Page 91 of The Ripple Effect

A tallish, slim white guy with a clipboard and a sour smirk stands at the entrance to the clearing. An earpiece nestles against his cheek, its clear plastic cord coiling down the back of his neck.

“Name.” His eyes flick across my face.

“Stellar Byrd.”

He checks his clipboard. “I don’t have you on my list.”

“I’m looking for Lyle McHugh. Can you tell him I’m here?”

“The greenroom is off-limits,” clipboard guy says, his cool tone dipping to subzero. “You’ll have to wait until after the recording session.”

Time to work the problem another way. “Let me make a call. I’m sure I can sort it out.”

“You do that. Kaythanksbyeeeee.”

I stroll casually toward the parking lot while scanning the buildings for signs of a greenroom. Bingo—the cookhouse has a new generator outside and a portable satellite clamped to the roof. It’s the building I’m least familiar with, Jasvinder being an extremely territorial chef. It also has a couple of burly people with headsets loitering outside the front door.

But they don’t know the Love Boat like I do.

Three minutes and a quick detour through the woods later, I’m crouching on the hillside behind the cookhouse, peering through the back window. Jasvinder’s steel prep table has been pushed aside to accommodate folding chairs, equipment cases, and a mountain of bags and backpacks.

In the center of the main room, Lyle sits cross-legged and barefoot on Jasvinder’s anti-fatigue mat, eyes closed. He’s wearing his dark-khaki Carhartt overalls over a white T-shirt, topped by his favorite red-and-black checkered lumberjack shirt. The studio makeup hones his features to gleaming edges, his straight nose more regal than ever.

I’ve so rarely seen him by himself. Even that first morning at camp, down by the water, it felt like the river was his buddy. He makes friends with birds, for god’s sake. Right now he looks so desperately alone I consider breaking this window and tumbling inside.

Lyle rises from his meditation, exchanging courteous smiles with a woman wearing a black multipocketed apron. She motions him to a director’s chair, where she twirls a few of hismore rebellious curls around her finger before laying them to the side of his face.

My legs twitch. I wish I could take off down the camp road the way I’ve done so many times in the last two weeks. Run and run until every breath stabs my chest and I forget what it’s like to see him preparing for the most important interview of his life without me.

The stylist pulls out a powder brush and tips Lyle’s chin up for a spot check. His eyes rise to the window, widening when they meet mine. The stylist turns to see what he’s looking at.

I duck in a hurry, flattening my back against the side of the house.Shit. Shit shit shit.I don’t think the stylist saw me, but I’m sure Renee Garner doesn’t play around when it comes to security.

A minute later, the awning window tilts open, its jointed arms preventing it from extending fully. I look up to find a pair of pissed-off forest eyes and half a head of professionally tousled curls staring back.

“What are you doing?” Lyle hisses down at me.

“I’m here to rescue you,” I whisper back wildly. “Shit,” I say, as voices approach from the side of the house. “Get out of the way; I’m coming in.”

“You can’t come in! Someone will see you!”

“I can’t stay out here, or I’ll get detained.” My head and shoulders slide easily through the window, but my ass catches in the narrow opening.Fuck.Todaywouldbe the day I’d misjudge an opening after a lifetime of getting tapped to squeeze into friends’ ground-floor windows when they lost their keys.

“I’m stuck. You have to pull.”

He tugs, managing to lever the window tighter over my butt. He has to hold it open with one hand while I grab his waist andslither in, then wrap my legs around his to keep from thumping to the floor.

“Careful of your stitches,” he scolds, hoisting me up by my waist. “And keep it down. There are people in the other room.” He sets my feet on the floor, gesturing at the door to what used to be the bedroom. I brush off my pants, but there’s a wet green smear on my shirt that’s beyond help.Oh well.

In my pocket, my phone chirps. Lyle flinches like I farted at a funeral.

“I’m sorry!” I whisper, setting it to Do Not Disturb. “There’s never service in camp.”

“Renee’s team set up a hot spot,” he shoots back, practically exploding from anxiety. “You need to hide.”

“Where?” I gesture at the open room with no closets or cupboards. “And actually, I’m not here to hide.” I puff out my chest. “I’m here to do this podcast with you.”

His face closes down. “No, you’re not.”

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