Page 42 of The Ripple Effect

We stand there, the sounds of wind and river and a rise of laughter from the clearing coming and going. He looks down, and I look up, and something hovers shimmering between us. He’s still got a hand wrapped around the square metal rail of the trailer. With one quick move, he could bracket me in. The idea puts a shiver between my shoulder blades.

“Do you…” I clear my throat. “I thought you wanted to kiss me now?”

“I’m not kissing you, Stellar,” he says, voice rough. “We’ve done that before, and you sneaked out of my house without waking me up or leaving a note. You didn’t answer any of my texts. I was worried I hurt you. Or scared you.”

I let myself scoff a little. “You couldn’t hurt me, Lyle. And I don’t scare easily.”

Am I sure, though? Didn’t I imagine him giving everything away, unable to hold on to anything, not even me? When I imagined him letting me go, was I so scared I decided to lethimgo, instead?

It was nice having a safe little fantasy that he had feelings for me, and never having to find out whether he’d keep me in real life. It was nice thinking I had something, without ever having to risk anything for it.

His breath comes out in a rush. “And how was I supposed to know that? People get nervous around me; it happens. Or maybe you didn’t want to tell me I wasn’t gentle enough when…”

I want to run my thumbs over his cheeks where they’re stained crimson. No—I want to fit my cheeks to his andfeelthe heat of whatever he didn’t say. But unless he bends down, I can’t physically do that, so I touch one hand to his chest, right where my cheek would land if I stepped forward and leaned in.

His black T-shirt is soft under my hand. It’s faded at the neck and sleeves where his life jacket doesn’t block the sun; there’s a fingernail-sized raised circle at his neck where his peace sign must lie. Under a decal of green cedars framing a night sky, my fingertips find the good hardness of his chest, the shift of cotton against his skin, the subtle change in tension as my hand lands, and stays.

“I wasn’t hurt.” Not in my body, anyway. “But if you don’t want to do this, we won’t. We’ll figure out something else.”

“I didn’t say I don’t want to.” His voice drops to a deeper hush, vibrating against my fingertips. Vocal fremitus, it’s called—the vibrations you feel through someone’s chest. I was taught to diagnose what’s underneath: liquid, solid, air? He is in every way solid, if these vibrations mean anything. I can’t imagine someone steadier than him.

My heart jumps against my ribs, a hundred beats perminute. Maybe faster. Sloane described kissing as something choreographed and unemotional, but if it were, I wouldn’t feel so scared with every second it doesn’t happen. I wouldn’t want him to lean into me and wrap me up until I could breathe again.

He looks at the ground, eyes obscured by ginger-gold lashes. “When someone walks away, I don’t chase. It’s not somethingI”—he gestures at himself like he’s Frankenstein—“can do and still be the person I want to be. So even if it’s not real, this needs to come from you.”

“Right.” I ghosted him then, so if he makes the first move now, the balance sheet will be all off. That’s why he couldn’t propose. That’s why he can’t kiss me. It makes perfect sense.

Except how am I supposed to kiss him if he doesn’t help me? I can’t reach his face way up there. He has the power to equalize us physically; I don’t.

Restlessness rises up my chest and over my back like high water. Even though it’s the end of a long, physical day, the urge to run grips me like a fist. I have to get this over withimmediately. We’ll probably be terrible together, which will be good, actually. Then we’ll never have to think of kissing ever again. We can find something else to convince the clients we’re in love. I don’t know what, but I can work the problem.

“This way,” I say, stalking toward the log where Willow’s hat still sits. She’s probably forgotten it’s here. No one will see this ridiculous display, and that’s for the best, too.

I scramble up the log’s fourteen-inch girth. “Now we’re equal,” I say, taking him by the shoulders.

I pull him in fast and lay one on him, framing his face with my hands to hide the fact that we have no idea how to act like we’re in love.

His body stiffens, arms held slightly away from his sides. His lips are closed hard, like he’s dry-kissing his grandma.

This is a disaster.

I grab his elbows, bringing his hands around my back in a way I hope looks sexy. His stiff limbs poke me in all the wrong ways.

“This is like kissing a frozen steak,” I mutter. “Relax your mouth, please.”

“Iamrelaxed,” he grits out, teeth clicking against mine. “What, am I supposed to use tongue in front of the guests?”

“It might help!”

“Fine.”

He goes soft, and the world tilts.

No, that’s not right. It’s not the world tilting, it’s me, dizzy with this unexpected pleasure all light and fizzy on my lips, rising straight up to my brain. There’s an art to the way he follows when I move, giving us power and momentum while I steer. His mouth is firm and sweet, his tongue like a surging forward stroke, clean and unhurried.

He knows how to move in tandem, I realize. He paddles like he’s dancing with the boat, and he kisses like he’s dancing with me.

The breeze shifts, and I’m caught in a riptide of the sharp scent of cedar and sun-warmed skin. I’m swamped, hit broadside by a rogue wave.

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