Page 85 of The Ripple Effect

“I don’t know. I have no idea how to doanyof this.” The same way I couldn’t figure out how to accept his love—that awkward half hug in the tent, my god—I have no clue about the mechanics of forgiveness.

My parents never gave me the chance to forgive them. They never evenasked. After that, I tied myself in knots to make sure I never needed to forgive anyone who mattered. Love is the only problem I never learned how to work.

“You don’t know how to do any of what?” Lyle says, voice low, arms crossed. “You mean breaking up with me?” His left thumb worries at his ring, twisting the iron circle up over his first knuckle.

“No,” I say, testy with fatigue and pain and uncertainty. “I don’t know how to tell you I forgive you and ask you to forgive me. Do you just… say it? Is there some kind of preamble? Do you extract concessions, like making the other person clean the gross stuff at camp for the rest of the summer? Like, what’s the procedure?”

He raises his eyes to me. “You just say it,” he says, his voice soft as dawn over water.

That seems fake, but what choice do I have?

“Then I’m sorry, Lyle. I let you down tonight. I never should have suggested a fake engagement or tried to hide my connection to Sloane. My actions put the Love Boat at risk, and I regret that so much. So much, Lyle. I hope you can forgive me. I hope we can forgive each other for not being perfect, and I want there to be a next time so I can do better. If that’s what you want, too.”

Deep breath. That wasn’t so bad. I continue, “We need to work together if we’re going to try to bail out the Love Boat. And if we’re going to make this relationship thing work.” With my good arm, I reach across the bed’s guardrail.

“Are we?” His arms don’t unfold, and the first slim needle of doubt pierces my heart. I see a future where he stands there, and I lie here, aching for him and unable to do a damn thing about it. Eventually, I’ll invent a reason to take my armback—an itch under my bandage, a classic—but we’ll both know it’s a lie.

No. Fuck that future. I’m not letting go of the one I want.

“I hope we are,” I say, leaving my hand where it is, willing him to take it. “We can’t be engaged anymore, though. I’m not sorry we did it,” I add hurriedly. “But next time I get engaged, I don’t want to do it because I have to. I want to choose it for myself. And I want you to do the same thing.”

“Okay.” His smile is a little sad as he takes off the ring and drops it in my palm, but it’s a smile, at least.

I slip his ring over my thumb. It’s warm, its matte surface somehow soft. I’d swear it’s got a piece of his soul in it.Ah, don’t let me cry in front of him.

“Well?” I ask, my heart trying to climb out of my chest. It’s a good thing I’m not hooked up to a monitor right now, because my vital signs would tell him everything my words left out.

“Well, what?”

“Did it work? Are we… forgiving each other?”

He slides his hand over mine, covering the ring and clasping tight. “Yeah. We are. You want to come back to my place tonight?”

It’s not easy, this business of forgiving people, but it feels so good I can’t help laughing. “Have you gotten a decent TV since last time I was there?”

“No. Television interferes with my—”

“If you say vibes, I swear to—”

“—sleep,” he finishes, giving me an amused look. He leans down, coming in slow, giving me time to say whatever I need to.

His kiss is featherlight, but with a dig to it like a big cat pushing its face into your hand, seeking comfort, pleasure, relief.

Two sharp raps sound on the cubicle door.

“Sorry for the delay. I—Oh!” Evan blinks as Lyle and I pull apart. “I brought you that prescription,” he says. “And a scrub top, since we ruined your shirt. Bring it back when you decide to take us up on that job offer.”

Lyle pulls back at the mention of a job, wincing when he forgets not to raise his injured eyebrow.

“I will. Evan, do you have a second to look at my… um, my partner’s face?” Partner is an ambiguous word, but Lyle hears what I mean, because of course he does. His hand grips my shoulder, and I slide mine up to cover it, his ring loose on my thumb.

“Sure. Same dog?”

“Book to the eyebrow.”

Evan glances at me like he wants to ask and also doesnotwant to ask. He gloves up, gets Lyle seated on the chair, and peels back the bandage on his eyebrow.

“Hmmm, yes. Little discomfort now,” he says, pressing the edges of Lyle’s crooked eyebrow together. “This one’s been split before. Don’t tell me—hockey? I can put it together a little straighter. More cosmetic,” he offers.

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