Chapter One
Betsy
It was 8:57 pm on Thursday night, and Betsy Parker was ninety percent sure she was about to spontaneously combust. She kept her professional face in place anyway.
Across her laptop screen, the couple in front of her was mid-argument again. The woman had her arms folded tight across her chest while the man looked like he’d rather be anywhere else on Earth, preferably somewhere with fewer feelings.
Betsy nodded slowly, pretending her brain wasn’t melting. “Let’s pause for a second,” she said in her calmest therapist voice.
Which was impressive, considering sweat was running down the back of her neck and pooling in places it had absolutely no business being.
Hot flash. Of course. Because why not?
The woman on the screen sighed dramatically. “He never listens.”
The man threw his hands up. “I do listen! I just don’t think every little thing needs to be turned into a three-hour emotional documentary.”
Emotionally avoidant, defensive humor. Classic. In her head, she automatically filed them away. Attachment styles: anxious and dismissive avoidant.
Out loud she said, “What I’m hearing is that you both want to be understood, but you’re using two very different communication styles.”
The woman blinked. The man did too.
The woman leaned forward slightly. “That… actually makes sense.”
Betsy smiled.
Meanwhile, her internal organs were currently staging a small rebellion. The hot flash was intensifying. Her scalp itched, her ears burned, and the middle of her back tingled in that infuriating spot no human arm could ever reach. And she was pretty sure the inside of her thighs had decided to join the rebellion just for fun.
Perimenopause. Nature’s way of reminding women that the warranty on their bodies had officially expired.
Still smiling, Betsy reached one hand off camera and scratched her shoulder blade like a raccoon with a mosquito bite.
Professional. Very professional.
“Before we end tonight,” she continued smoothly, “I’d like each of you to try something simple this week.”
Both clients leaned forward.
“Instead of responding immediately during a disagreement, take ten seconds and repeat what you heard the other person say.”
The man frowned. “Like parrot it?”
“Exactly.” Betsy nodded.
The woman looked skeptical. “That sounds awkward.”
“Oh, it absolutely will be,” Betsy assured her, rubbing her thighs together under the desk, grateful for the relief. “But awkward is usually where growth happens.”
They both laughed.
Betsy smiled again, though at this point she was fairly certain her internal temperature had reached solar flare levels. She glanced at the clock in the corner of the screen. It read 8:59.
One more minute. Then she could take off the cardigan that had suddenly become the world’s most suffocating garment. Why couldn’t Zoom meetings just be phone calls instead?
“Same time next week?” she asked.
Both clients nodded.
“Great. Take care of each other.”
The screen went dark. Betsy immediately slammed the laptop closed. “Oh my god,” she groaned.
The cardigan came off first. Then the blouse. She fanned herself with a nearby notebook. “Why,” she muttered to the empty apartment, “does my body think I live on the surface of the sun?”
She stood up from her desk chair and stretched.
Her pajama pants were soft flannel, patterned with tiny constellations. Her tank top was clinging slightly to her back from the heat. On her feet were the world’s most comfortable fuzzy slippers.
Her professional wardrobe for the evening had consisted entirely of the top half of her body. Thank you, Zoom.
She ran her fingers through her brown curls, which were beginning to show stubborn streaks of gray near her temples. She could feel the dampness from her latest hot flash. With a quick twist, she gathered the strands and created a messy bun, relishing the instant cool air on her neck.
Betsy’s eye landed on the Therapist of the Year plaque on her wall. She left it there on purpose. Not out of pride, but out of spite. It was a daily reminder that she could see every else’s patterns clearly while apparently being completely blind to her own. Twelve years of marriage. Two years of couples therapy with someone else, and one very expensive divorce. And now she spent her evenings helping other people do the thing she had failed at spectacularly.
The only good thing to come from that farce of marriage was her son. He was currently stationed halfway across the world and had the audacity to be happily married.
The itching returned. This time her ear. She scratched it. Then her back again, then her scalp. “Am I molting?” she asked the ceiling.
Her hot flash was still raging, so she grabbed a glass of water from the counter and headed toward the balcony. Cool night air. That was what she needed. Just a few minutes outside and maybe she wouldn’t feel like a volcano.
She slid the balcony door open and stepped out into the night. The air was blissfully cool against her skin. For the first time all evening, her body stopped trying to cook her alive.
“Oh, thank god,” she breathed.
Then the sky lit up.
Betsy blinked as a beam of light descended from directly above her building. She stared at it for a long moment.
“…huh.” She rubbed her eyes, then looked again.
The beam was still there.
“Well,” she muttered, crossing her arms, “either I’m being abducted by aliens or menopause has finally pushed me into full hallucination territory.”
The light grew brighter.
Betsy sighed. “If it’s aliens,” she called up to the sky, “could you maybe wait until the hot flash passes?”
The beam pulled her upward for exactly three seconds. Betsy Parker was genuinely terrified. The city fell away beneath her, her apartment, her balcony, her entire ordinary life shrunk to a pinprick of light. Then the absurdity of it caught up with her. She was being abducted by aliens. In constellation pajamas. Still wearing fuzzy slippers.
“Of course,” she muttered. “Now my life gets interesting.” Her last thought before blacking out was, “Oh shit. I’m not wearing a bra.”
