Chapter Five #2
“I have a PhD in psychology, Stellar.” Is there a trace of annoyance in his voice?
A barely noticeable rise in his shoulders?
They’re good shoulders—built by a generous hand, muscle on muscle topped with pale, freckled skin like the glaze on a cinnamon roll.
I’m learning to diagnose their hidden messages: the easy, satisfied roll of a steering stroke in the canoe; the loose happiness when he plays chase with Babe; the square strength of a hug with Sharon.
I shouldn’t care that I’m the one who tightens his posture instead of loosening it.
I should care that whatever I can discern from his movements, he can probably discern twice as much from mine.
When you’re with people day after day, they see things.
Weaknesses. Soft spots I’d rather not reveal, because those are easier to defend when nobody knows where they are.
It’s fine if we’re colleagues, but I need to not forget how he got under my defenses last time. That can’t happen again.
“Maybe we’ve met different people, because the ones I know want everything . If they think they’re owed something they don’t get, that’s when trouble happens.”
“You think a lot about give and take.” He doesn’t say it judgmentally, but maybe I’d rather he did. I’d like to find his boundaries, but he’s a cloud, leaving me swiping at nebulous arms of mist.
“Everyone cares about that. I’ve never gone to a restaurant where someone said, ‘I had the pasta but got charged for the wagyu filet, seems fair.’”
“I’m sure the guests wouldn’t give you a hard time about knots.” He puts a shoulder against the tree, leaning into my field of view so I can’t avoid his gentle concern. “It’s okay to let it go, if you want to.”
Ugh, sympathy. I want it; no, get it away from me. I’d die of relief if he hugged me; I’d kill him if he made me cry with his stupid caring .
“I’ll be fine. It’s the service industry. It’s not that different from delivering pizza.”
“The river is not pizza, Stellar. It will give you more than you ever expected, but you have to be open to receiving and giving back.”
It’s the first Zen-like thing he’s said in days. When did he drop his groovy persona around me? “I’m sure the river and I will get along, in that case.”
He breathes out like he was hoping for something and didn’t get it. “Okay. Show me how you tie those knots.”
I make a shooing gesture. “I can handle it, McHuge. There must be other last-minute things you want to do.”
“Nothing more important than this,” he says, undoing the lowest one himself. “The knots matter to you, so that’s what we’ll do.” He’s a lefty, so the black steel ring winks in and out of view as he follows my directions: twist, loop, around, and through.
When he pulls the rope into a tight, flat, flawless double infinity shape, something inside me loosens. I don’t know why it’s better when he gets it right than when I do, but it is.
“It’s perfect. I… you didn’t have to do this.”
“I know.”
I haven’t yet learned to diagnose whatever’s in his eyes when they lock with mine.
Suddenly I wonder what I would do with his body, if I had the right.
What he’d do with mine. I can’t quite breathe, imagining the touch of his stomach against my own, the spring of his hair in my fist, the whisper of his fingers underneath my shirt like a prayer.
An old-fashioned alarm clock sounds from the sleeping quarters. My eyes wander to the neon-orange tent now visible through the trees—tall where McHuge’s and my solo tents were small, wider than our two spaces put together, bright and dangerous as a red sky in the morning.
“Time for me to pick up the guests,” he says, stepping back. “We’re ready, Stellar. I promise you can take a break. Chill in a hammock. Go for one last solo paddle.”
“No, thanks. I have work to do.”
He sighs. “Yeah, I figured. See you in ninety minutes.”
With each guest that steps out of the Mystery Machine, McHuge shines brighter. By the sixth and last, it’s like looking at the sun.
I position myself at his left side, feeling the pressure of living up to his rainbow-tinted McHugemanship.
He likes people; I only used to like people.
I’m a grumpy former ER doc, not a soothing psychologist who’s also a seasoned tour operator.
During the years I looked at rashes and performed CPR and delivered pizza, McHuge ran every river around here hundreds of times while writing a semi-best-selling book.
The greatest thing about finishing my residency was sloughing off the me who was vulnerable because I didn’t know what I was doing. Becoming a staff physician meant I had the armor of knowledge and position to protect me. I’d paid my dues, and I could reap the rewards.
But here I am, already indignant at these people for making me taste the old fear again. It’s sharp and sour the second time, long past its sell-by date. But this is customer service, so I swallow instead of spitting.
McHuge claps his hands to get everyone’s attention, which has the secondary effect of making the couples look for each other before the briefing begins.
He’s jammed a straw cowboy hat over his loose curls, the chin strap dangling to midchest. In the afternoon sun, his moss-green hoodie makes his hair seem to almost glow by contrast.
I become aware that I’m staring at him the way all the other couples are staring at each other, which is technically the right thing to do, but also feels embarrassing and weird. I transfer my attention to the guests instead, for safety.
There’s a pair of older women looking formidable in multipocketed vests and weathered boots—they must be our last-minute additions Lori and Laurie Mitchell, although Laurie specified that she prefers “Mitch.” Lori’s tall and slim with fine, chin-length blond hair, her fair skin weathered by sun and smiling.
Mitch is shorter and blockier, with barely creased brown skin, her tight gray curls cropped close in a no-nonsense style that suits her wary expression.
The pair in their twenties, Petra and Trevor, lean into each other awkwardly.
On their intake form, they said they’re best friends who always wondered if they’d make a good couple.
For the sake of our reviews, I hope they do, although they don’t seem to fit together particularly naturally.
Tall and tanned with curly brown hair, Trevor tries to smile while he fishes for a strand of Petra’s straight dark hair that’s wafted into his mouth.
Petra steps on his foot when she tries to help him, her olive skin flushing.
They glance around the circle like they want to check out how other humans do intimacy.
The fortysomething white woman who’s struggling to close the Mystery Machine’s sliding door must be Willow.
The man who exited ahead of her would be her husband, Brent, the journalist who wrote the hit piece.
I would have argued against comping their trip, but it happened before I came on board.
At least he won’t have an excuse to get McHuge’s qualifications wrong this time.
Unlike the other clients, Brent hasn’t looked to see where his spouse is. She tries the door one last time, then gives up without asking him for help.
“Welcome to the inaugural session of the Love Boat!” McHuge has a deep, steady hum to him, like an engine that’s warmed up and ready to run.
He’s wearing the perfect Cape Canaveral expression: looking joyful and optimistic the way people were in the 1960s when a TV camera as big as a lunar module was trained on their faces.
I’m not great at smiling on command, but I clasp my hands and try my best. I wish I were wearing a mask, so I could do whatever I wanted with the lower half of my face.
Maybe I do miss one thing about being a doctor.
“I’m Lyle McHugh—”
“McHuuuuge!” Brent interrupts in a hooting bellow, like he thought of it himself.
“People also call me McHuge, which is fine.” No one else seems to catch the microscopically pained note in his voice.
I narrow my eyes at Brent. He’s at that high-risk age for acting out, in my experience: grappling with milestone birthdays that start with numbers higher than four, struggling to feel relevant in a world where Nirvana and Lenny Kravitz are dad music.
Guys like this were the most likely to invite me in “for a slice” when I was doing deliveries. On my last day as a working doctor, a guy like this screamed, I pay your salary, and you’ll do what I tell you . But #NotAllMen, I guess.
“I’m stoked to introduce our talented and dedicated team here at the Love Boat. If you need anything, don’t be afraid to approach any one of us. We have some awesome experts to make your stay as special as it can be.”
I refocus away from Brent. I have to look the part, which is not an angry part. I can do this.
“In the kitchen and driving the van, the very talented Jasvinder Singh. You’ll want to remember that name for when he opens his Michelin-starred wild cuisine restaurant.”
Jasvinder inclines his head like the fussy chef he is.
“Keeping you safe on water and land, my fiancée, Dr. Stellar Byrd, MD.”
His arm comes around my shoulder, like we planned. We even specified his left arm, wanting the ring to be obvious. I imagined it being sterile, clinical, and over very quickly, like a minor procedure with no sedation.
But it’s been so long since anyone held me this way.
I didn’t plan for the feeling of his fingers wrapping around the front of my shoulder and squeezing, crinkling my plain black T-shirt against my skin.
He feels so warm against the cold illustrated metal of my tattoos.
It does something to my brain that makes me lean into his side and reach up to cover his fingers with mine.
Against the pressure of my shoulder, his serratus anterior muscle tenses in a startled jump.
I’d forgotten how intimate this is. You can kiss a stranger and you can hug a friend, but you don’t stand with your arm around someone unless they’re special to you.
If we weren’t standing in front of six strangers, I could turn my head and breathe him in—convert this deep, peaceful feeling into a spark and see what caught fire.
Pretending I have to wave at the clients, I duck away from his hold. I can’t look at his face, no matter how much I want to see his reaction.
“Hi, everyone, I’m Stellar, like Stella with an R . Try to keep all your blood on the inside for the next ten days.” It’s an old joke, a favorite for patients with lacerations. My delivery is rusty, but the clients chuckle. I feel McHuge giving me a curious look: Stellar Byrd knows a joke ?
Maybe this will be all right.
“And this is Babe,” McHuge says as the dog trots up beside him, his voice reassuringly normal.
“She’s a serious type, but if you keep trying, she’ll warm up.
Take a look at the color on your luggage tags before you head to the pavilion for refreshments, so you know which tent will be your recharging station.
Orientation is at the firepit in thirty minutes.
Come dressed to paddle. No whitewater, but be prepared for a current and a breeze. ”
McHuge and Jasvinder turn toward the pavilion. I’m the only one watching as Brent examines a tag on a stiff new backpack, then tugs Willow away from the van door.
“Let the staff deal with that. I don’t want to be last in line for snacks.”
“Don’t you think we should let the paying customers—”
“Leave it, Willow. Just because we’re not paying doesn’t mean it’s free.”
She lets him pull her toward the path like my mom let my dad pull her into the car that day, and I have to set my feet hard to keep from getting swept into the past.
My brief burst of optimism fades like a firework, leaving the smell of cordite and rage. This will not be all right. This will be hard . Every second of this cruel summer will be hard, and the guest I’m dreading most hasn’t even arrived.
For the millionth time, I wish I’d never offered to call anyone. I wish when I’d called that number, Sloane hadn’t called me back. I wish she’d endorsed us from a safe distance, instead of insisting on attending.
My body needs something to do, right now . Something to defuse the time bomb ticking in my chest. I’d go for a run, but I can’t sprint away from launch day unless I don’t plan to come back.
I snatch a duffel bag whose tag sports a yellow square.
It’s maybe thirty pounds—not heavy enough.
Pawing through purple triangles and red circles, I spy a second yellow-tagged bag and heft that one, too.
The weight settles my spine, replacing the burn in my heart with a burn in my traps and delts.
I’ll carry as many bags as I can before McHuge gets to them, and I’ll feel better. Calmer.
I’m about to head down to the tents when, one by one, the people on the path look toward the crunch of heavy tires overlaid by a smooth, eight-cylinder growl.
A shadow-colored Range Rover pulls up in the parking lot, its rear passenger door perfectly aligned with the short pathway to the clearing.
The echo of the driver’s door closing has the hushed, smug whisper of cocktail party conversation in rooms with plush Persian rugs.
It’s the kind of fancy whose understatement contains plenty of statement about the kind of people inside.
She’s here.