Page 59 of The Ripple Effect
“Grunge, my ass. You owned theMillenniumalbum on cassetteandCD,” Willow retorts. “And remember whenSpiceworldgot stuck in your car stereo for three years and you never got sick of it?”
A flush creeps over the collar of Brent’s navy-blue polo shirt. For once, he has nothing to say.
Willow relents, her face softening. “‘I Want It That Way’ was your go-to lullaby the year Cayden had colic. I love that song.”
“I sang him ‘Seven Nation Army’ way more. No, Idid,” Brent insists. Does he really not understand why Willow’s face cycles through fury to a worrisome blankness? I’m no expert on love, but from what I’ve seen, the real damage in relationships doesn’t happen when people are merely angry with each other. It happens when they stop caring at all.
“Penalty first. Arguments later,” Lyle says, humming a note to get us started. When we’ve finished humiliating ourselves, he hands the birdie to Petra. “Pro tip: Try digging deeper for compliments. Beyond what you can see on the surface, what is there to like and admire about the people around you?”
Petra lobs the birdie over the net. It’s closer to Sloane, butshe doesn’t make a move—howdid I not notice the way she favors that hip?—and Mitch steps into the gap to send it back with a clean snap of her wrist, sand spinning under her feet.
“Mitch takes no shit!” Petra says, then slaps a hand over her mouth, flushing.
“Excellent, Petra,” Lyle calls. “Keep going!”
“Sloane looks better after losing 180 pounds of Dereck,” Mitch sings.
“I want Lori to be my mom,” Sloane says, and my heart squeezes for Sloane and her real mom.
It goes fine for a few turns, until Brent yodels, “Sloane may yet bring her career back from the dead!”
“Brent!” Willow snaps, snatching the birdie out of the air with one hand.
“What? It’s impressive.”
“Should I assign a penalty for delay of game?” Lyle muses, stroking his beard.
The chorus of “No!” is loud enough to echo off the mountainside.
The game restarts in a hurry, but I miss the birdie when Trevor bats it my way, because I’m still looking at Lyle. He created this opportunity for everyone to hear good things about themselves, and he looks happy with how the game is going, but I can’t shake the feeling he wants to play. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the man who gives far more than he gets invented a game where everyone ends up getting something good.
I pick up the bird, grab a spare racket from the bin, and walk over to Lyle. Dropping both in his lap, I say, “Your turn, McHuge.”
I use the name on purpose—not to be mean, but to call attention to the persona he wears when he denies himself allthe things he makes sure other people receive. All the things people need from the ones they love.
He turns the plastic feathers between his fingers, an unreadable expression on his face. “I’m not playing.”
“You are now,” I say. “Don’t make me assign a penalty for delay of game.”
Everyone needs love and praise. Everyone needs give and take. And I intend to see he gets them.
“Play, McHuge!” Lori calls. “Play! Play! Play!” she chants, until everyone joins in, cheering wildly when Lyle stands up, racket in hand.
“Lyle is kindandright. Most of the time,” I say, as he serves to Lori. He turns to me, so startled he doesn’t notice when Lori hits the birdie right back to his feet.
“When McHuge flips a canoe during a rescue, it’s so hot I almost wish I was straight!” Lori yells to general laughter, not waiting for him to serve.
Lyle’s cheeks blossom with telltale crimson, like a desert after rain. “Lori always speaks from the heart,” he manages, hitting the birdie to the other team.
Mitch hits it back to him. “McHuge makes impossible things possible,” she says, the tiniest quaver in her usually imperturbable tone.
Oh god, I think they’re both going to cry. Even my throat is tightening, seeing him clear his throat several times in a row.
By the time everyone’s had a turn complimenting Lyle, he’s totally undone, waving his arms and shouting, “Game’s over! Stop, stop. Take ten minutes for a bio break and meet at the firepit for debrief.”
On her way by, Sloane whacks me lightly on the ass with her racket. “Nice,” she says, sotto voce, tipping her chin at Lyle. “Very believable gambit. You learn quickly, grasshopper.”
“Grasshopper?! Go f—Uh, fix yourself up, and I’ll see you at the firepit.” Sloane laughs like a loon, perfectly aware I almost told an alleged client to go fuck herself. It’s not a phrase I’ve ever said in anger. I only use it with people who understand that I mean,I trust you to give back as good as you get.
