kind of guy who gets all upset about some perceived social media slight, thank God. I don’t know what’s stopping me from accepting it. Because Killian has never met a moment of silence he didn’t want to fill with good-natured chatter, I already know basically everything I would find out from his Facebook profile (plus other things that are less applicable to social media): he’s hopelessly addicted to music written for teenage girls, he has starred in every play at his high school since he was a freshman, and he’s terrified of outer space and doesn’t like thinking about it because the concept of infinity freaks him out.
But once I hit that accept button, I’m going to open up a whole Pandora’s box of online interaction that goes way beyond friendly work banter. It’s too easy to get sucked into someone’s Internet persona, to scan through years’ worth of pictures and learn details of his life that may not even be relevant anymore, to forget you haven’t actually known him forever, that this person is really a stranger to you. I’m not ready for that, and I’m not ready for the flip side either—for Killian to look back through my photos and see Mark and wonder who he is and why my relationship status now says Single .
“God damn it,” I mutter, tightening down the last strap that will hold the canoes in place as we drive them up a six-mile dirt road full of potholes the size of kiddie pools. On the ride to work this morning, Mel mentioned how she has never seen Killian without a smile on his face, and now it’s all I can think about—how white his teeth are and how awesome it is to work all day with someone who is consistently in a great mood.
“What’s wrong?” Killian leans over to inspect the strap, his blond hair curling at the back of his neck. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I look away quickly. “Sorry. Just thinking about something.”
He lays his palm on my hair and squeezes gently, his hand large enough to cover the entire top of my head. “No thinking allowed, counselor. It’s summer.”
I duck away from him, smoothing my hair down. “Have to keep my brain in shape for debate season. I think Butterfield is going up against Trawley, and I really want to kick their asses this year.”
Killian pulls a face and steps onto the Float & Boat minibus, which we use to drive customers up the river for the six-mile canoe float. “I’ll let you do the honors,” he says, tossing me the megaphone we keep behind the driver’s seat.
I sigh and lift it to my mouth. “Boarding for the ten thirty six-mile float,” I call toward the parking lot. “Boarding now for the ten thirty, departing in ten minutes.”
A dozen college-age kids hurry over, lugging heavy coolers and backpacks crammed with beach towels and sunscreen. They store their stuff in the back of the bus and climb aboard. Killian greets them all with high fives and turns up the radio on the local Top 40 station, the thumping bass blasting out the open windows. Once everyone is on board, I slam the back door closed, double-check the straps on the trailer, and hop onto the bus, settling into the seat directly behind Killian. He fires up the engine and pulls slowly out of the parking lot, the trailer rattling along behind us.
The college kids are already tipsy, beers in hand, taking selfies in the backseat. They’ll be hungover and sunburned halfway through the float, probably in a state of near civil war by the time their canoes drift the six miles back down to the landing at Flaherty’s. But now, before the dehydration and irritability set in, they’re giddy and loud, practically bouncing off the ceiling.
“Hey, do you want a beer?” A tall guy with dark hair and a tattoo of a dragon on his arm leans over the back of my seat, holding out a Bud Light.
“Can’t.” I shrug. “I’m working.”
He bounces his palm off his forehead. “Oh, duh. Sorry.” He looks at me, his eyes struggling to focus. “So you like working
But once I hit that accept button, I’m going to open up a whole Pandora’s box of online interaction that goes way beyond friendly work banter. It’s too easy to get sucked into someone’s Internet persona, to scan through years’ worth of pictures and learn details of his life that may not even be relevant anymore, to forget you haven’t actually known him forever, that this person is really a stranger to you. I’m not ready for that, and I’m not ready for the flip side either—for Killian to look back through my photos and see Mark and wonder who he is and why my relationship status now says Single .
“God damn it,” I mutter, tightening down the last strap that will hold the canoes in place as we drive them up a six-mile dirt road full of potholes the size of kiddie pools. On the ride to work this morning, Mel mentioned how she has never seen Killian without a smile on his face, and now it’s all I can think about—how white his teeth are and how awesome it is to work all day with someone who is consistently in a great mood.
“What’s wrong?” Killian leans over to inspect the strap, his blond hair curling at the back of his neck. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I look away quickly. “Sorry. Just thinking about something.”
He lays his palm on my hair and squeezes gently, his hand large enough to cover the entire top of my head. “No thinking allowed, counselor. It’s summer.”
I duck away from him, smoothing my hair down. “Have to keep my brain in shape for debate season. I think Butterfield is going up against Trawley, and I really want to kick their asses this year.”
Killian pulls a face and steps onto the Float & Boat minibus, which we use to drive customers up the river for the six-mile canoe float. “I’ll let you do the honors,” he says, tossing me the megaphone we keep behind the driver’s seat.
I sigh and lift it to my mouth. “Boarding for the ten thirty six-mile float,” I call toward the parking lot. “Boarding now for the ten thirty, departing in ten minutes.”
A dozen college-age kids hurry over, lugging heavy coolers and backpacks crammed with beach towels and sunscreen. They store their stuff in the back of the bus and climb aboard. Killian greets them all with high fives and turns up the radio on the local Top 40 station, the thumping bass blasting out the open windows. Once everyone is on board, I slam the back door closed, double-check the straps on the trailer, and hop onto the bus, settling into the seat directly behind Killian. He fires up the engine and pulls slowly out of the parking lot, the trailer rattling along behind us.
The college kids are already tipsy, beers in hand, taking selfies in the backseat. They’ll be hungover and sunburned halfway through the float, probably in a state of near civil war by the time their canoes drift the six miles back down to the landing at Flaherty’s. But now, before the dehydration and irritability set in, they’re giddy and loud, practically bouncing off the ceiling.
“Hey, do you want a beer?” A tall guy with dark hair and a tattoo of a dragon on his arm leans over the back of my seat, holding out a Bud Light.
“Can’t.” I shrug. “I’m working.”
He bounces his palm off his forehead. “Oh, duh. Sorry.” He looks at me, his eyes struggling to focus. “So you like working
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