Chapter Twelve
Everything bothers me this morning.
For one, yesterday’s kiss was a huge fail.
Yes, Willow saw Lyle and me all entwined and losing our heads, but for the rest of the evening, everyone else saw us passing dipping sauces for Jasvinder’s spring rolls without letting our fingers touch.
I can’t blame Lyle for keeping his distance.
I forgot everything Sloane said and basically tried to eat his soul like a mythical night-traveling monster.
For two, it’s the fourth day of the course, which is the day I always get grumpy and homesick on an expedition.
I get past it in a couple of days, and by the end I never want to leave.
But today, adventure is outweighed by the desire to sleep in my own bed, alone, instead of a too-small tent where Lyle’s absence pushes against my edges almost as much as his presence.
Last night, he caught me reading his copy of Meditations .
I picked it up after evening chores, mostly because it had migrated underneath my cot, but then I started hearing Marcus Aurelius’s words in Lyle’s voice and I didn’t want to stop.
When he came in I pretended I was only reading to pass the time, but I’m no good at acting and we both know it.
I lay awake for a long time, keenly aware of a particular lack of privacy I hadn’t thought much about before I kissed him.
I kept thinking about his lower lip, for some reason—how I’d thought it would be soft, but it had been so firm.
Biting was definitely not in Sloane’s Hollywood kissing manual, but the memory—my teeth, his mouth, the rush of his breath when I’d taken his lip and held it not quite tightly enough to hurt—lit my skin from the inside.
And I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Not in a rustling nylon sleeping bag an arm’s length from the sounds of Lyle’s 100 percent awake breathing pattern.
Morning chores couldn’t help but be weird after a night like that. It’s almost impossible to keep secrets in camp, which makes me worry about who else has figured out mine. Ours.
For example, Petra and Trevor go for a private paddle every night, looking giggly and excited.
But when I brought hot water to the Rainforest Dome this morning, she opened the flap wide enough for me to see their beds were pushed as far apart as possible, like they’re coworkers sharing a hotel room.
I found a tin mug in the jumble of shoes outside Brent and Willow’s tent, the dregs of last night’s bedtime drink crusted inside.
I instantly imagined Brent denying the mug was his, Willow looking down miserably and saying nothing, and me having to go for a long run.
Lyle would have to have another word about food attracting hungry animals.
And when I stopped outside Lori and Mitch’s tent with a soft call of “Hot water,” Lori burst out of the tent bare-ass naked to prove my instinct about seeing her butt was right on.
I advised her to cover up to avoid mosquito bites; she giggled while making sex faces at a mortified but still-smirking Mitch.
They may be the only people in camp who are getting any.
And now, a short drive later, we’re at the launch point for the Rolling Stones, a rapid named for its long, straight, forceful series of standing waves, which can also be called a tongue. Never let it be said that paddlers don’t enjoy a vintage concert T-shirt and a good strong dad joke.
“Circle up, my siblings,” Lyle says, raising both hands above his head like he’s making himself big to frighten off a bear and managing to look more like a teddy bear.
“Today we are ready to challenge ourselves in body and spirit! As we discussed last night at campfire, the Stones has the gnarliest waves we’ve ridden so far.
More hazards, too. Don’t be fooled by the gentle outwash—unless you tuck into an eddy, the current will sweep you away from your friends.
“We’re looking to follow the tongue—smooth green water that’s usually heading where you want to go. The tongue can be mellow and gentle, but also exciting and unexpected, and even euphoric by the end.”
I’m going to die. How can he say things like that and not remember what he did with me—what we did with each other?
“Remember, there are no gold medals for coming first! Stay with your friends. Bring it in for a group cheer!” He sticks his hand into the center of the circle.
I nudge my shoulder into the tense gap that’s persisted between Brent and Willow since the tin mug talk went exactly as I predicted.
“This won’t be a problem for us,” Brent says, talking over my head like I’m not even there. At least he’s saying something nice to his wife.
He promptly ruins it with, “ I’ll get us through.”
I breathe through my nose, trying like hell to dispel the familiar, electrifying surge of anger.
The fateful night I stood in front of that refrigerator, staring at the neat rows of 2 percent milk and 10 percent cream, this same injustice crackled through my heart like 200 joules of direct current, defibrillating the monster inside.
That time, it lost me my job. This time, I’d be wise to learn my lesson and shut my mouth before I alienate a man with the power to help—or hurt—the Love Boat. As Lyle would say, I’m not in a position to judge their relationship.
But I am in a position to judge the dynamic in their boat, and it’s lopsided as hell.
Willow’s shoulders roll inward, and my fists clench. Every straw is the last one with me, it seems.
“And, um, we forgot to tell you!” I blurt. “Today everyone’s switching positions! Bow paddler goes to the stern, and vice versa. Everyone gets to do the other person’s job and, uh, take their perspective.”
All eyes turn to me. No one says a word. Lyle’s uneven eyebrow is way, way up. I’m surprised, too: I said I didn’t care about the instructional side of things, and guess what, it looks like I do. I really, really want this to work.
“It’s gonna be, um, so fun!”
Unlike when Lyle says something is fun, no one looks like they believe me. Even when people don’t agree with his definition of “fun,” they believe he’s genuinely into whatever it is.
There’s a lot of groundwork to Lyle’s persona, I realize. Underneath the relentless chill, the old-school catchwords, and the vaguely spiritual pronouncements, there’s a willingness to give and give again. People feel safe with him.
I haven’t laid that groundwork, and it shows. When I run out of cheery, positive things to say, they glance over at him for confirmation: Are we really doing this?
Stay with me, Lyle , I plead with my eyes. I shouldn’t have sprung this on him, but he won’t call out a co-instructor’s mis take in front of the guests. I’m the only one who can say I was wrong, and with every second that ticks by, I’m more convinced I’m right.
It’s not even the halfway mark of the course, yet nobody questions which paddling position they take anymore.
Like I never questioned anything at the hospital until it was too late.
Lyle dips his chin almost imperceptibly. It may look unintentional, but he has incredible control of every part of his body. I try not to sag with relief.
“Thanks for catching that, Stellar. This is great real-life training that could come in handy on river-running trips like the capstone. It’s important for all of us to experience our partner’s role firsthand, even me.
That’s why Stellar will be today’s lead instructor, and I’ll be taking a back seat. ”
I blink in surprise. This must be what he means by yes, and . At this moment, I wish I’d paid more attention to his improv sayings. Or read his book. A kind person would have done that.
Sloane appears at my side as everyone else is heading to the water. “Do we have to switch? I’d rather not.”
The spiky burst of irritation in my belly is sharp enough to feel like fear. My authority with this group is tenuous as hell. If Sloane and Dereck bail out, no one else will participate either. My debut as lead instructor will turn into my curtain call.
That’s what happened to Kat, the other woman who got hired at Grey Tusk General.
She was named chair of the equipment committee that year, and suddenly everyone discovered a brand-new willingness to go to the mat for specific brands of video laryngoscopes and disposable suture trays.
The previous chair’s emails had dropped straight into the void; Kat’s became reply-all slugfests.
She lasted six months before the department chief removed her, saying he needed someone who could “keep the peace.” As far as my male colleagues were concerned, the precedent had been set: a woman couldn’t handle a committee, like a woman couldn’t carry a superhero franchise if even one of the sequels failed to break box office records.
Sloane should understand what’s at stake for me, with her gritty female-led film that screams “series potential” and its risky gender flip of the promiscuous gentleman spy trope.
“Is there some reason you can’t?” Oof, there’s so much history in my voice.
“I’m more comfortable in the bow.”
“The point of the exercise is to be uncomfortable.”
“Please, Stellar. It wouldn’t have to be a big thing.”
“But it would be a big thing,” I whisper, impatient to get going. Other guests are already launching their swapped boats.
“And what if I can’t?” Her sharp tone brings my head around, but her expression stays mild and inquisitive, like she’s asking me for stroke correction.
“You can . You’re strong, you’re skilled, you have great instincts. Unless there’s something you’re not telling me?”
Her mouth tightens. “Forget I asked.” She stumbles a little on the rocks as she wheels away, leaving me unsettled.
Lyle’s canoe drifts in from behind me once I get onto the water, Babe studiously looking away as usual.
“It’s not too late to back down, Stellar. Save this for another day.”
“Is it that bad of an idea? Because if it isn’t, I’d really appreciate your support.”