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THREE

EMILY

There are certain jobs you probably shouldn’t fill with a rando you find on the internet. If you need a plumber or a handyman, sure; it makes sense to hop on Google and call the first promising candidate you find. But when it’s something more personal—like, say, hiring a guide to help you navigate the backcountry so you can spread your dad’s ashes in the national park he never got to visit—settling for the first person available doesn’t seem like the best idea.

Then again, I didn’t have much of a choice. When I got home after an excruciatingly long car ride with Jason—during which he took a call from Piper and informed her that the breakup had gone Really well, actually! —I drank a glass of wine in a bubble bath and realized that I could not, in fact, do this. There’s no way I could spend six days on a remote island alone without losing my sanity and possibly a limb or two, and so I uncrumpled Jason’s stupid list of tour guides and got to work calling them. Unfortunately for me, most reputable tour guide agencies don’t just have on-the-spot availability, and I made forty-two phone calls before I found an agency with an opening. I almost cried with relief when Tara from Fleet Outdoor Adventures responded to my website inquiry and told me that thanks to a cancellation, she could match me with a guide.

“You’ll love Ryder,” she said brightly. “Everybody does.”

I don’t particularly need to love my tour guide so much as trust that he’s capable, and according to everything I could dig up online, Fleet Outdoor Adventures is the real deal. I knew Jason wouldn’t put the agency on his list if it weren’t truly reputable, but I was impressed by FOA’s glowing client testimonials and raving Yelp reviews. I’m less impressed, however, that an hour after Ryder Fleet was supposed to meet me in the marina parking lot, there’s still no sign of him.

Tara told me that Ryder had brown hair and would be wearing a hunter green Fleet Outdoor Adventures T-shirt and a big smile. I told her that I’d be wearing a purple life jacket and a slightly terrified expression. She’d laughed, assured me all would go well, and sent me a copy of our signed contract, and I’d slept well for the first time since Jason dumped me. But now, standing alone on the deck of the Voyageur II, the passenger ferry that will transport us to Isle Royale, I’m feeling much less confident.

Trying to keep my growing anxiety at bay, I scan the crowd of passengers in case I missed the arrival of a G.I. Joe-looking dude in a green shirt. Of course, I don’t actually know that Ryder looks like a G.I. Joe. But when I imagine the kind of person who becomes a national park tour guide—or an ambassador of adventure , as the contract so describes him—I picture a lean, mean, hiking machine with the stern buzzcut and permanent sunburn of someone who spends every waking hour outdoors. I bet Ryder Fleet has a fanatical devotion to ice baths and loves scarfing down flaxseed granola bars in between tirades about cardiovascular fitness and the many evils of screen addiction.

Maybe that’s why I didn’t tell Tara the true purpose of my trip. The Fleet website showed hi-res images of happy people jumping off waterfalls and bungee jumping in the Grand Canyon, and Hi, I’m Emily, and I’ve got cremains in my backpack! wasn’t something I was eager to share. So when she asked me if I had any goals for the trip, I gave her a throwaway line about unplugging from the rat race and left Dad and his bucket list out of it.

“Attention, passengers!” a voice warbles over the ship’s PA system. “This is your final call for boarding. We’ll depart for Windigo Harbor at Isle Royale National Park in T minus one minute. There’s a strong eastward breeze coming in at ten miles an hour, so brace for choppy waters.”

Whatever choppy waters we’ll encounter on Lake Superior are nothing compared to the waves of panic crashing around in my stomach, and my heart races as I make another lap around the deck in search of my no-show tour guide. I press my phone to my ear, making a third call to the number Tara gave me in case I needed to get ahold of Ryder, but it goes straight to voicemail again. I scan the ferry desperately, but there are no smiling men in green T-shirts milling about. In fact, because it’s Isle Royale’s late season, there aren’t many people on the boat at all. There’s only a small but enthusiastic Girl Scout troop on a day trip, a couple of college-aged guys tossing around a football like we’re on a campus quad instead of a creaky watercraft, and a cluster of couples wearing matching glum expressions and this marriage retreat can’t be beat sweatshirts.

I wince as I adjust the straps of my incredibly heavy backpack and try to come up with a game plan. When I’m working in the ER, my first rule is never to panic, but that’s a hard one to follow when I spent the whole drive from Ohio to Minnesota listening to Bloodsport: The Ripper of the Rockies , a terrifying podcast about the unsolved murders of solo hikers in Wyoming.

“Announcing our departure to Windigo Harbor,” the captain declares. “Off we go, folks!”

My pulse skyrocketing, I take a deep breath and imagine what Dad would say if he were here. He believed—or at least made me think he did—that I could do anything I set my mind to, whether it was get into med school (which panned out) or marry Zac Efron (which has not). So if he could talk to me right now, he’d probably A) tell me that he never liked Jason ever since he heard him call caramel care-uh-mel , and B) sling an arm around my shoulder and assure me that I could navigate Isle Royale on my own.

Sure, it’ll be tough, but so are you , he’d say, adjusting the brim of the blue Cleveland Guardians cap he always wore. Adventure awaits, Emmy.

Right. Adventure awaits. I can do this. I will do this. Isle Royale is in Michigan, not Wyoming, and the likelihood that the Ripper of the Rockies has decided to continue his stabbing spree there seems slim to none—

“Raising the ramp!” a deckhand calls out, signaling for passengers to move away from the railing. “Farewell, Grand Portage!”

And that’s when I come to my senses. Because he’s not really saying goodbye to Grand Portage so much as he’s saying farewell to running water and Starbucks and any chance of getting help from the proper authorities should I accidentally stumble across a deranged serial killer who keeps his victims’ pinkie fingers as a fun memento. Dad might have spent his whole life thirsting for adventure, but I’ve spent mine going out of my way to avoid it, and there’s no point trying to change that now. I’m no Lieutenant Ellen Ripley or Sarah Connor or any of the other fearless protagonists in the action movies Dad raised me on. I’m Emily Edwards, a thirty-three-year-old emergency medicine doctor who wears elbow pads while bicycling because I’m afraid of breaking a bone. I am not a warrior or a fighter; I’m just a worrywart in an ugly bucket hat, and I’m getting off this boat.

Now.

I grip the straps of my pack and hurry toward the deckhand, waving to get his attention.

“Excuse me, sir! Wait, please! I need to get off the boat!”

“Pardon?” The deckhand, who wears a weary expression and a name tag that reads terrence , wipes his hands on his shorts and frowns.

“I need to get off, please,” I repeat, pointing toward the dock. “I’ve decided not to go.”

Terrence shakes his head. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but it’s too late. Once we pull up the ramp, we’re officially in transit.”

“Okay, but can’t you, like, hit the brakes or something?” I ask, panting from my brief attempt at hustle. “Please?”

“Boats don’t have brakes, ma’am.”

“Oh. Then, um, batten down the hatches, please!”

He blinks. “That doesn’t apply to this situation. At all.”

“Stop the rudder?” I ask. “Drop the anchor? Shift the gear into neutral?”

Terrence crosses his arms over his chest. “Is this your first time on a boat?”

I blush. “Look, can you please put the ramp thing down so I can get to the dock?”

He groans in exasperation. “No, ma’am, I cannot put the ‘ramp thing’ down. I also cannot make a dolphin jump out of the water, or look the other way while you try to smuggle an entire case of liquor onboard. This is a passenger service vessel, not a damn party boat.”

I squint at him. “Are the college guys giving you a hard time or something?”

“No. The Girl Scouts.” He sighs. “Look, it’s company policy that once the ramp is up, nobody boards or disembarks until we reach our destination.”

My heart sinks. “I understand. I guess I’ll just buy a return ticket when we get to Win—”

“Wait! WAIT!” a booming voice shouts.

“What in the world,” Terrence mutters as we both turn to see a man sprinting down the dock toward the ferry.

“Hold the boat!” the man yells, gesturing wildly. “I have a ticket! Hold the boat!”

“Frickin’ people, man,” Terrence grumbles, shaking his head. “Nobody gets how boats work.”

“WAIT!” the runner shouts again, jumping over a small flock of seagulls as he races down the deck. As he comes closer into view, I squint to see that he’s got chin-length dark hair, a long stride, and a broad torso stuffed into a dark green T-shirt…

Wait.

“Fear not, Emily Edwards!” the man shouts, breaking into a dead sprint. “I’m coming!”

Holy shit. It’s ambassador of adventure Ryder Fleet, and he’s barreling down the deck like his life depends on it.

“HOLD THE BOAT! I HAVE A TICKET!”

The ruckus draws the attention of my fellow passengers, who flock to the railing for a better look.

“I HAVE A TICKET!” Ryder repeats, his chest heaving with exertion.

“Hey, Terrence?” a baby-faced Girl Scout says, blowing a bubble of bright pink gum and then popping it loudly. “I could be wrong, but I think that guy has a ticket.”

Terrence lifts a whistle to his lips and blows it sharply, waving Ryder back. “Sir, this ship is already in transit! You cannot board!”

Unfazed, Ryder dashes farther down the length of the dock, and I gawk, riveted, as he leaps over a cluster of seagulls pecking at a french fry and sails through the air with impressive athleticism.

“Sir, you have missed the ferry!” Terrence hollers. “Turn back now! Any attempt to board would be a flagrant violation of Safety Code 28.5a, and I refuse to allow—”

“Catch, man!”

Ryder, who clearly does not give a rat’s ass about Safety Code 28.5a, shrugs off his backpack and swings it backward to gather momentum. Then, letting out a guttural noise that practically sends the Scouts into convulsions, he flings it toward the boat with all his might, where it lands with a thud at Terrence’s feet.

“Sir!” Terrence chastises, piercing the air with shrill blasts of his whistle. “Let me repeat: you have missed the boarding window! Just let it go, dude!”

But my ambassador of adventure will not let it go. Picking up speed, he eyes the ever-increasing distance between the end of the dock and the ferry and lengthens his strides like he’s a long jumper at the Olympics.

“Oh-em-gee, he’s gonna jump!” a Girl Scout says in a tone of pure delight. “No freaking way! This is awesome.”

“No, no, no,” I whisper, covering my eyes. Because I know how this could end. I’ve treated too many grown men who watch a single episode of American Ninja Warrior and suddenly think they’re a professional athlete. Their ridiculous stunts turn into concussions and compression fractures that take eons to heal, and I’ve had my fill of cocksure dudes who decide that eschewing safety equipment or snorting paprika makes them a badass.

“Jump!” a Girl Scout shouts, cheering him on. “You can do it! Jump!”

“Do not jump!” I counter, earning glares from the Scouts. “You can catch the next ferry!” He won’t be any help to me if he breaks his legs, and I don’t need Terrence suffering an aneurysm on my watch. “Think of the risks! Think of Safety Code 28.5a!”

But Ryder does not think of the risks, or if he does, he decides to jump anyway. And boy, does he jump.

“PARKOUR!” he cries, leaping off the dock in what seems like slow motion. His hair billows out behind him like a short but magnificent cape, and I hold my breath as he soars over the sea green waves of Lake Superior, his jaw clenched in fierce determination and his arms extended.

“Aha!” he cries triumphantly when he clears the railing, and a pint-sized Girl Scout lets out a screech and scurries out of the way as he crashes onto the deck, his tan boots smacking the ground with a thud.

But Ryder doesn’t seem to notice that he nearly squashed a small child, or that he came within two feet of landing on a terrified-looking elderly man clutching his trekking pole for dear life. Because the ambassador of adventure raises two hands in a celebratory V, eliciting a round of raucous cheers from the crowd.

“Who are you?” a middle-aged woman asks breathlessly, marveling at Ryder as he places his hands on his hips and surveys the ship like he’s a regular Jack Sparrow.

“I’m Ryder Fleet,” he says, beaming at the woman. “And I’m here for Emily Edwards.”

“Who’s Emily Edwards?” a Girl Scout near me whispers to one of her friends.

“I don’t know,” the friend whispers back. “But she’s one lucky bitch.”

“Excuse me,” I mutter, “that kind of misogynistic language is highly inappropri—”

But the girls don’t hear me, because they’re too busy gathering around Ryder with the rest of his admiring fans. I watch as he high-fives a couple people from the marriage retreat group, and, okay, I sort of get what the Scouts were saying. Because Tara neglected to mention that Ryder, who is indeed wearing a hunter green shirt with the Fleet Adventures logo on it, is completely fucking gorgeous. He’s got the broad frame of a rugged lumberjack and the musculature of a Marvel stunt double, with sandy brown hair that looks perfectly touchable and skin that could best be described as sun-kissed. He’s what my late grandma Jean would have called A real looker , a compliment she reserved for super hotties like Kurt Russell and the jacked EMT who rescued her when she fell and broke her hip.

So yeah, Ryder Fleet is handsome as hell. But he’s also completely effing reckless.

“Is Emily here?” Ryder asks, puffing out his chest like he’s cosplaying Gaston at a Disney World character meet and greet. “I’m looking for Emily Edwards, folks!”

There’s nothing I hate more than being the center of attention—the time I was “randomly chosen” from the crowd to be the magician’s assistant at my seventh birthday party still haunts me when I close my eyes—and I feel myself shrinking into the background.

“Emily Edwards, anyone?” he repeats, his voice full of bravado.

“That’s me,” an older woman in a visor and a retreat sweatshirt replies. “I’m her. I’m Emily Edwards.”

The woman, who is assuredly not Emily Edwards barring some very strange coincidence, beams at Ryder. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like a young Paul Newman?”

“Seriously, Loretta?” a man in a matching visor says, shaking his head. “I’m right here!”

“I was joking, Stan!” Loretta-not-Emily hisses as Stan’s eyes shoot daggers at Ryder.

“Um, okay,” Ryder says, looking like he doesn’t quite know what to do with this interaction. “Is anyone here actually Emily Edwards?”

“You jump like a ninja,” one of the younger Girl Scouts tells him, staring up at him admiringly. “Will you sign my backpack?”

I wait for the grown adult man to explain to the small, impressionable child that jumping onto a moving vessel is a stunt that belongs in the movies, not real life, and that she should never try this at home. But instead, Ryder smiles and pats her on the head.

“Sure thing, jelly bean. Anybody got a Sharpie?”

That’s it. Visions of Girl Scouts with crutches and full-body casts dance in my head, and I step around the kids to confront him.

“Excuse me,” I say, sounding more like Judith than I mean to, “but you do realize you could have been badly injured, right?”

Ryder blinks at me in surprise. “Uh, I guess? But I wasn’t, so. All good.” He grins as one of the guys from the college group claps him on the back.

“Right, but you could have been,” I insist. “What if you’d jumped and missed?”

“I wasn’t going to miss.” He crosses his arms over his ridiculously broad chest and smiles at me magnanimously. “You’d have no way of knowing this, but you’re looking at the former sixth-place finisher in the Colorado high school long jump championship.” He winks at Loretta-not-Emily. “I would have gotten first, but I sprained an ankle in the warm-ups.”

I scan the crowd to see if I’m the only one who hears how absurd he sounds, and except for the positively fuming deckhand Terrence, it appears that I am.

“I’m sorry, is that supposed to be impressive?” I ask. “There’s nothing laudatory about peaking in high school. And sixth place doesn’t even medal.”

“Well, joke’s on you, because I didn’t peak in high school,” he retorts. “I didn’t even do that well there.”

I press a hand to my chest, confused. “I’m sorry, how is that a joke on me?”

“And I may not have gotten a medal, but I did get a very large ribbon,” Ryder adds. “And that’s plenty loudatory.”

“ Laud atory,” I correct him, enunciating the first syllable.

He rolls his shoulders back in a devil-may-care gesture. “Exactly. That’s what I said.”

“That is not what you said—”

“I, for one, found his jump highly impressive,” Loretta-not-Emily says, scowling at me. “And I’m sure his sixth-place ribbon was lovely.”

“Okay, sure, but this isn’t high school track and field,” I say, alarmed that this needs to be stated. “It’s real life. And in real life, when people behave recklessly, there are very real consequences. Like a broken leg, or blunt force trauma to the head, or worse.”

“Um, Mommy,” one of the smaller Scouts asks, “what is blunt force trauma to the head?”

“Basically, it’s injury by forceful impact with a dull object,” I explain, patting the top of my head. “It can be severely life-threatening, especially if—”

“No thank you,” the girl’s mother says tightly. “I think that’s quite enough scarring information for one day.”

“Right,” I say quietly. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to scar anyone. I merely wanted to point out that when you make dumb choices, people get hurt. That’s all.”

Ryder’s eyes, which are a rich chocolatey brown that I would find incredibly striking if they weren’t in his particular sockets, narrow at me.

“I appreciate your concern,” he says. “But no one got hurt.”

“Safety Code 28.5a got hurt,” Terrence argues.

“I almost got hurt,” says the elderly gentleman leaning on his trekking pole.

“My feelings are actually very hurt,” says Loretta’s husband Stan.

“Oookay,” Ryder says with a shrug. “Well then, I apologize to those of you who were hurt or offended by my actions.” His gaze bores into mine when he says offended , and I’m pretty sure if looks could kill, we’d both be dead. “And for everyone else: surf’s up, baby!”

Loretta and the Scouts and everyone on the ferry who’s not me, trekking pole guy, or Terrence lets out a whoop of approval, and Ryder bows like he just delivered a masterful performance. Never mind that surf’s up doesn’t make a shred of sense, or that he wouldn’t be smirking so proudly if he’d impaled his manhood on the railing.

Then again, I’d rather not think about Ryder Fleet’s manhood.

“Now,” he says, beaming at the gathered passengers, “if you fine folks could help me find Emily Edwards, I’d really appreciate it. Emily Edwards, anyone? Emily Edwards?”

The passengers glance around at one another curiously, whispering among themselves, and Ryder smiles widely as he waits for the lucky girl to raise her hand and come forward. I know I should speak up, but I’m too stunned by the realization that I’m about to spend six days and nights with the freewheeling showboat in front of me.

“She’s gotta be here somewhere, folks!” Ryder says, his smile faltering. “Unless I jumped on the wrong boat…fuuuuck,” he says with a groan. “Did I jump on the wrong boat?”

“No.” I clear my throat, cursing Jason for dumping me and putting me in this position. “You’re on the right boat.”

“How do you know?” he asks. “Where’s Emil— oh .” Realization dawns across his face, and his smile disappears completely.

“Emily Edwards,” I tell him, crossing my arms over my chest. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Emily Edwards,” he repeats, staring at me in disbelief. “Well, shit.”