Chapter Ten #2
But when he tried to skip his turn, I popped up from his king-size mattress like a frenzied jill-in-the-box. That was a trap and it was absolutely fucking not happening. There would be no outstanding balance on my account at the end of this night.
“You don’t have to,” he said. In response, I practically barked orders at him: “Reach up. Hold the headboard. Don’t let go.”
It was hot, until it was over and I realized I’d done the same thing I did with Jen.
Maybe Lyle was her polar opposite, but it didn’t matter—I was making a balance sheet with someone who didn’t understand give and take.
Worse, his best friend was married to mine.
An eternity of uncomfortable encounters at backyard barbecues loomed like a prison sentence.
I left him sleeping. Left his kind, confused texts on read.
Double-checked the guest list on every Evite for a whole year.
I made sure we were nowhere near each other at 11:59 on New Year’s Eve—or at any other time.
I tried not to wonder if the people who came after me had heard, You don’t have to, and taken him up on it.
We’re not going to sleep together again. But if we’re going to work together for the summer, and if I’m going to own a piece of this company by fall, we can do better than giving only what we have to.
I take a step toward him. “Wouldn’t it be better if we searched together?”
“Mornings are busy. I should have been tidier, anyway. Go. Shower while there’s still time.”
He sounds as chill as ever, but I know he likes to write in his book the same way I like to run. If I couldn’t find my running shoes, I would lose my damn mind.
“I have time for this. Come on, Lyle.” I extend my hand. “Five minutes, then I’ll shower whether we’ve found it or not. You’ll feel better.”
I wait, knowing he’ll have trouble taking instead of giving, remembering how much he liked what I gave him with my hands and mouth after he said I didn’t have to.
Gingers aren’t the only people who blush around here, I guess.
“Don’t leave your girl hanging, bro,” Dereck says glumly, heading up the path to the wash station, wearing every piece of clothing he owns plus a towel as a scarf. Poor guy.
I know Lyle only reaches for me because a guest saw us. The only time I’ve held his hand was when I slipped on his ring.
His palm is dry, his fingers rough from work and water. Given our size difference, it shouldn’t be possible for him to put his hand in mine, but that’s the feeling I get as my fingers curl around his. This time, he doesn’t pull away.
This gesture is so small, and so big. I can count the hands I’ve held in my lifetime without running out of fingers.
Even in middle school, my friends and I thought holding hands was immature.
But holding Lyle’s hand, I suddenly understand that when you grow up, this touch is reserved for people on the very highest tier of devotion, like your children.
Or your lover.
This barely puts Lyle and me on first base. Barely. So why are all the parts on second, third, and home base snapping to attention?
It’s nothing . It’s a favor for a coworker, a show for the clients. I’m not the one who’s supposed to feel better.
But I do.
Scheduling our first road trip to bigger rapids on the first day of Get Out of Here seemed like a bad idea to me.
After yesterday, every couple but Mitch and Lori is balancing on a razor’s edge of annoyance, one unlucky wobble from shouting things that can’t be taken back.
But Lyle thinks a success today will help the guests get through this difficult phase.
The access road to the rapids is hillier than most. The Mystery Machine can’t handle the towing, so I’ll follow behind in Tobin’s truck with the boat trailer.
Sloane’s voice startles me as I’m checking the ropes securing the canoes. “Hey, McHuge. Mind if I ride with your girl?”
I stick my head out from behind the trailer in time to see the rest of the guests’ shoulders collectively slump.
They’re getting used to being in her presence, but there’s still a fair amount of fangirling.
It’s useful, actually—no one but Brent has asked a single question about me and Lyle when Sloane’s been around.
“Lyle has activities planned. You shouldn’t miss them.” This morning, I glimpsed the words Car Games: Ideas in his round, spiky handwriting, which reminds me of apples and arrows.
I wasn’t snooping; I’d found his field notebook splayed open between my backpack and the back door of the tent like it had flown there in a tidying frenzy.
He has enough ideas, analysis, and local whitewater wisdom in there to run Love Boat sessions for the entire summer without repeating a single activity.
When the first AI goes rogue, takes over the world, and wants to upload McHuge’s personality into the database, those notes will be its source material.
“I don’t mind.” Sloane smiles with all twenty-eight teeth. “We’ll get in some girl time.”
Dereck playfully tugs the loop on the back of Sloane’s life jacket. “I’d rather ride together, Sloanie.”
“Next time. I owe you one,” she tells him, with a meaningful look. “All good, McHuge?”
“Far out,” Lyle says distractedly, clipping Babe into her doggy life jacket. She loves to ride in the bow of his boat, mouth hanging open to taste the wind, but she’s a sinker, not a swimmer.
It sounds less than groovy to me. If Sloane and I get close, what’s the endgame?
She flies me down to LA and puts me up in her guesthouse?
She takes me out to the restaurants it’s safe for a movie star to frequent, which are not going to be cheap, fun, hole-in-the-wall places where I can pick up the check?
Even if the Love Boat can eventually offer her something prestige-wise, I’ll never be on her level money-wise. Sooner or later, generosity goes sour when it only flows one way.
But I resolved to be nice to her. Also, Petra’s watching us, her eyes flicking back and forth between our faces. We look much more alike now that the river’s washed away Sloane’s makeup and blowout.
“Hop in,” I say, opening the passenger door so I have an excuse to turn away.
“I love your truck.” Sloane runs a hand over the dash, then doesn’t seem to know what to do when it comes away filmed with road dust.
“It’s not mine. But yeah, it’s cool. Do you mind if I don’t talk for a minute? I need to concentrate on this stretch of road.” I follow McHuge out of the parking lot, taking it easy on the narrow track with the loaded trailer.
“Whatever you need. But then I get a free question. Anything I want.” Sloane turns her dusty hand over, turns it back, then seems to give up, wiping it on her white shorts. The mark looks the way McHuge’s handprint still feels on my palm—permanent, the kind of thing that won’t wash away.
“Ask away,” I say when we reach the highway, thinking she’ll pick something gossipy and light. The size of Lyle’s junk, maybe.
Instead, Sloane opens with, “What’s your mom like?”
There are reasons I don’t talk about my parents.
First, one of them is a sociopath. Second, people act like I shouldn’t be over it.
They rush to console me, or cry and need to be comforted themselves.
Or they get an awful little glow in their eyes, like they’re imagining who they’ll tell—in strictest confidence, mind you.
Sloane may be the only person who won’t do any of those things. What could it hurt, to give her this one piece of myself?
“My mom was—” I stop short. She hasn’t died, even if it feels that way sometimes.
“I mean, I’m sure she still is generous to a fault.
She loved feeling useful. She wanted things to be nice for us.
Always a jar of wildflowers on the table, you know?
She could do anything with a can of soup or a box of mac and cheese plus whatever produce was marked down. ”
She lost herself when my dad went to prison. I learned to trim the bad spots from half-price tomatoes and pluck the mushy tops from last week’s asparagus before tossing them into the Kraft Dinner, thinking it was what she wanted.
But Mom needed someone to need her like Dad did. And by the time she got herself together, I could make my own macaroni.
Sloane stares out the windshield at the layers of color unrolling in front of us: gray asphalt, green cedars, pale pearly clouds. “Do you ever hear from him?”
No need to ask who.
“No. Dad’s figured out I have nothing to offer him.”
She flinches at my phrasing. “Touché, sister mine.”
The silence stretches long enough that I think we may be done here, which is both a relief and, strangely, a burden.
I’m considering whether I can figure out Tobin’s antique radio when Sloane abruptly says, “My mom’s one rule about Gerry was that he had to make the first move. If he wanted to know his daughter, he had to do the work.” She looks straight ahead, face impassive, sun-bleached blue eyes flat.
“I was eighteen when he contacted me. You’re still kind of stupid at eighteen, you know?
Like, I’d made myself an imaginary dad from all my friends’ dads.
He’d laugh as loud as Zarah’s dad, he’d nap on the couch with me like Julia’s.
I was a romantic, and I was on a teen drama, so I was sure he’d have a sympathetic backstory.
“He asked for money so fast, Stellar. He didn’t even wait for the second phone call.”
A pained oof escapes me. I planned to wait for that second call myself. Sloane would have seen right through me. I’m glad we’ve entered a series of the Oceans to Peaks Highway’s famous twists, and I have an excuse not to look away from the road.
“Yeah.” She nods. “He disappeared when I told him my money was held in trust until my twenty-fifth birthday. I’ve never had my heart broken like that, before or since. It took a lot of therapy to understand how very, very lucky I’d been.