Chapter Sixteen #2
“If you want me to leave, I’ll go. I’ll still endorse the Love Boat any way you want. Send me the photos and text for my social media accounts. God, my publicist is going to be so fucking mad at me for making her reschedule all those interviews and then coming back a week early.”
Sloane’s retreat hangs between us, a negative space wanting to be filled.
I don’t have the luxury of letting her pursue me anymore; I have to ask her to stay, or ask her to go.
I have a chance for pleasant Christmas cards, or I could aim for something more.
A big sister. An advice giver. A relationship that means something.
Sloane walks over to the far corner of the tent and picks up the tossed shirt.
Now that I’m paying attention, I notice how she balances on her right leg when she bends, keeping the left one straight.
I remember her struggling to transfer her weight in the canoe, consistently stiff when she stood up, stumbling on a flat trail.
Her invulnerable life was a figment of my imagination and an illusion she worked hard to maintain. Now we both know each other’s secrets.
And maybe we both need things money can’t buy.
“I wish you could have told me about your hip.”
She busies herself folding the shirt into thirds, then into a neat square before pushing aside the heap of underwear to lay it on the bottom of the suitcase.
“Well, I couldn’t. My team’s trying to keep it quiet.
And it’s not like you tell me anything without a court order.
” She looks up, the sullen, stubborn line of her mouth far too familiar.
I’m not going to help fold her panties—neither of us wants that—but I grab a shirt from the rifled drawers and smooth it out on top of the dresser, trying to replicate her technique. Her face softens when I put the shirt back in the drawer instead of in the suitcase.
We fold a few more things. Eventually, she says, “My accident happened on the last run of the day. Late afternoon, almost sunset. It was a while before someone found me. I thought no one would come, and I…”
I’ve seen traumas like the one she’s describing. The fracture is dangerous, but it’s the cold that can kill.
“It can’t be fun for you to get chilly out on the water.”
“It isn’t,” she says, and I hear the echo: It was a while before someone found me .
She smooths a pair of underwear, folding and tucking the ends to make a tight little envelope.
“You’ll need a partner in your canoe,” I say slowly. “Which would have to be me. If you’re good with that.” Days on the water together. We’d talk a lot while we paddled between rapids. We’d get closer; we couldn’t help it.
Sloane’s hands fall still, her Marie Kondo act forgotten.
“And I’m guessing Dereck was helping you with your hip physio. Or he should have been. I can do that, so it’s easier for you to sit strapped into a canoe. If you want to be here, Sloane, we’ll find a way.”
When she looks up, her face is wet. “It’s good to have someone here I can trust. It’s good to have you .”
“Oh, shit,” I say, alarmed at the answering tingle in my tear ducts. “We don’t have to make it a big deal or anything.”
I can see her coming, yet I’m still startled when her arms come around me. She’s laughing and crying at the same time, rocking us side to side. “You’re a tough one, little star. At least, you want people to think you are. It wouldn’t kill you to shed a tear once in a while.”
“It might,” I say darkly, but I’m silently replaying my new nickname. Little star . Small, but fiery.
I like it.
With one fewer rescue paddlers, Lyle and I postpone the trip to Slip & Slide and spend a half day on the wide, calm water near base camp, practicing assisted rescues with the guests. If they can help each other, we can put me in Sloane’s boat and feel confident safety isn’t being compromised.
Simulated rescues are cold work, with everyone in and out of the water all the time. After a late lunch, we opt for dryland games to warm up and give everyone a break.
Lyle shuffles through his field notes and picks a game I’m certain he invented while high: compliment badminton. I’d like this game a lot better if I got to observe, like Lyle does.
“Sloane has great hair!” I shout, as her racket catches the soft, high shot I sent her way.
“Petra has a giant, sexy brain,” Sloane purrs somewhat prematurely, making Petra miss her swing.
“Sloane! You’re not supposed to give the compliment until after they hit it,” Lori scolds. “That being said, feel free to hit it to me anytime.” She bats her eyelashes like Betty Boop.
Petra retrieves the birdie and serves it over the net, where Willow, Trevor, Mitch, and Sloane stand on the other side. Lyle referees from a canvas chair beside center court, scratching debriefing notes in his book.
Badminton is a surprisingly fast-moving game. It doesn’t take long before we run out of things to say about people’s looks, style, and canoeing technique.
“No repeats,” Lyle cautions from the sidelines the second time Lori says Trevor looks better with his new five-day beard. “Penalty to Stellar, Lori, Brent, and Petra.”
We groan, having already racked up several penalties for sending shots out of bounds (me, three times), hitting Lyle in the forehead with the birdie (Petra), and distracting teammates with interview questions (Brent).
“Your penalty: you must sing to the other team, with complete seriousness, the first verse of ‘I Want It That Way’ by the Backstreet Boys. Complete seriousness,” Lyle cautions.
Right away, Brent says, “Not familiar with it. I was more into grunge in the nineties.”
“Grunge, my ass. You owned the Millennium album on cassette and CD,” Willow retorts. “And remember when Spiceworld got stuck in your car stereo for three years and you never got sick of it?”
A flush creeps over the collar of Brent’s navy-blue polo shirt. For once, he has nothing to say.
Willow relents, her face softening. “‘I Want It That Way’ was your go-to lullaby the year Cayden had colic. I love that song.”
“I sang him ‘Seven Nation Army’ way more. No, I did ,” Brent insists.
Does he really not understand why Willow’s face cycles through fury to a worrisome blankness?
I’m no expert on love, but from what I’ve seen, the real damage in relationships doesn’t happen when people are merely angry with each other.
It happens when they stop caring at all.
“Penalty first. Arguments later,” Lyle says, humming a note to get us started.
When we’ve finished humiliating ourselves, he hands the birdie to Petra.
“Pro tip: Try digging deeper for compliments. Beyond what you can see on the surface, what is there to like and admire about the people around you?”
Petra lobs the birdie over the net. It’s closer to Sloane, but she doesn’t make a move— how did I not notice the way she favors that hip?—and Mitch steps into the gap to send it back with a clean snap of her wrist, sand spinning under her feet.
“Mitch takes no shit!” Petra says, then slaps a hand over her mouth, flushing.
“Excellent, Petra,” Lyle calls. “Keep going!”
“Sloane looks better after losing 180 pounds of Dereck,” Mitch sings.
“I want Lori to be my mom,” Sloane says, and my heart squeezes for Sloane and her real mom.
It goes fine for a few turns, until Brent yodels, “Sloane may yet bring her career back from the dead!”
“ Brent! ” Willow snaps, snatching the birdie out of the air with one hand.
“What? It’s impressive.”
“Should I assign a penalty for delay of game?” Lyle muses, stroking his beard.
The chorus of “No!” is loud enough to echo off the mountainside.
The game restarts in a hurry, but I miss the birdie when Trevor bats it my way, because I’m still looking at Lyle.
He created this opportunity for everyone to hear good things about themselves, and he looks happy with how the game is going, but I can’t shake the feeling he wants to play.
I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the man who gives far more than he gets invented a game where everyone ends up getting something good.
I pick up the bird, grab a spare racket from the bin, and walk over to Lyle. Dropping both in his lap, I say, “Your turn, McHuge.”
I use the name on purpose—not to be mean, but to call attention to the persona he wears when he denies himself all the things he makes sure other people receive. All the things people need from the ones they love.
He turns the plastic feathers between his fingers, an unreadable expression on his face. “I’m not playing.”
“You are now,” I say. “Don’t make me assign a penalty for delay of game.”
Everyone needs love and praise. Everyone needs give and take. And I intend to see he gets them.
“Play, McHuge!” Lori calls. “Play! Play! Play!” she chants, until everyone joins in, cheering wildly when Lyle stands up, racket in hand.
“Lyle is kind and right. Most of the time,” I say, as he serves to Lori. He turns to me, so startled he doesn’t notice when Lori hits the birdie right back to his feet.
“When McHuge flips a canoe during a rescue, it’s so hot I almost wish I was straight!” Lori yells to general laughter, not waiting for him to serve.
Lyle’s cheeks blossom with telltale crimson, like a desert after rain. “Lori always speaks from the heart,” he manages, hitting the birdie to the other team.
Mitch hits it back to him. “McHuge makes impossible things possible,” she says, the tiniest quaver in her usually imperturbable tone.
Oh god, I think they’re both going to cry. Even my throat is tightening, seeing him clear his throat several times in a row.
By the time everyone’s had a turn complimenting Lyle, he’s totally undone, waving his arms and shouting, “Game’s over! Stop, stop. Take ten minutes for a bio break and meet at the firepit for debrief.”
On her way by, Sloane whacks me lightly on the ass with her racket. “Nice,” she says, sotto voce, tipping her chin at Lyle. “Very believable gambit. You learn quickly, grasshopper.”
“Grasshopper?! Go f—Uh, fix yourself up, and I’ll see you at the firepit.
” Sloane laughs like a loon, perfectly aware I almost told an alleged client to go fuck herself.
It’s not a phrase I’ve ever said in anger.
I only use it with people who understand that I mean, I trust you to give back as good as you get .
I hang around the badminton court, waiting for a chance to talk to Lyle, but the guests surround him, pelting him with even more compliments as they meander toward the firepit.
I gather up the rackets and tuck the birdie back into the can with its eleven companions, ready for a summer’s worth of fun. It was a good game. I liked watching him get praised far more than I liked any compliment people paid me—and they said some nice things. They’re good people.
He looks back once, the slanting afternoon light sharpening his features into an arrangement so beautiful my chest aches. Clutching half a dozen rackets to my chest, I give him a half smile and an awkward little wave, like I’m hoping the captain of the football team will notice me in the stands.
It feels real when he smiles back, real when my belly flutters like I’m the kind of teenager I never was the first time around—hopeful. Openhanded. Kind.
Well. Damned if I’m not half in love with Lyle McHugh.