Page 69 of The Ripple Effect

Aggressive huffing on the trail turns out to be Brent. He power walks up to us, looking over his shoulder. “Come on, Mitch! We can pass these guys. I want to catch Willow and Sloane.”

“Would you look at that. Another rock in my shoe.” Mitch makes a big deal of looking around for a log to sit on, then meticulously unlaces her hiking boot. Nothing falls out when she takes it off.

“Where are all these rocks coming from?” Brent kicks at the forest floor, which is 70 percent sticks and leaves, 20 percent moss, 10 percent fungi, and 0 percent rocks.

“I have diabetes,” Mitch lectures him. “I take my feet seriously.”

I cough into my sleeve to hide my smile. We leave them arguing over phantom rocks and head for the coordinates.

A few minutes later we spot Lori and Trevor standing in the middle of the trail. He points at his phone; she shakes her head. “I’ve done this dozens of times. I know what I’m doing,” she says. “Put the map back on your phone, and I’ll show you where we have to turn north. I mean west. I mean… you know what I mean.” Her pale blond hair frizzes out of the elastic on one side, where she keeps distractedly threading her fingers through it. A handprint-shaped smear of dirt and leaves decorates the front of her shirt, like she fell and wiped off her hand there. Her socks are wet past the ankle, no doubt from misjudging one of the deeper puddles.

“You two okay?” I put a steadying hand on Lori’s arm. “I have extra socks if you need some.”

“It’s fine,” Lori says, her voice wavering. “I just don’t seem to know quite where we are. His phone is never showing the map.”

A touch of impatience breaks through Trevor’s good humor. “ButIknow where we are. The map app uses a lot of batteries. I’d rather turn it off once in a while. Hey,” he says, looking between me and Petra. “You know what we could use? A tiebreaker vote. Petra, would you feel better if you joined us?” He throws me a meaningful look.

It could be a good idea to put Petra and Trevor together, especially if she feels like she can’t share her anxiety with me. I’d rather not have another disaster like the one at the Rolling Stones, before I knew about Sloane’s hip.

And god knows Lyle would endorse an enthusiastic threesome.

The new group sets off together, and I turn back toward the trailhead. Maybe I can mediate the situation with Brent and Mitch, which should be going critical right about now.

On my own, the forest feels different. I place my feet carefully on the way downhill, aware of the slippery leaves and wet unstable earth.

Slick bare mud gives beneath my right boot, shooting my foot out in front of me. I catch myself before my butt hits the ground, but down on my hands and heels, I see what I wouldn’t have otherwise: an arrow made of branches, pointing off the trail. Probably one of the other geocaching destinations—there are half a dozen waypoints hidden along the trail system.

Curiosity pulls me in the direction of the arrow. At a huge hollow cedar stump, another stick arrow points toward a break in the ancient wood big enough to step through.

Inside, the small dirt floor is level and swept. White letters tacked to the walls of the makeshift room readCACHE #4: WELCOME TO THE DANCE FLOOR.

Maybe it’s the secret beauty of this place, or maybe it’s me being neck-deep in sentimentality lately, but my chest tightens.

“Care to dance?”

I spin around to find Lyle leaning against one softened, aged edge of the doorway, arms crossed over hisWEST COAST BEST COASTT-shirt. Inside the tree, the wood matches his hair—dark where it’s wet, pale where the rain has missed it, like the sun-lightened golden red atop Lyle’s crown.

Last night hovers between us, delicate as breath. I remember his face softly smiling above me, below me, beside me, between my legs.

The intimacy of these deeply gnarled ancient walls hits me like the ocean at the bottom of a cliff jump. We could stream something old-fashioned and sweet. Billie Holiday or GlennMiller. The notes would blend with the wind in the trees, and we’d listen for the beat of our hearts to drop.

“We shouldn’t get distracted from the guests.” We have a week between courses; we could come back here on a nice day. Maybe eat lunch in Pendleton afterward. We could lie in the tent and dream up all kinds of things to do with the next batch of clients. We could bring them here, even.

Maybe this would be our special spot.

I haven’t imagined a future like this in so long. There was only a desperate self-replicating present, day after identical day of fury to cover up the fear. The future was aboutthings: money, safety, power, choices.

But my future could be about people. About courage.

I could dance.

He pushes off the doorway with his shoulder and strides toward me unrushed, eyes crinkled like he’s never been so happy to see anyone, even though he saw me not half an hour ago.

We’ve barely touched when the shrill of a safety whistle rips through our reverie.

“Ours,” I breathe. “That sounds like one of ours.”

His shocked, guilty gaze meets mine. “We shouldn’t have both been here,” he whispers, already turning to run.

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