Growing up in the war zone my parents called a marriage had me moving out at eighteen, majoring in psychology, then I earned a Master’s degree in Marriage and Family Counseling. I wanted to help couples communicate effectively to save kids from existing in the chaos that had been my childhood. And I had. Especially when I’d moved on to private practice.
My life was the epitome of a woman’s dream. Career. Relationship. Peace.
Four months ago, I learned it was all a sham.
I’d been a dirty mistress, and hadn’t even known it. I’d thought I was low maintenance, the kind of girlfriend who gave her guy space. But I’d been nothing but a snack to Jake. A candy bar. Turned out the real meal was his wife. I found out when I saw them together at the Sacramento Community Theater—watching The Nutcracker wasn’t nearly as enjoyable with the back of my boyfriend and his wife’s heads in my view.
Regular people discovering their boyfriend was married would be all sorts of horrible, but, as a family therapist who evaluates people for a living, Jake’s duplicity caused me an epic degree of cataclysm. I mean, how could my judgment help people if someone who I’d considered perfect—meaning he’d seemed kind, intelligent, left the toilet seat down, those kinds of things—had really been a two-timing troll?
That’s why I’ve taken a sabbatical from my career. Not because my failed relationship devastated me too much to make it to the office—a month of crying had cleansed that scuzzball from my system—but because, if I couldn’t evaluate well in my own life, I didn’t want to mess up someone else’s.
Unfortunately, after two months off work, my savings account had taken a serious hit. I had to bring in some income again—pronto. As a homeowner, my bank kind of expected me to do things like pay the mortgage. Sigh. I needed to find a job, but one that didn’t require decision making since my personal judgment was clearly off.
“Maybe I should become a park ranger.” I adjusted my sunglasses and gazed out at Folsom Lake as we motored across it, the wind whipping my red hair away from my face.
“Right, Kristen.” My friend Rachel snorted, then opened the top of her cooler, and sifted through the lunch items she’d brought. “Because you’re so outdoorsy.”
“I could get a pair of boots. Some insect repellant.” Plus the trees and bushes wouldn’t need me to evaluate them. They just stood there and swayed and stuff. “Nature is breathtaking. It makes me feel calm. Like now.”
Rach scoffed. “You’re sitting in a brand new ski boat, holding a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. Not exactly roughing it in the wilderness, girl.”
I pulled down the rim of my straw sun hat. “Way to kill my dreams.”
She blew me a kiss, then rummaged through the cooler again. “Do you want a turkey or a hummus sandwich? Or would you prefer that we dock so you can shoot your own food?”
I flinched at the thought. “Hummus.”
It was a sunny Saturday in April and the lake’s blue-gray water resembled glass—its beauty complimenting the rolling Sierra foothills surrounding us. My friend, Rachel, and her boyfriend, Noah, had invited me on the maiden voyage of Noah’s boat. It felt good getting out of the city—and out of the house, for that matter.
After two months on leave, I’d scrubbed every inch of my condo, painted each room, and redecorated three times over. My roommate, Gina, complained that my compulsiveness made it hard for her to chill out on her days off. Apparently lounging on the couch watching her reality TV shows wasn’t as relaxing while I’m shampooing the carpet. She’d practically begged Rachel to take me out with them.
