Page 6 of The Ripple Effect

“She showed me the article.” It was a long-form think piece inBeeswax, a major online magazine, arguing the dangers of the “pop psychology gold rush”—the scramble to stake out a niche in the rapidly growing self-help industry, consumer safety be damned. “The Love Boat,” the article claimed, “is one such example.”

Lyle McHugh developed a legitimate piece of psychology scholarship—which was published as last year’s trendiest do-it-yourself marriage counseling manual,The Second Chances Handbook, under the guidance of Dr. Alan Fisher, his PhD supervisor and coauthor.

Now McHugh, a never-married proponent of “freelove,” hopes to capitalize on his success by launching an unproven relationship therapy program based in a remote wilderness camp without access to medical care for miles around. It’s based on tandem whitewater canoeing—a sport so difficult it’s unofficially known as “divorce boat.”

Dr. Fisher chose his words carefully when approached for comment. “I do wish Mr. McHugh had persisted with his PhD studies for an extra year or two, instead of leaving against my recommendations. His radical ideas need tempering and underpinning with rigorous methodology, for safety reasons. Of course, I wish him every success.”

“What did you think?” McHuge shifts his feet; a school of tiny brown fish dart into deeper water. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was talking to them before I got here.

I purse my lips. “It’s a hit piece. The never-married thing is a total straw man. And out here, a doctor can’t do much more than someone with industrial first aid training. You’re not that far from the urgent care clinic in Pendleton, or even Grey Tusk General.” I swallow the taste of my former workplace out of my mouth, then add, “Plus, your prof called you ‘Mister,’ like you didn’t finish your PhD. And the writer didn’t correct him.”

The arcane traditions of medicine used to be one of my favorite things. I loved it when my doctor friends called me “Doctor” to convey anything from “I’m happy to see you” to “you just said something astonishingly smart.” I flinched at panel discussions when one speaker unleashed an icy “I disagree,Doctor,” before publicly scoring devastating points on the archrival seated next to them.

But if another doctor calls you “Mister,” it means they wantyoudead. I caught a stinging “good luck in your future endeavors,Ms.Byrd,” as I was escorted out of Grey Tusk General, and I knew my department chief wanted me to understand he’d scooped out the best part of me.

“The writer was misinformed,” McHuge says mildly. “Brent and I connected. We cleared up a few misconceptions.”

“Brent’s article made one of your employees quit a week before launch. You don’t have to be friends with everyone, Lyle.”

At the sound of his given name, our heads do a move that feels choreographed, like a pop and lock—turning to face each other, holding for a tense moment, then turning away. I know how he likes being called by that name, which is why I had planned never to use it. But it flew out of my mouth like it was waiting for him.

He clears his throat. “I generally find it’s better to be kind than right.”

Touché. He was the kind one after I sneaked out of his bed in the middle of the night. He sent me exactly three texts:I didn’t hear you go! Everything all good?progressing toStellar J♥I would be very open to seeing where this goes if that’s the vibe you’re feeling, and ending withI think you want me to back off, and I’m doing it with peace in my heart. Take care.

He was kind. But I was right. And the two of us couldn’t be more wrong for each other.

“The problem is,” McHuge goes on, “Renee Garner is considering a partnership with us, and she feels we need to address the criticisms wherever possible. She’s at a vulnerable moment, reputation-wise.”

Everybody’s heard of Renee Garner. Even me, who swore off wellness culture after realizing “resilience” is code for how toxic a workplace can get before employers have to deal with it.Renee’s research on bad bosses led her to the speaking circuit, then to a media career with an Oprahesque stable of bright young collaborators. She must still be stinging over having to fire an addiction specialist whose degree came from the University of Photoshop.

“Which is where I come in,” I say.

“Which is where you come in. We need a medical professional with whitewater experience.”

“I haven’t guided whitewater since medical school.” It was good money, but the culture could be shitty and sexist at times. Tour operators prefer younger guides, who are less likely to have unhealthy adrenaline-rush habits or chronic injuries. Fun people, who can make the tourists laugh.

“I’d do the instruction. As long as your whitewater rescue certification is still good and you’re strong enough to do a solo rescue, that’s all we need.”

“Oh, I’m strong enough,” I snap back. I run. I lift. Granted, it’s with a set of flaking free weights I scrounged from the free bin at the Pendleton triathlon club’s annual gear swap, but my arm definition doesn’t lie.

“I don’t doubt it,” he says evenly. “You’d be doing site prep from now until next Monday’s launch. The sessions are ten days on, four days off, with an extra week between the first and second sessions to make changes if Renee asks for them. Payday every Friday.” He names a weekly salary triple what I pull down as a delivery driver.

“That’s… competitive,” I choke out. Jesus. With summer earnings like that, I could take time off in the fall, figure out what to do with my life. Take a course in real estate or something else I could tolerate but never love. “What about the medical thing? The, um, clinic?”

A clinic.Calm, I am calm, I am—fuck, I’m flashing back.

It was a few months after I gotMs. Byrd-ed at Grey Tusk General, not long after the doomed hookup with McHuge. I was alone in my tiny office in Brittle Rock, seeing a fit-in first thing in the morning. There was the patient, tall and burly, his florid face turning purple from yelling, like my dad’s had the night he told my mom to get in the car, then reamed me out on the sidewalk for being a selfish little shit who only thought of myself. And me, writing prescription after prescription to de-escalate the situation, praying for the clinic nurse to arrive early and help me, heart galloping so fast I couldn’t breathe.

When it was over, I knew I couldn’t give any more if this was what I got in return. A year later I’m still so angry I can’t catch my breath, tucking my fingers into my armpits to hide their trembling.

“You’d cover emergencies only,” McHuge says. “Maybe treat minor cuts and scrapes. If that works for you?” He strokes one hand over his beard, scanning my posture like he can read every tightened angle.

“Sounds doable.” I unclench my teeth, not wanting my secrets to be legible. My dentist will be pleased.

“And there’s one more thing.” His tone pulls from its usual slack Owen Wilson drawl into something with a firm pencil point. “Distraction can be dangerous out here. To keep my focus on the clients, I need strong, low-maintenance relationships with my employees. It goes without saying that nothing beyond a collegial friendship could happen between us.”

I slap a hand over my mouth. “Jesus, McHuge.”