Page 67 of The Ripple Effect

The Love Boat is precarious, whether Lyle and I hold on to each other or not. Everything ends, sooner or later.

We can’t waste any of the time we have.

“What if some things can’t wait?” I purse my lips and direct a stream of breath due south. Under my breastbone, there’s a satisfying twitch.

He comes up onto his elbows, still-damp hair in wild ginger coils, the bulk of his shoulders giving way to sharply corded stretches of arm, freckled on the outside, pale and secret on the inside. “I’m thirty-four, Stellar. Hardly eighteen anymore.”

“When do you think you’ll be eighteen again?”

“Hmmm, fifteen minutes?”

“What will we do until then?”

He hauls me up his body, flips us over, and slides down untilhisface is onmystomach. He grins up at me, a thrilling touch of wickedness glinting from his teeth. “I have a few ideas to bounce off you.”

Chapter Nineteen

Morning light arrives reluctantly on the first day of We’ve Got This—the last phase before the capstone trip. The cloud cover is dense and low, the light drizzle nothing too unusual for a coastal rainforest. The river, on the other hand, is high and moody. Familiar surface-level sieves of rocks have turned into brand-new underwater hazards. Beneath my hiking boots, the ground squishes, the spongy forest floor saturated after yesterday’s downpour.

Sloane looks stiff with the drop in barometric pressure. She, Lori, and Mitch sit together at breakfast, joking about weather-predicting joints.

Jasvinder’s breakfast was the only reason anyone got out of bed. He’s hooked up a waffle iron to the solar-powered battery and is doling out top-shelf morning calories: delightfully fancy yeasted Belgian waffles topped with a savory combination of shaved ham, poached eggs, and a generous ladle of silky, shiny hollandaise or a sweet-tart pairing of dark chocolate curls, whipped cream, and supremes of yuzu.

Lyle ambles to the front for morning announcements. Itfeels different today when I position myself by his side, my head not quite reaching his shoulder. I’m not sure if he’s consciously shifted his weight to make a space along his ribs I could tuck myself into if I dared.

I don’t quite dare, but I consider it long enough that when I turn to face the room, Sloane’s eyebrows arch with surprise. She and I haven’t yet had a sisterly chat, given that we spent most of yesterday waiting for Fisher to get out of our way while singing “The Quartermaster’s Store.” My favorite verse was Sloane’sThere was Brent, Brent, who we tried hard to prevent.

Lyle clears his throat. “As expected, the river is very high today, with a big pushy current and unfamiliar hazards. Stellar and I have decided to postpone paddling until the water’s friendli—”

“We can handle it,” Brent interrupts. Willow pushes back her chair, grabs her plate, and heads to the fresh fruit station; he doesn’t seem to notice. “We have six days of experience, andmyguidebooks describe the rapids at all water levels.”

“Guidebooks can’t cover everything. Trees fall. Rocks roll downstream.” Lyle speaks affably enough, but after last night I’ve discovered a new ability to diagnose tiny changes in his body language. His hipshot posture fractionally straightens, his shoulders pulling back and down: he’s not happy.

“We’ll inspect the rapids,” Brent argues, frowning as Willow finishes loading her plate and walks to a different table. “I don’t get the problem.”

“I can see that,” Lyle says, a snap in his voice like an elastic band hitting its breaking point. It’s more surprising than scary, but the guests’ eyes widen. Lyle flushes a deep crimson, flicking his eyes at me in the signal to jump in.

“What Lyle means is this is arelationshipcourse, not awhitewater course. Even if we could meet our safety standards on the water today, we’d get caught up in technical elements of paddling and lose the opportunity to work on our partnerships. So we’re heading for dry land. Dryish, anyway.” Lyle’s field journal has a whole section devoted to local places, events, and challenges the Love Boat can turn to when bad weather pushes us off the water.

“Pack your phones and lots of lunch. If you need to charge your devices, plug them into the solar battery now. We’ll do a shorter yoga practice this morning, then meet up in the parking lot for a mystery road trip.”

The clients bus their dishes and exit the pavilion more quietly than usual.

Lyle turns to me, uncertain. “Did I go too far with Brent?”

“No. You sounded a little sharp, maybe, but no one died. It’s a low bar, but you cleared it,” I say, deploying one of my favorite dark medical jokes.

“Be serious.” He presses his lips together. “People get frightened when I’m angry. Situations can spiral fast.”

“You’re fine.” I rub his arms briskly, but not without care. “Our problem child pushed it too far, and Dad got snippy for one second. You’re human, and Brent has thick skin. Come here,” I say when his mouth stays unhappy, pulling him down for a quick kiss at each corner of his lips. “It’s very hot when you stand up for safety,” I whisper.

His mouth turns upward where I kissed him. “You think so?”

“Oh, absolutely. The rain’s stopped—I’ll deal with the breakfast cleanup if you want the outdoor chores.”

I’m halfway to the cookhouse with a tub of dishes when Trevor trots up, flashing a cute smile to go with his nice haircut and good skin. Of all the guests, I’ve gotten to know Trevor the least, and Petra is a close second. It’s easy to bond with outgoing people like Lori and Mitch, and we have to keep a close eye on troublemakers like Brent whether we like them or not. But Petra and Trevor don’t make friends and don’t make waves. When others are chatting around the campfire, they prefer to go paddling or take an evening stroll. Maybe I should’ve worked harder to draw them into the group.

“Hey, Stellar. I was wondering where we’re going today.”

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