Page 9 of The Ripple Effect

My stomach clenches hard. I was keeping up fine until a couple of months ago. Or maybe not fine, but the drain on my bank accounts was slow and easy to ignore. But I may be in dire straits soon, especially if Honey needs a new starter motor.

Mom pops into my head the way she does when I feel trouble’s breath on my neck. Some old ghost of a program grinds to life on my mental hard drive, making me wish she’d come back for me. When I first moved here, she and Dad weren’t living too far away. I knew Dad wouldn’t want her to reach out, but it’s a small town. Every time I went to the grocery store, I’d watch for her face, sure I’d see her sooner or later. But I never did.

Eventually, I understood that Liz was the only family I had here. The only family I had, period.

“I think…” Liz looks out the window, answering the things I’ve left unsaid. “I think our friendship may be the only thing you truly care about. And that’s not good for you.”

Ah. I see.I roll from my butt to my knees, full of the ignominy of having leaned on her too hard. She’s got a husband, a baby on the way, a job she loves, and a hobby I don’t share. I only have her. It’s wildly uneven, and I’m embarrassed I didn’t see it until now.

“Sorry, babe. I’m putting too much pressure on you.”

“Don’t do that. I didn’t say it wasn’t good for me. I said it wasn’t good foryou. You need something, Stellar. You have so much love and drive andheart, and nowhere to put them. I don’t want to say gig work is killing you, because you’ll argue medical definitions and I’ll lose.” She rolls her eyes. “But it’s bad for you, what you’re doing. It’s like you don’t feel anything anymore.”

Liz is the best person I know. She’s unflinchingly honest and—she’d hate that I think this—fantastic at spreadsheets. I thought she understood I can’t give myself to another job the way I gave myself to medicine and then lose another part of me when it all ends.

If I burn through another job, it needs to be one I don’t love.

“I don’t mind gig work. I give it time, it gives me money, fair tra—”

“Aaaahhhhh,” she yells, in the rudest, most unhinged interruption I’ve ever seen her make by a factor of a thousand. “This argument is not about late-stage capitalism! It’s about you! I fucking know you, Stellar. Can youlistenfor one damn—Oh. Oh!”

She stands up, eyes wide, touching the back of her gray leggings. “My water—”

“—broke,” I finish. “You nerd. Have you been having contractions this whole time?”

“I thought they were Braxton-Hicks. I didn’t want to overcall it again.” Her eyes fly wide. “Tobin! He’s at—”

“I’ll call him.”

“There’s no cell signal in camp,” she wails. “All they have is a two-way radio in the van.”

“Liz. I’ve got this. Go get changed; I’ll find Tobin. I’ll drive up there myself if I have to. We have time, I promise.”

She has a couple of hours, I’m pretty sure. The person who’s out of time is me. The Love Boat needs a replacement for her husband starting right now, and I promised my friend I’d do it if they couldn’t find anyone else. My ride-or-die friend, who I’d do anything for.

Even this.

“DIZ!” The front door slams open much sooner than it would have if Tobin had respected the speed limit.

“We’re upstairs! Baby still inside! Nobody panic,” I shout back, popping the last screw cover into place and sliding the crib against the buttery-yellow wall. Perfect. Maybe in the fall, I can moonlight as a furniture assembler while I do a hospitality management certificate.

Tobin skids through the nursery door, sweat glistening at his hairline. “Is it time to go? I think it’s time. Stellar, it’s time, right? Did we pack a bag? Oh my god, the bag!”

Liz levers herself painfully out of the chair and falls into Tobin’s arms like he’s the only person who can comfort her, even though I’ve been coaching her through contractions for twenty-five minutes. It’s fine. Nobody was under the illusion a baby wouldn’t change our friendship. I’m here to make sure we weather the transition.

“Do you need to lie down? Walk around? Backrub?” Tobin unthinkingly slides a hand under the back of Liz’s shirt. Although I’ve seen her fully naked and then some, I spin away at the raw intimacy of it.

I’ll put together the bedding and get out of here.

Someone lifts the mattress as I reach for it. Someone whose thick, callused knuckles lead to a broad, weathered palm and on to bluntly powerful forearms dusted with freckles.

McHuge’s startled eyes find mine. Pop; lock. An unguarded look crosses his face, like a summer cloudburst: there, then gone. I pull back, barely managing to avoid touching his hand with mine. There’s a little stutter in his arm movements, like he’d rather avoid me, too.

My fingers curl with the urge to smooth his crooked left brow, to go back in time and do a better job with finer sutures. I have good hands: small, nimble fingers, a nice touch with the freezing.

Or at least I used to.

I loved medicine for the same reason I loved whitewater: not necessarily being strong in my body, although I was, but being smart and strategic. Knowing how to read a situation, knowing I could trust my judgment. I learned to time the sedation so I could get a dislocated shoulder back in the joint right as the muscles relaxed. I felt the moment when the sutures pulled just tight enough.

---