Page 43 of The Ripple Effect

I turn my head to take more, sliding my thumbs beneath his ears and my fingers along his neck, seeking the hammer of his pulse under my palm. He’s so urgentlyaliveagainst me, his heartbeat vibrating into my mechanical ink. My stomach swoops like I’m falling, so I press my body to his steadiness and don’t stop, don’t stop. He’s holding us up, rescuing us, our mouths fused like I wished him into existence.

It’s exactly like it was a year ago in that I’m immediately starving, and nothing like it was a year ago in that nobody’swrestling for control. He’s not trying to give with no expectations, and I’m not fighting to give back what he gives me, no more and no less.

This time, both of us know he’s going to take, and I’m going to take charge. The thought brings a tingling heat to my skin. He makes a sound—half low hum, half sharp exhalation—at the feel of my teeth on his lip. He’s so warm under his shirt, and hot, and hard, and soft. His arms turn from pointy Ken-doll appendages to living muscle, hooking up my back and over my shoulders, pulling me in and under like we’ve slipped below the waterline where civilization ceases to exist.

“Oh! Oh, excuse me, I’m so sorry!”

Our eyes fly open. Willow. The hat.

My heart is booming, the big hard slams visible through my shirt. I’m breathing fast. If I saw myself in the ER, I’d put myself on oxygen and order a dozen tests, because I am not well.

“I forgot my—Never mind, I see it. Sorry!” Willow stammers, snatching her hat with a swish and scampering away.

Lyle has the presence of mind to let go slowly. I forget how Sloane said we should break apart—something something lingering look, maybe?

Sloane’s all about how things should end. But this doesn’t feel like an ending at all. The two of us stare at each other as our arms come back to our own bodies. It’s like we broke the seal on something, and now we have to buy it.

“Willthatdo it?” There’s a waver in Lyle’s voice like this kiss nearly killed him, too. It occurs to me that he has an acting background, if you count improv comedy. He could probably pretend he’s okay when he’s not.

But me? I’m not okay at all, and I’m sure he knows it.

Chapter Twelve

Everything bothers me this morning.

For one, yesterday’s kiss was a huge fail. Yes, Willow saw Lyle and me all entwined and losing our heads, but for the rest of the evening, everyone else saw us passing dipping sauces for Jasvinder’s spring rolls without letting our fingers touch. I can’t blame Lyle for keeping his distance. I forgot everything Sloane said and basically tried to eat his soul like a mythical night-traveling monster.

For two, it’s the fourth day of the course, which is the day I always get grumpy and homesick on an expedition. I get past it in a couple of days, and by the end I never want to leave. But today, adventure is outweighed by the desire to sleep in my own bed, alone, instead of a too-small tent where Lyle’s absence pushes against my edges almost as much as his presence.

Last night, he caught me reading his copy ofMeditations. I picked it up after evening chores, mostly because it had migrated underneath my cot, but then I started hearing Marcus Aurelius’s words in Lyle’s voice and I didn’t want to stop. Whenhe came in I pretended I was only reading to pass the time, but I’m no good at acting and we both know it.

I lay awake for a long time, keenly aware of a particular lack of privacy I hadn’t thought much about before I kissed him. I kept thinking about his lower lip, for some reason—how I’d thought it would be soft, but it had been so firm. Biting was definitely not in Sloane’s Hollywood kissing manual, but the memory—my teeth, his mouth, the rush of his breath when I’d taken his lip and held it not quite tightly enough to hurt—lit my skin from the inside.

And I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Not in a rustling nylon sleeping bag an arm’s length from the sounds of Lyle’s 100 percent awake breathing pattern.

Morning chores couldn’t help but be weird after a night like that. It’s almost impossible to keep secrets in camp, which makes me worry about who else has figured out mine. Ours.

For example, Petra and Trevor go for a private paddle every night, looking giggly and excited. But when I brought hot water to the Rainforest Dome this morning, she opened the flap wide enough for me to see their beds were pushed as far apart as possible, like they’re coworkers sharing a hotel room.

I found a tin mug in the jumble of shoes outside Brent and Willow’s tent, the dregs of last night’s bedtime drink crusted inside. I instantly imagined Brent denying the mug was his, Willow looking down miserably and saying nothing, and me having to go for a long run. Lyle would have to have another word about food attracting hungry animals.

And when I stopped outside Lori and Mitch’s tent with a soft call of “Hot water,” Lori burst out of the tent bare-ass naked to prove my instinct about seeing her butt was right on. I advised her to cover up to avoid mosquito bites; she giggled while making sex faces at a mortified but still-smirking Mitch. They may be the only people in camp who are getting any.

And now, a short drive later, we’re at the launch point for the Rolling Stones, a rapid named for its long, straight, forceful series of standing waves, which can also be called a tongue. Never let it be said that paddlers don’t enjoy a vintage concert T-shirt and a good strong dad joke.

“Circle up, my siblings,” Lyle says, raising both hands above his head like he’s making himself big to frighten off a bear and managing to look more like a teddy bear. “Today we are ready to challenge ourselves in body and spirit! As we discussed last night at campfire, the Stones has the gnarliest waves we’ve ridden so far. More hazards, too. Don’t be fooled by the gentle outwash—unless you tuck into an eddy, the current will sweep you away from your friends.

“We’re looking to follow the tongue—smooth green water that’s usually heading where you want to go. The tongue can be mellow and gentle, but also exciting and unexpected, and even euphoric by the end.”

I’m going to die. How can hesaythings like that and not remember what he did with me—what we did with each other?

“Remember, there are no gold medals for coming first! Stay with your friends. Bring it in for a group cheer!” He sticks his hand into the center of the circle.

I nudge my shoulder into the tense gap that’s persisted between Brent and Willow since the tin mug talk went exactly as I predicted.

“This won’t be a problem for us,” Brent says, talking over my head like I’m not even there. At least he’s saying something nice to his wife.

He promptly ruins it with, “I’llget us through.”

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