Page 5 of The Ripple Effect

If there are sing-alongs, I’m calling in sick.

Fronting the calm expanse of the river, five white canvas castles, practically big tops, rise on airy platforms of the same red cedar as the cookhouse stairs. Smart: clients want the river view, but not the groundwater seeping through the floor.

And there, at the river’s edge, a tall, broad figure looks out over the water toward the tree-lined mountains and decommissioned railway tracks on the opposite shore. On closer inspection, he’s standing in the river, quick-dry cargo pants rolled up to midshin.

It’s either a stirring portrait of Man in Nature or a dude who’s two horns and a helmet short of a viral Viking video series.

Orit’s my prospective boss and the man I’ve been dodging ever since the best, worst hookup of our times. The memory brings a sick flush to my cheeks. We were so goddamn good together, and so catastrophically bad. I’ve spoken to him twice since then—once at an improv show, once serving on a volunteer search crew. Both times, I vowed not to come near him ever again. Ayearlater the first sip of morning tea still tastes like him.

I want to turn around, put Honey’s pedal to the floor, and run back to the delivery job that pays almost enough to keepme in ramen noodles and out of student loan bankruptcy. Keep my head in the sand till the car I can’t afford to replace breaks down for the last time. Then I’ll finally have no viable job prospects in Grey Tusk’s bizarre economy, where the middle class is officially missing.

I’ll have to leave Grey Tusk and Liz. Lose the only two things I’ve managed to hold on to during the total implosion of my life.

I’m angry even thinking about it, but better fuming than frightened. When I worked in the emergency department of Grey Tusk General Hospital, getting mad made me smarter and stronger. There’s nothing like a burst of furious last-ditch CPR interspersed with yelling to revive a stubbornly arrested heart, or a heartfelt curse to finally pop an IV into an elusive vein. Anger makes you want to throw things, and problems need you to throw things at them, so they pair well.

But there are no solutions to throw at my finances, except one. It means a whole summer next to McHuge, who I usually try not to come within talking distance of. Ten weeks of being a camp doctor, which puts a stethoscope-shaped rock in my stomach.

I assess the soft deep sand leading to the shore, then pull off one oxford at a time and balance them on a log with my socks tucked inside. McHuge is already a piece of grit in my metaphorical shoe, rubbing me wrong with every step. No need to add real sand to the equation, too.

He turns around before he could possibly have heard my foot-steps over the rush of water.

Still using his psychic powers for evil, I see.

I stagger awkwardly across thirty feet of loose sand while the two of us don’t speak to each other, as usual.

An olive-green T-shirt with a gooftastic cartoon of a bearportaging a canoe—carrying the boat over his head, in canoe-speak—stretches across his generous pecs, barely hugging the little bit of softness at his stomach.

“Stellar.”

“McHuge.”

This is our first conversation in a year, so obviously I war-gamed it on the drive here. I plan to give back exactly what he gives me. One-name greeting? Check.

“Thanks for coming out. Kind of an unconventional spot for a job interview, but I like it.” He scrunches his bare toes into the riverbed. “Join me?”

Argh.He walked into the water; now I have to, too. He defeated my give-what-I-get strategy on hissecond move. Forget canoes; McHuge should take up chess.

“Love to.” I roll up my pants as far as I can. Creases are better than splashes or mud.

The water’s ankle deep, pale aqua, and freezing. In the tender late-afternoon light, his eyes are the color of a sunbeam hitting the waters of the North Pacific, every hue of green touched with drops of gold identical to the freckles dusted over his cheeks, arms, and knees, perfectly clear until suddenly a trick of the light hides what’s underneath. His ginger hair flames extravagantly next to the darker shade of his beard.

I don’t like his face. I especially resent the one deep auburn lock that’s escaped the elastic to curl across his temple, ugh. And I hate how my body softens when I step closer, as if he’s not the most dangerous mistake I could make. Orremake, technically.

Busy disliking everything about him, I forget to watch my step. My left heel hits a flat, slippery rock and shoots out in front of me. I pitch sideways toward McHuge and a million gallons of pure, clean, icy meltwater.

I’m closing my eyes against the cold that’s about to shock my face when my suspenders tighten against my chest. Gravity ceases to exist.

After a careful breath, I open one eye. McHuge does indeed have the back straps of my suspenders and a generous handful of my shirt gripped in one gigantic fist, like I’m a toddler intent on running into the street.

“You good?” he asks evenly, setting me on my feet.

“I’m fine.” I consider throwing myself into the river. “Thanks for the lift. You may want to move that rock at some point.” I turn away to tug my shirt into place, closing the string of gaps that popped into existence between the buttons. I’m starting to think this was a bad idea.

“You sure? Your aura is very dark right now.” He bobbles his head side to side. “Darker than usual, anyway.”

“I look good in black,” I say flatly, turning to face the opposite bank. We can talk without staring into each other’s eyes.

He nods. “Did Liz explain what we’re looking for, or do you want me to go over it?”