Page 22 of The Ripple Effect

With each guest that steps out of the Mystery Machine, McHuge shines brighter. By the sixth and last, it’s like looking at the sun.

I position myself at his left side, feeling the pressure of living up to his rainbow-tinted McHugemanship. Helikespeople; I onlyusedto like people. I’m a grumpy former ER doc, not a soothing psychologist who’s also a seasoned tour operator. During the years I looked at rashes and performed CPR and delivered pizza, McHuge ran every river around here hundreds of times while writing a semi-best-selling book.

The greatest thing about finishing my residency was sloughing off the me who was vulnerable because I didn’t know what I was doing. Becoming a staff physician meant I had the armor of knowledge and position to protect me. I’d paid my dues, and I could reap the rewards.

But here I am, already indignant at these people for making me taste the old fear again. It’s sharp and sour the second time, long past its sell-by date. But this is customer service, so I swallow instead of spitting.

McHuge claps his hands to get everyone’s attention, which has the secondary effect of making the couples look for each other before the briefing begins. He’s jammed a straw cowboy hat over his loose curls, the chin strap dangling to midchest. In the afternoon sun, his moss-green hoodie makes his hair seem to almost glow by contrast.

I become aware that I’m staring at him the way all the other couples are staring at each other, which is technically the right thing to do, but also feels embarrassing and weird. I transfer my attention to the guests instead, for safety.

There’s a pair of older women looking formidable in multipocketed vests and weathered boots—they must be our last-minute additions Lori and Laurie Mitchell, although Laurie specified that she prefers “Mitch.” Lori’s tall and slim with fine, chin-length blond hair, her fair skin weathered by sun and smiling. Mitch is shorter and blockier, with barely creased brown skin, her tight gray curls cropped close in a no-nonsense style that suits her wary expression.

The pair in their twenties, Petra and Trevor, lean into each other awkwardly. On their intake form, they said they’re best friends who always wondered if they’d make a good couple. For the sake of our reviews, I hope they do, although they don’t seem to fit together particularly naturally. Tall and tanned with curly brown hair, Trevor tries to smile while he fishes for a strand of Petra’s straight dark hair that’s wafted into his mouth. Petra steps on his foot when she tries to help him, her olive skin flushing. They glance around the circle like they want to check out how other humans do intimacy.

The fortysomething white woman who’s struggling to close the Mystery Machine’s sliding door must be Willow. The man who exited ahead of her would be her husband, Brent, the journalist who wrote the hit piece. I would have argued against comping their trip, but it happened before I came on board. At least he won’t have an excuse to get McHuge’s qualifications wrong this time.

Unlike the other clients, Brent hasn’t looked to see where his spouse is. She tries the door one last time, then gives up without asking him for help.

“Welcome to the inaugural session of the Love Boat!” McHuge has a deep, steady hum to him, like an engine that’s warmed up and ready to run. He’s wearing the perfect CapeCanaveral expression: looking joyful and optimistic the way people were in the 1960s when a TV camera as big as a lunar module was trained on their faces.

I’m not great at smiling on command, but I clasp my hands and try my best. I wish I were wearing a mask, so I could do whatever I wanted with the lower half of my face.

Maybe I do missonething about being a doctor.

“I’m Lyle McHugh—”

“McHuuuuge!” Brent interrupts in a hooting bellow, like he thought of it himself.

“People also call me McHuge, which is fine.” No one else seems to catch the microscopically pained note in his voice.

I narrow my eyes at Brent. He’s at that high-risk age for acting out, in my experience: grappling with milestone birthdays that start with numbers higher than four, struggling to feel relevant in a world where Nirvana and Lenny Kravitz are dad music.

Guys like this were the most likely to invite me in “for a slice” when I was doing deliveries. On my last day as a working doctor, a guy like this screamed,I pay your salary, and you’ll do what I tell you. But #NotAllMen, I guess.

“I’m stoked to introduce our talented and dedicated team here at the Love Boat. If you need anything, don’t be afraid to approach any one of us. We have some awesome experts to make your stay as special as it can be.”

I refocus away from Brent. I have to look the part, which is not an angry part. I can do this.

“In the kitchen and driving the van, the very talented Jasvinder Singh. You’ll want to remember that name for when he opens his Michelin-starred wild cuisine restaurant.”

Jasvinder inclines his head like the fussy chef he is.

“Keeping you safe on water and land, my fiancée, Dr. Stellar Byrd, MD.”

His arm comes around my shoulder, like we planned. We even specified his left arm, wanting the ring to be obvious. I imagined it being sterile, clinical, and over very quickly, like a minor procedure with no sedation.

But it’s been so long since anyone held me this way.

I didn’t plan for the feeling of his fingers wrapping around the front of my shoulder and squeezing, crinkling my plain black T-shirt against my skin. He feels so warm against the cold illustrated metal of my tattoos. It does something to my brain that makes me lean into his side and reach up to cover his fingers with mine. Against the pressure of my shoulder, his serratus anterior muscle tenses in a startled jump.

I’d forgotten howintimatethis is. You can kiss a stranger and you can hug a friend, but you don’t stand with your arm around someone unless they’re special to you. If we weren’t standing in front of six strangers, I could turn my head and breathe him in—convert this deep, peaceful feeling into a spark and see what caught fire.

Pretending I have to wave at the clients, I duck away from his hold. I can’t look at his face, no matter how much I want to see his reaction.

“Hi, everyone, I’m Stellar, like Stella with anR. Try to keep all your blood on the inside for the next ten days.” It’s an old joke, a favorite for patients with lacerations. My delivery is rusty, but the clients chuckle. I feel McHuge giving me a curious look: Stellar Byrd knows ajoke?

Maybe this will be all right.