Page 7 of The Ripple Effect

His hands splay open in awelpgesture. “I can’t make a hiring decision without talking about our history, Stellar. It’s one thing for you to make sure I’m on the other side of the room before you walk under the mistletoe at Liz and Tobin’s holiday party. It’s something else entirely to expect the clients to notpick up on the two of us avoiding each other when we’re together twenty-four seven for ten days.”

Excuse me. Thetwoof us avoidingeach other?

My cheeks burn hot. Sure, I sometimes look at his texts when I feel lonely. Maybe I wanted to believe I had to stay away for his sake, not just mine. But I guess I’ve been making an ass of myself at every barbecue since last summer, keeping a backyard’s worth of people between us like he was a deadly allergen.

The vast wilderness feels too small now that I’m standing in it with this version of McHuge—the one who actually isn’t friends with everyone, because he clearly doesn’t want to be friends with me.

It’s for the best, but I’m furious with myself for not being smarter. If I weren’t wearing my good clothes, I’d run this feeling away: crank up the pace until my brain went silent and there was nothing but the sawing of breath in and out of my chest.

His fingers twitch. If he’s considering reaching out to me, he thinks better of it. “If you can move past that, I don’t need to look for another candidate. You’re bright, you work hard, and you’re one of the most loyal people I’ve ever met, if your friendship with Liz is anything to go by. You’re the right person for the job.”

I can hear him holding back the words “on paper.” I’m not the person I was when I pushed his front door shut and tugged on his belt loop that fateful night, thinking I could handle myself. And I’m not the person he thinks I am now. He’s still wrong for me, and I’m wrong for everybody. And we both know it.

“When do you need to know by?”

“As soon as possible. Extra hands would be great to have this week, before launch. And Tobin wants to start his paternity leave at least a week before Liz’s due date.”

So, two weeks. He has time to find somebody else.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, pivoting toward shore.

“Do that,” he says, but he can read my thoughts, and he knows I turned him down.

I intend not to look back, but the deep, effortful sound he makes pulls my head around in time to see him pry the slippery rock from under the water and shot-put it a ridiculous distance into the river. It’s sizable, maybe twenty pounds, and it doesn’t take long before the waves from its impact are tugging the sand from beneath my feet, unbalancing me like the aftershocks from the night of the festival.

I practically run out of the water, clean clothes be damned. The closer the two of us are, the stronger this ripple effect gets, undermining us both. The only solution is to stay far, far away, where the waves he makes can’t reach me.

Halfway down the dirt road, my phone dings with missed notifications. I pull over by a fallen tree to catch up. It’s Liz.

Are you at the Love Boat?

Contractions 6 minutes apart. 37 weeks isn’t premature right? Googling

We’re going in! Baby tonight (I hope)

Shit.I’m half an hour away and Liz needs me. I push my speed as high as Honey’s chassis can take on this rocky road and hope I haven’t missed the biggest moment of her life.

Chapter Two

The next morning is one of those crystalline mountain days, the self-indulgent early-summer beauty capped by an unlimited supply of blue that glows with a layered indigo brilliance you’ll never see in the shallow watercolor coastal skies. The fresh, damp wind feels good on my skin as I run down Liz’s street, slowing to a walk for the last block.

Pendleton is an Austrian postcard of a town. Fields swirl with tender green shoots that tremble and flip in the breeze, showing their pale-green underskirts. Perched above the river, farmhouses flaunt red shutters with heart-shaped cutouts and massive window boxes spilling bright blooms, their natural-stained wood balconies popping against whitewashed walls.

I like Pendleton. It’s cute and quirky and quiet, and too far from the hospital for me to run into my old colleagues.

I take the steps of Liz’s gabled cottage two at a time, punch the doorbell, and let myself in. “Helloooo! Everybody still pregnant?”

I was almost to Grey Tusk last night when Liz texted again:False alarm. They shamed us and sent us home. But everything feels so REAL all of a sudden. Baby’s room not ready at all

Liz appears in the kitchen doorway sporting heather-gray maternity leggings, fuzzy slippers over her swollen feet, and a french-blue top that sets off the cinnamon tones in her brown hair. “Too soon,” she says flatly, frowning at my running clothes. “Honey wouldn’t start again? I could have picked you up.”

“Meh, I needed to put in some distance.”

She meets my gaze for a moment—an extra-long moment for Liz. She’s not the biggest fan of eye contact, but she does it for special people. “Yes, and I still could have driven you. As long as the kid’s not actively crowning, I’ll always come get you, Stellar.”

She would, too. Liz and I have been best friends since I was a first-year med student and she was a freshman. I’d applied early to dodge extra years of tuition, so I was only two years older. She was standing in a corner of a New Year’s keg party, her expression cool, giving off an untouchable vibe with her shirt buttoned up to her chin. Of course I hit on her; I loved a challenge in those days, and she was a pretty puzzle box for me to solve.

The next morning I was warming up my friendly goodbye speech when she looked at me with big brown bunny eyes and I realized I’d misjudged her completely. She wasn’t untouchable, she wasshy, and likely way less experienced than I’d thought. I couldn’t drop this girl. I’d messed up the balance between us, and I’d have to fix it.