane considers. “I’d make people think there’s more to the relationship than they’ve seen.”

“And how do you do that?”

“Easiest way? Get caught kissing.”

Chapter Eleven

It’s impossible to steal a private moment with Lyle during the day. Every single guest wants to eat with him and paddle next to him and ask him a million questions. Especially Brent, who made a point of casually inquiring about our engagement in every conversation.

My chance finally comes during afternoon snack. By the time we paddled back to our beach, every couple but Mitch and Lori was somewhere on the spectrum between putting on a brave face and openly speculating about pushing each other’s beds out onto the highway. Now they’re drowning the day’s sorrows in Jasvinder’s lemon-ginger scones with vegan clotted cream and cranberry-cognac jam.

I corner Lyle in the parking lot, checking over my shoulder before whispering, “I’ve been waiting all day to get you alone.”

Lyle fumbles the canoe he’s racking, dropping the deck plate on his fingers.

“Shhhhhh—” he hisses, and for a second I think I’m finally about to hear him swear.

“—ooooooot.” He sticks one finger in his mouth, face creased in agony.

I throw my load of paddles into the trailer with a clatter and dart over, tugging at his elbow. “Spit that out!”

“A little dirt is good for you,” he mumbles, shoulders hunched with pain. “Natural.”

“You already eat enough dirt. And the human mouth is a hotbed of microbes.”

He draws in a sharp breath as I take his hand and palpate the finger as gently as I can. “Sore here?” I look up at his pinched expression. Fingers hurt more than anything, except maybe the heart.

“A little.” His voice is strained.

“How about here?” Eyes closed, he shakes his head. “Good. Skin’s not broken. No dislocation. No displaced fracture.” I flip his hand over, pleased.

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