Page 5

FIVE

RYDER

I am a jackass. I am the jackass. I am such a massive jackass that I make all the other jackasses in the world look like tiny jackass ants in comparison. Because in classic Ryder fashion, I managed to screw up the trip before it even started.

I swear I had good intentions. After my call with Tara, I spent the next two and a half weeks learning everything I could about backcountry camping. I rummaged through Caleb’s old gear to grab the supplies I needed and watched every YouTube tutorial on fire starting and survival skills I could find. I went to the freaking library , for Christ’s sake, and checked out an actual, physical book called Survival Instinct: 101 Ways to Die in the Wild, and How You Can Avoid Them . It was a petrifying read, but I slogged through it, and I even convinced my neighbor Lulu, who is eighty-three years old and the only person I hang out with on a regular basis, to let me practice my first aid skills on her. In exchange, I’ll have to watch Hallmark Channel Christmas movies with her all winter, and she gave me a withering glare when I suggested applying a tourniquet to her arm, but all in all, I was getting my shit together. I was preparing to make Emily Edwards’s trip as safe, fun, and comfortable as possible.

And then, last night at the motel, a cheap, rundown place that smelled of cigarettes and has certainly been the site of at least two grisly murders, I turned on the TV and stumbled upon The Sandlot . It was one of Caleb’s favorites, and I couldn’t get through a single scene without remembering how he spent an entire summer eating s’mores and vowing that Wendy Peffercorn was the only woman he would ever consider marrying. As the movie continued, I got too deep into my feels and too deep into a six-pack from the convenience store next door, and the next thing I knew, I woke up to a pounding headache and the realization that I’d slept through my alarm.

Panicked, I threw my gear into my rental car and sped to the marina, and when I got there and saw that the ferry was already pulling away from the dock, I knew I had to jump. Sure, it wasn’t the safest idea in the world, but I didn’t want to let my client down after promising myself that I would take care of her. And I sure as hell didn’t want to miss out on the paycheck that will let Tara and me buy Caleb’s boat. Of course, it just so happened that the one person on the ferry who didn’t find my jump even the slightest bit spectacular turned out to be Emily, and so I’ve managed to convince her that I’m a foolhardy idiot before we’ve even reached Isle Royale.

Honestly, I don’t blame her for looking at me like I’m surprise dog shit stuck to the bottom of her hiking boot. Sure, she’s a little high-strung and wasted no time dressing me down in front of the entire boat, but she had good reason. As much as I don’t want to admit it, she was right. I could have gotten hurt jumping onto the ferry, and judging by the sharp pain that pierces my groin every time I take a step, I think I really might have.

But it sure doesn’t help that Emily is strikingly pretty, with full pink lips, dark brown hair that lands just past her shoulders in curly ringlets, and gray eyes so piercing that they’ll probably see straight through my bullshit in no time. And it really doesn’t help that while she’s a successful doctor who reads Very Serious books and gets paid to save lives, I packed a children’s comic strip and sometimes mix up you’re and your . I could practically smell the judgment wafting off her when I showed her Calvin and Hobbes , and she’d probably spontaneously combust if she knew that my other most recent read was a weathered copy of Where’s Waldo? I found in my dentist’s waiting room—not to mention that it took me way longer to find Beach Waldo than I’d ever publicly admit.

It’s not that I’m unintelligent so much as unable to sit still for long periods, a problem that made me come across as a slacker in most school subjects except for PE and recess. But I’m not a restless little kid anymore. I’m a grown-ass man, and I need to start acting like it, which means smoothing things over between me and Emily and making sure the rest of her trip goes off without a hitch. So I went down to the cabin to check on her shortly after she ran off, only to find her talking to a guy in a tweed jacket. I didn’t know people actually wore tweed outside of old Sherlock Holmes movies, but she looked way more relaxed with him than she had with me, and I heard just enough of their conversation to see the way her eyes lit up when he said he taught at Harvard. So, feeling more than slightly dejected, I went back above deck to chill with my buds Calvin and Hobbes and try to remember what I read in Camping Is for Everyone, Yes, Even You: A Beginner’s Guide to the Great Outdoors .

It wasn’t long before I spotted them cozied up close together along the railing of the boat, the tweed guy getting right up in Emily’s personal space as he looped a pair of binoculars around her neck. But she didn’t seem to mind, and so I stress-ate beef jerky and tried to ignore the flicker of jealousy I felt when she laughed at something he said. She hadn’t laughed at anything I’d said, but that’s what I get for saying dumb shit like surf’s up and trying to act like Rambo. Anyway, women like Emily don’t go for down-on-their-luck guys who lean more Jackass than Jeopardy and occasionally work a side gig as a backyard pooper scooper. Of course she’d be interested in Harvard Tweedster, who probably never goes more than ten minutes without mentioning Harvard but at least wakes up to his alarm clock.

Finally, after I’ve demolished a bag of beef jerky that was supposed to last me three days, I see Emily approaching me with her new friend at her side.

“Ryder, hey,” she says, the binoculars still around her neck. “This is Killian. Killian, this is Ryder.”

“Well, if it isn’t the ship daredevil,” the annoying tall man says, placing a hand on the small of Emily’s back in a way that seems entirely too familiar. “I’m Dr.Killian Sinclair, chair of Science of the Human Past at Harvard.”

“Ryder Fleet,” I say, shaking his hand. “Ambassador of adventure.”

Sinclair smiles in a way that vaguely resembles a German shepherd baring its teeth. “Splendid. And what an adventure today is turning out to be, hm?”

“Ryder is my tour guide,” Emily explains before glancing at me. “Killian is an archaeologist. He studies shipwrecks.”

“An archaeologist?” I ask. “Like Indiana Jones?”

“Exactly, sport,” Sinclair says. He grins. “Minus the giant boulders, of course.”

Gross. The only person who ever called me sport was my great-grandpa Walter, and I only tolerated it because he was a million years old and sent me five bucks every Christmas.

“You know, I had a friend in prep school called Ryder,” Sinclair says. “He was named after Ryder Kensington-Grant, an esteemed equestrian out of Cowden. He was quite a bit taller than you, though.”

“Nice,” I say flatly. “I was named after my grandpa, an esteemed plumber out of Pittsburgh.”

“Sinclair, there you are!”

Our friendly conversation is interrupted by the arrival of a wiry man sporting a graying goatee and a newsboy cap who lifts a hand in greeting as he approaches. A younger red-faced man hurries after him, carrying one hiking backpack on his back and another on his front and wheezing like he might collapse at any second.

“Ah, Dr.Sharp,” Sinclair says, greeting the older man with a handshake. He motions toward Emily. “Dr.Sharp, I’d like you to meet Dr.Emily Edwards. Emily, this is Dr.Benning Sharp, my mentor.”

“Nice to meet you, Dr.Sharp,” Emily says. “This is my tour guide, Ry—”

“I’ve been telling Emily all about our work on the Explorer ,” Sinclair interrupts, dismissing me entirely. “And the exciting prospect of unearthing whatever secrets it holds.”

“It sounds very exciting,” she agrees.

“Well, sometimes our work is exciting, and sometimes it’s drudgery,” Dr.Sharp replies with a shrug. “Don’t get me started on our trip to Bermuda last year. We set out in search of an undiscovered vessel, but all we found was a pod of rather unfriendly sperm whales.”

“The Smithsonian was not pleased about that one,” Sinclair agrees, laughing dryly.

I don’t have a clue in hell what they’re talking about, but I don’t want to be left out of the conversation, so I laugh, too. Except my laugh comes out too loudly, making me sound like a braying donkey, and the archaeologists glance at me with mild alarm.

“That’s the beauty of our work, though,” Sharp says, after I clear my throat and he’s confident that I’m not choking to death. “Every lake and ocean has its secrets, and so does every ship. Be patient enough, and you might just discover them. Shipwrecks are like people that way.” He glances at Sinclair, who’s gazing starry-eyed at Emily, who’s gazing back at him with the fawning equivalent of cartoon hearts in her eyes.

“Speaking of the Smithsonian,” I say quickly, wanting to remind Emily that I exist, “who here enjoys The Wizard of Oz ?”

When I’m met with blank expressions, I clarify my question. “You know, Dorothy and Toto and the gang? There’s no place like home ? Anyway, I heard you can see Dorothy’s ruby slippers at the Smithsonian. So that’s pretty cool.”

“That is very cool,” Em says, giving me the same polite smile I give my four-year-old cousin Maverick when he launches into one of his long spiels about trash trucks.

“I love The Wizard of Oz ,” says the red-faced dude wearing two massive backpacks. “The flying monkeys freak me out, though.”

I watch as he struggles to maintain his balance, grimacing like he’s about to buckle under the backpacks’ weight.

“Hey, man, you need a hand with those bags?” I ask.

The baby-faced pack mule looks at me like I offered him a billion dollars. “Really? That would be—”

“Don’t worry about Taggart,” Sinclair interrupts. “He’s my assistant. You don’t mind a little grunt work, do you, Taggart?”

Taggart, who looks like he might keel over and die at any moment, shakes his head. “Of course not, Dr.Sinclair.”

“You know, I just love this blue-collar camaraderie,” Sinclair says, adjusting the small satchel he’s carrying. “Assistants banding together, looking out for each oth—”

“I’m an ambassador of adventure ,” I say through gritted teeth, but Sinclair only looks more amused. I can’t entirely blame him. There are some things even Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson couldn’t sound tough saying, and ambassador of adventure is one of them.

“Right, right,” Sinclair says breezily, not even looking at me and turning his attention to Emily. “Now, Emily, would you describe yourself as an art afficionado? Because back at Harvard, we have a budding collection of ancient Near Eastern art from the Mediterranean coast. I personally am working with a team of art conservators to develop new technology for restoring art found below sea level. It’s an utterly fascinating science.”

“Oh, yes, I like art,” Emily says, looking way more intrigued by this conversation than the one we had about a fictional boy and his stuffed striped tiger.

“Fantastic. Well, perhaps when we’re both back from our trips, we could—”

“I like art, too,” I butt in, wanting Emily to think I’m not a total idiot. But it’s a tall order, considering I kind of am.

“Do you, sport?” Sinclair asks, looking doubtful. “Well, good for you. Anyway, Emily—”

“I love it, actually,” I interject again, looking straight past Sinclair to Emily.

“Do you?” she asks, smiling at me, and suddenly I feel like a million dollars. Suddenly I want to make her smile again, and again, and I want Dr.Killian Sinclair and his Harvard credentials to take a long walk off a short pier.

“Of course,” I say. It’s not entirely a lie. I did enjoy the performance art course I took in college, even if mostly because the professor let me do a stand-up comedy routine in lieu of writing a final paper. It wasn’t a good stand-up routine, but it was still better than writing ten thousand words on the nuances of interpretive dance.

“Some might regard me a connoisseur of art,” I continue, which is true if you consider old episodes of Beavis and Butt-Head to be art. “An art-oissuer, if you will.”

“I don’t think that’s a word, sport,” Sinclair says, laughing coldly.

I shrug. “I’m pretty sure it is.”

“Do you have a favorite artist?” Emily asks, brushing a stray curl out of her eyes.

She sounds genuinely interested, not like she’s quizzing me, and I scramble to think of a legit-sounding answer.

“Well, uh, I’m a big fan of Michelangelo,” I tell her. “And uh, Leonardo. And Donatello. And of course, Raphael. He’s great. So much talent.”

“I’m sorry, sport, but did you just list the names of all four Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?” Sinclair asks, watching me incredulously.

“No,” I respond without even the slightest pause. “I listed four artists so groundbreaking that the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were named after them.”

“Of course you did,” Sinclair says evenly, raising his eyebrows toward Emily in a way that makes my skin itch.

“But my very favorite artist,” I continue, wishing Sinclair would eat shit and leave me alone, “is Foxamura.”

“Is he the newest member of the Turtle gang?” the archaeologist asks, his tone mocking.

“The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles would never refer to themselves as the Turtle gang,” I tell him. “And no. He’s a Canadian painter recently featured in the New Yorker .”

“Oh, awesome,” Emily says. “What’s his medium?”

I pause, trying to remember anything useful Lexi the homeowner told me about her ugly paintings.

“Paint,” I say after a long pause.

“No way,” Sinclair butts in. “A painter whose medium is paint? You don’t say.”

“Finger paint, actually,” I say, wishing someone would hit me over the head with a buoy and put me out of my misery.

“He finger paints ?” Emily asks in disbelief. “There’s a market for that?”

“Well, you see, he used to finger paint,” I say quickly, wiping sweat off my brow. “As a child. He got his start as a finger painting prodigy, and now he specializes in watercolor.”

“Fantastic,” Killian says. “And what does he paint, Riley?”

“Ryder,” I correct him, even though he damn well knows. I try to remember what Lexi told me, something about humans and horses and causation. Fuck if I know.

“He paints dudes on horses,” I say finally. “With flags.”

“Dudes on horses with flags,” Sinclair repeats slowly, drawing out the words so I can fully appreciate how stupid they sound. “Wow. Sounds positively groundbreaking. Now, Ryder , what’s your favorite piece of Donatello’s?”

Well, shit. “It really is so hard to choose,” I say finally, scratching my chin like I’m really thinking hard and trying not to sweat my balls off. “I guess, at the end of the day, if I had to choose from all his brilliant artworks, I’d go with…”

But I’m saved by the bell, or in this case, the ferry captain, who switches on the PA system to announce that we’re nearing Isle Royale. I breathe a sigh of relief as we all begin to prepare to get off the boat. Within minutes, we reach a slanted coastline bordered by jagged rocks and towering white spruce trees, and the ferry docks at Washington Harbor on the southwestern side of the island.

“It was my pleasure to meet you all,” the elder archaeologist, Dr.Sharp, says as we file off the boat, our shaky legs adjusting to being back on land. He shakes Emily’s hand and then mine, and it’s good to know that not all archaeologists are condescending jerks.

Sinclair doesn’t even look at me, and he doesn’t shake Emily’s hand. Instead, when we reach the end of the dock, he presses a lingering kiss to her cheek. And when he leans forward to whisper into her ear, something tight and hard coils in my stomach.

“Well. Happy trails, then!” I say brightly, clapping my hands so loudly that Sinclair jumps back from Emily. “We’d better be on our way, Edwards. We have a full day of hiking ahead of us.”

Sinclair looks like he wants to rip my head straight off my body, but he only flashes me a tight smile. “The wilderness can be a dangerous place, sport. Take good care of her, aye?”

“Thanks for the concern, chief ,” I say smoothly, zipping up my parka. “But I’ve got everything under control.”

Considering I can’t even remember most of the tips I learned in those YouTube tutorials, I don’t actually have anything under control, but as long as I don’t let anyone know that, everything will be just fine. Hopefully.

“Ready?” I ask Emily, watching disappointment flash across her face as Sinclair and his crew head in the opposite direction.

She sighs and glances at the unassuming brown cabin in front of us. The Windigo Visitor Center will be our last glimpse of civilization for the next six days, and then it’ll just be me, her, and miles and miles of untamed, wolf-laden wilderness. And judging by the mournful expression on her face, she’s not looking forward to one single second of it.

Her gaze shifts toward me, and she musters a weak smile. “Yep. Ready as I’ll ever be.”