by J. C. Reed
Okay. I’m not going to panic. I refuse to. I’m going to stay on this tiny island for only six weeks. Six weeks.
Forty-two days.
1008 hours.
It should be as easy as pie. Except, I have the feeling it won’t be.
It’s going to be a fucking disaster, that’s what it is.
“What are you in here for?” A voice disrupts my thoughts.
I turn my head.
A young woman is sitting behind me in the half-empty bus, her expensive fragrance wafting over. Apart from me and her, there are eight other women—all ranging from their mid-twenties to their forties, all of them miserable looking. Or maybe that’s just reflection, and I’m only seeing what I want to see.
Most of them are dressed in casual clothes, except for the one behind me. She’s wearing a short dress and high heels—I glimpsed at her attire when she asked the driver to stop several times. Something about her having a weak bladder. She’s the reason we’re late. In fact, very late, which has diminished my hope of figuring out how to file a complaint immediately upon our arrival.
I barely give her another glance as my attention focuses back on the scenery outside the window.
“To be honest, I still have no idea,” I mumble more to myself than to her.
That’s half the truth.
Theoretically, I know what I did was wrong when the judge court-ordered me to this place.
Theoretically, too, I know they were all exaggerating when they claimed I broke into Bruce’s home. What I did was most certainly not breaking and entering.
I lift my hand to the glass and draw an invisible heart, my mind wandering back to the person who’s responsible for this.
“I don’t belong here,” I find myself whispering. “It’s all a big misunderstanding.”
“That’s what everyone says before they hit rock bottom.” She lets out a knowing laugh a moment before she slides into the empty seat beside me. A pale hand moves past me, hovering in mid-air. “I’m Sylvie, by the way. Sylvie Holton.”
I shake her hand. “Just Vicky.”
“This place is going to be amazing,” the girl continues, oblivious to my wish to be left alone.
“How do you know?” I narrow my eyes to regard her closer. Her long, blonde hair looks like a cascade of bright sunshine over her naked shoulders. Her eyes, blue and wide, are staring at me, full of curiosity and something else: knowledge.
As though she’s been here before.
“I just know.” She lets out a laugh, and I instantly know she’s one of those people who seem to laugh and smile all the time. I’ve always admired optimists and their ability to see the positive in the aftermath of drama. That’s a skill I haven’t mastered yet. “That, and my research has dug up a few things.”
“Yeah?” I pull up my brows in interest.
“Yeah,” she replies matter-of-factly.
My curiosity is piqued. “What did you found out?”
“For starters, they’ve just reopened some of the historical centers,” she says with a soft smile, like that’s supposed to tell me something. “This place actually gets a lot of tourist attraction, but since there are going to be renovations in the next few weeks, the place will be closed to the public before summer, which is why they’ve turned one of the historical buildings into a temporary rehab center.” The words pour out of her like a waterfall. Jesus. She can talk fast without breathing. I can barely keep up with her.
“Good for us,” she continues. “I’ve always wanted to have a whole island to myself.” Her eyes light up.
I don’t think the renovations plan was included with the info leaflet they sent me as a means of making it look like I had a choice in coming here. And I sure didn’t take it upon myself to find out much about the place after the hearing.
My eyes narrow as I give her a critical glance. Her eyes are framed by heavy eyeliner. She’s wearing fake eyelashes. Her whole posture is relaxed. Too relaxed for someone who is about to enter this kind of facility. She’s styled as though she’s about to join a party. She wears expensive designer shoes. And isn’t she the one with tons of bags? The driver could barely cram them inside.
Maybe she’s one of the counselors?
“Are you about to start working here?” I ask, unable to control the sudden mistrust seeping into my voice.
“I wish.” She lets out a hearty laugh. “But no, I’m here to get therapy.” She eyes me, amused. “Like you.”
I cringe at the word.
She says it like it’s not a big deal.
I give a sigh, curiosity rising within me.
“You don’t seem too bothered by this,” I state. “What are you in here for?
“I came of my own free will.”
“Right.” It makes so much sense, and yet it doesn’t. “I didn’t know that was even possible.” I draw my eyebrows up in surprise, then give a short nod. “Well, good for you. So, you can leave anytime, right?”
“Yeah, but who would do that?”
“Yeah, who would do that?” I make a face. How anyone could choose to stay of their own will is beyond me.
“Do you know where you’ll be placed?”
“No idea. And right now, I’m not sure I want to know.” I shrug and turn my head back to the window, eyeing the unknown territory and ignoring the pangs of desperation washing over me.
I wish they had let me keep my phone.
The very phone I had to hand in before we boarded the bus from New York to North Carolina. The only thing that would have kept me connected to the world, my real world. Now it’s gone, a figment of my past. Gone along with pictures of Bruce. His texts. The possibility of checking his updates on Facebook to see if he’s online and what he’s up to.
Bruce.
My heart slams against my ribcage.
If only I could get in touch with him.
Oh, wait.
A thought hits me.
If Sylvie can leave anytime, maybe she’ll send a secret message to Bruce for me. Maybe she’ll become a sort of messenger. I’ll ask for nothing major. Just to know if he’s okay and that he’s received the long text I sent right before they confiscated my phone.
The thought makes me giddy with excitement.
“Sylvie, right?” I ask to be sure I got the name right, which earns me a small nod. “You said you could leave anytime?”
“Yeah,” she replies and adds quickly, “I hope they’ll place us together in the same group so we can support each other.”
“That would be great,” I say with a sudden rush of excitement. “It would be a lot of fun if we could get to know this place together and help each other out.”
For example, by texting certain people, which I don’t mention just yet.
“I’m not sure we can roam freely, what with the renovations under way,” she says thoughtfully.
“Of course.” I nod my head. “But maybe they’ll make an exception to ensure we’re not bored to death.”
She lets out a loud, hearty laugh that has everyone turning their heads toward us, and I can’t help but realize I like her. Maybe we’ll be friends.
It wouldn’t be so bad to have an ally in a place like this, especially when my new friend is going to help bring Bruce and me together.
“I doubt that’s even possible. My job is already boring as shit,” Sylvie says. “I’m a business strategist. You?”
My stomach relaxes before tightening into knots again. “I’m a nurse…”
That’s how I met him, I want to tell her.
Bruce.
He was visiting his elderly gran after New Year’s Eve, and she introduced me to him. A few weeks later, I ran into him again at Starbucks, and he invited me for coffee.
God, I miss him.
I can’t wait for the whole thing to be over and get back to my old life.
“Look.” Sylvie moves her arm past me and points a long index finger to the window. “We’re here.”
I follow her line of vision.
As I make out the shapes, my smile dies on my lips and my frown deepens.
Ahead of us is a white building. It’s expensive and big. And frigging ancient.
It must be at least two hundred years old. At least from the look of it.
Please let it not be it.
Please.
I shudder at the thought of sleeping in an old bed. It’s an irrational fear I have. Like the fear of never meeting someone who’ll love me and want to grow old together. Or ending up all alone with only a couple of cats as company. Nothing against cats. I love them, but let’s face it, they’re not always exciting company.
It’s the same fear⎯the fear of losing someone⎯that got me in trouble with the judge. In my humble opinion, it’s nothing that reading a self-help book couldn’t solve.
They didn’t have to send me to rehab.
There, I just said it.
It’s an ugly word.
Rehab.
I associate it with needle marks on arms, yellow-stained faces, and moody alcoholics. To be honest, I’m sure being branded a love addict isn’t worse. It’s not like I follow Bruce everywhere and have to know what he is doing every minute of the day.
It’s simply enough if I know what he’s doing every day.
Chapter Three
Vicky
If I am being honest, I know that sneaking into Bruce’s home was wrong. But in my defense, I had a very good reason. One that comes in the form of a six-foot-tall, ice hockey player who has a crazy ex and a smile to die for.
When he didn’t reply to my messages, I seriously thought he had gone missing and that I’d be doing him a favor by tracking him down. For all I knew, his ex might have killed him and buried him in her backyard. He had told me on several occasions that she was jealous of him dating me, so much so that she even slashed his tires and set his sports equipment on fire.
The judge showed no understanding for any of my reasons.
Zero. Zip. Nada.
She went completely overboard when she called my behavior sort of stalk-ish and even had the nerve to tell me that I was addicted. The thought that my love for Bruce had turned into an obsession was so absurd, I laughed in her face, which did not amuse her.
But can you blame me?
Addicted to love?
I snort, which earns me a curious glance from the blonde sitting in front of me.
People are addicted to books. They’re addicted to caffeine. To alcohol or drugs. But to love? Sweet, tender love?
How can someone love too much?
But apparently when you violate your restraining orders three times, they have no sense of humor. It wasn’t even my fault. The first two times, he texted me and wanted to hook up while continuing to keep our relationship a secret. The third time…I thought I was doing him a favor by protecting him from his crazy ex.
If you were to ask me why I went to such great lengths to violate my restraining order knowing that I would get in trouble, I would answer:
* * *
I love him.
He needs me.
We belong together even though “forces are standing against us.”
* * *
The last two points were his words, not mine, right before he broke up with me.
He even defined our love as “star-crossed” and claimed he’d be with me if “the circumstances were ideal.”
Point is: I’m not planning on letting a stupid therapy center ruin what we have.
I stare out of the window. At least it’s not cold out here, and the world hasn’t ended.
Located off the northeast coast of North Carolina, this place is still near land. About four hundred years ago, a colony got lost and settled here. Even now, no one knows what happened, but it’s all very tragic and mysterious. It’s as if Roanoke Island is some kind of undiscovered Bermuda Triangle no one knows about. Roads are not marked well, and from what I hear from the driver, the GPS is spotty, at best.
Sure, I’m going to miss my phone.
All right, I have a confession to make.
Maybe I do have a bit of stalking tendencies. Maybe thoughts about Bruce have been consuming me lately. And maybe I do think of him all the time. But I’m sure I don’t need therapy to control “those urges,” which make me wonder all kinds of things such as whether he’s thinking of me.
To me, it’s all-the-more proof that I love him.
As we near the building, the chatter around us increases in volume. At last, the bus halts and a woman holding a microphone in her hand gets up. Her hair, dyed a scarlet red, makes it hard to guess her age. I realize it’s the same woman who took my papers when I boarded the bus. She must have traveled with us.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she starts, and I bite on the inside of my cheek. There are no men on the bus, so I assume it’s one of the many standardized speeches she is going to hold. “Welcome to the LAA Center.”
She pauses for effect.
It works.
Everyone is sitting so still you could drop a pin and hear it.
“This is going to be your sanctuary for the next few weeks. It’s a place where we don’t judge you. A place that will offer you redemption. With the help of the finest psychologists and renowned… blah…blah…blah.”
My mind trails off.
I’m far away mentally, thinking of Bruce.
What’s he doing right now?
I hope he isn’t back with his ex. I’m pretty sure she’s the one responsible for my restraining order…she and Bruce’s mom.
I’ve barely caught fragments of the woman’s long talk when people stand, and I follow suit. Everyone seems excited, like they’re about to go on a trip to the Bahamas.
Everyone but me.
In my opinion, they’re crazy, not me.
I don’t belong here, and I can’t wait to get the hell out.
Stepping out of the bus, I inhale the humid scent of the earth and the wind ruffling the leaves.
The air is crisp. Clear. It does nothing to improve my opinion of this place.
Holding my handbag in one hand, I drag my suitcase behind me, which I packed lightly because I’m convinced I’m not going to stay for long. The crowd seems to know what to do, so I trudge behind, up the broad path that snakes all the way to what looks like a mansion from the late nineteenth century. I’m not particularly into architecture, but even I can’t deny that this place is both scary and imposing.
The large, wooden doors open into a huge reception area.
I stop to stare.
My first impression wasn’t wrong.
Even though the building is very old, the architectural design still looks intact, but the walls smell of paint.
There is hope that we haven’t entered the nineteenth century yet. Maybe the furnishings aren’t that old either.
Like a mattress or bed, for example.
Or else I’ll be forced to sleep on the floor. Because there’s no way I’ll sleep on a mattress that’s absorbed the sweat of a hundred other people.
The redhead has stepped on a small podium in the entrance hall, from where she seems hell bent on continuing her speech, her hand extending toward the rows of brown boxes stacked on a long table.
“Please grab a welcome package,” she says. “It contains all the information you’ll need as well as your therapy plan. We’re giving you the day to explore and acquaint yourself with the premises, so there won’t be any lessons. You’re expected to drop by your appointed counselor tomorrow at ten a.m. sharp. I wish you all a good time and hope to see everyone again.”
She hopes?
What does she think might happen? That we steal the bus and drive back wherever we came from?
On second thought, that isn’t such a bad idea.
A soft tug on my shoulder catches my attention. It’s Sylvie again.
“Are you okay?” she asks, her perfectly shaped eyebrows slightly raised. Her hand is clutching a thick folder, and I realize I was so engrossed in my thoughts that I didn’t even notice peo
ple are busying themselves with picking up their itinerary.
I shrug. “Yeah. Why?”
“You seem kind of zoned out.” She eyes me, amused. “You’re not scheming to break out already, are you?”
My face seems to catch fire. God, I’m such a bad liar that I don’t even try to answer that one. “I’m just tired.”
“Good,” she says. “Because I would strongly advise against it.”
“Out of curiosity, why?”
She shoots me a warning look and lowers her voice conspiratorially, which I’m pretty sure isn’t necessary. “I’ve heard people who aren’t complying are sent abroad to a mental institution. Compared to what’s going on over there, this is Heaven.”
She pauses for effect. I don’t want to point out the obvious—that since it’s all hearsay, she can’t know whether people are being sent abroad. And even if they were, maybe that place isn’t worse than this one.
“Yeah.” She pats my arm knowingly, misinterpreting my silence for dread. “It sounds awful, I know. Besides, I would hate to see you leaving so soon. We have to work in teams, and I think we’ll be a perfect match.”
“Don’t worry about me. I wasn’t going to run,” I say, my already bad mood plummeting further. “I’m looking forward to joining the cult.”
She lets out a laugh. “It’s not that bad.” Her gaze moves to my empty hands, lingering there. “So, where are you staying?”
“No idea. Time to find out.” As I walk over to the table to find my folder, Sylvie follows closely behind. She’s basically breathing down my neck. I find the one that says “Vicky” and rip off the envelope that’s glued to the box.
Anticipation and fear intermingle as I begin to read.
“Apartment 2B.” I scan the text quickly to absorb as much information as I can. “You?”
“Apartment 4C,” she replies, her voice oozing disappointment. “I guess we’re not staying in the same room after all.”
She sounds so thwarted I actually feel bad for her. “Doesn’t mean we can’t work together.”
“True.” She lifts her suitcase and exhales a small sigh. “Okay. I’ll see you when I see you.” She hesitates, as though there’s more she’d like to say but then decides otherwise. After another sigh, she walks off.