Because of all this, she didn’t mention her ex for a while, not until we were working on step eight: Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all. I won’t sugarcoat it: step eight is a real bummer. Step nine is even worse: Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others. No one likes doing these steps, and if you ever hear otherwise, that person is lying. These steps are gut-wrenching—like pouring salt in a wound. But these steps are also essential to recovery. They help you find peace when the shame threatens to consume you.
This is where most people tune out. I get it, I really do: it’s like listening to nails on a chalkboard or scratching your eyes out. I expected Ann to run for the hills at this part too. Why make amends when you could do literally anything else? But she was resolute, and she stuck with it. She made a painstaking list of everyone who needed an apology, and number one was her ex. Even before her parents died, her drinking had become a problem: she passed out in public places, caused scenes at parties, threw tantrums whenever her boyfriend tried to talk to her about her behavior. She told this to me on the first day of spring—I’ll never forget it. We were in the park. The dew was still clinging to the grass, and the sun was just breaking through the clouds.
“I don’t know if I can see him again,” she had said with shaking hands and red-rimmed eyes. “After everything.”
I know they say addicts are weak, but let me tell you: it takes a lot of strength to live with those memories and put one foot in front of the other.
I encouraged her through the process, told her of course you can see him again. I helped her rehearse. And when her ex refused to hear her out, I was there for her.
“That’s okay,” I had cooed when she showed up in my doorway. “That happens sometimes. It’s his right to close the door on you. The amends are for you anyway.”
I said the words, but I didn’t believe them. Just listen to her. She’s trying her best, I had thought. My heart broke for her, and I would have given anything to take her pain away.
I only met the man once, at a flower shop with Ann. It was about three months after she tried to make amends with him. He was holding hands with a petite blonde, nuzzling her hair, and I remember thinking, that’s the most striking pair I’ve ever seen. Especially the man—he had one of those faces you just don’t forget. I nudged Ann then, so she could admire the couple with me, but she was already staring in their direction. Her face was white, and she wasn’t breathing. She dropped her pot of marigolds, her terra-cotta vase cracking into jagged pieces on the concrete floor, the dirt spilling out like an army of ants. The whole store went quiet, and he inspected Ann then. His lips pinched, his face soured. He recoiled, as if he found Ann disgusting, pitiable, and he shuffled his blonde out of the aisle before she could see anything.
“Don’t worry, these marigolds are sturdy.” An employee of the flower shop was helping us by then, picking up the pieces of the vase. A tear rolled down my cheek as Ann watched him leave because I finally understood why Ann was the way she was.
I had been resentful of that man ever since, stoking my anger over the years like a fire. Ann thought I didn’t get angry often, but I did. I just kept it below the surface, under a lid, until it finally exploded.
My fury toward him was misplaced. But that didn’t stop the blood from rushing to my face when I saw him at the retreat. When he had the audacity to wink at me. To raise his glass at me. My skin prickled. My fists curled. My nails dug into my skin until I drew blood. There’s no other way to say it—I was pulsing with rage.
I wasn’t proud of what happened next, but I guess it must be told.
I punched him.
13
Ann
I’m wearing it.
The small, white sports bra with “Last Chance” across the chest. It’s in the contract: wear the clothes or go home. So I’m wearing the clothes. And Ned’s theory burrows deeper into my mind. What if it’s all for a show?
I still don’t know what to make of Christina, either. She’s too difficult to read. Most of the time, she doesn’t even seem real. Her hair is always immaculate, even with the island humidity. Her silk button-downs and pencil skirts are always wrinkle-free. She doesn’t have an ounce of spare fat on her. And in a thirty-bedroom mansion with all-white furniture, I have yet to find a spot of grime or a smear of dirt. Even now, on the beach, with the morning sun beating on her back, she hasn’t shed a drop of sweat in her spandex.
What is she trying to hide behind that perfect façade?
As the sun ascends three-quarters above the water, the sky transforms from burnt orange to pale yellow to light blue. With the light behind her now, Christina becomes a dark, featureless figure on a yoga mat. Her shadow, three times her size, is a stark contrast to the white sand. Christina sits in a pose she called Sukhasana—her legs crossed, her back upright, her hands resting lightly on her knees. Her eyes appear closed, but it’s difficult to tell with the light.
“I invite you to take a cleansing breath,” she says with a steady voice. With the soft breeze and the rhythmic crash of the waves in the background, her voice reminds me of one of Reese’s meditation guides. But I’m not calm. Not at all. I’m fidgeting, anxious, recounting over and over in my head what I’ll ask Christina about Reese.
“In through the nose, out through the mouth,” Christina continues.
We, the participants, collectively inhale before letting out a long, guttural exhale. We look like a cult in our spandex uniforms and matching poses. Even without the stress of my current situation, I’ve never been a big fan of yoga—although Reese tried hard to change my mind. She brought me to dozens of classes, all different types and lengths and instructors, in an attempt to bring me some peace that first year of sobriety.
“Just sit still and soak up the positive energy,” she said in our first class, her face to the sky, her red hair piled high on top of her head.
“But I don’t like to sit still,” I responded as I bounced my knee and stole quick glances around the room. “It stresses me out. If I’m going to take an hour for exercise, I’d prefer to run off my anxiety—pound the pavement until my legs collapse and my head is blank.”
“You can get in the same headspace with yoga,” she urged, her blueberry eyes wide. “Focus on the positive, and when those negative thoughts bubble up, just pop them like balloons, one by one.”
I looked at her like she was crazy.
“Pop, pop, pop.” She smiled.
So I tried, again and again. I sat, stood, and lay down in various positions, trying to ignore the stench of a dozen sweaty bodies in an enclosed space that grew more pungent with each minute. I tried to pop the negative thoughts as they arose—the cravings, my parents’ absence, my precarious financial situation, my unwanted solitude—but they grew angrier and more violent as the class wore on. The instructor’s urges to be grateful, to become one with the earth, to focus on the now made me want to throw things.
“Breathe deeply once more,” Christina continues. “I want you to exhale any reservations you may have, any negative experiences that are holding you back from finding true love, your soul mate.”
Twenty loud exhales escape into the wind.
“And inhale the possibilities this retreat has to offer, the passion that is yours for the taking. Just reach out and grab it.”
I hate this. I hate it so much.
I survey the participants, most of whom are taking this very seriously. A girl with a pixie cut, eyes closed, reaches out in front of her and grabs the air. Next to her, Turnt Teddy also sits with his eyes closed, but he’s hunched over. Pale. His breathing is off. Perhaps he fell asleep. Wouldn’t be too unusual, considering the night he had before. When his head lolls forward, Basketball Blake elbows him, and Teddy wakes with a start.
In my peripheral vision, I see a couple handlers, all in black despite the sun, guarding the patio doors to the mansion. They’re as still as toy so
ldiers, and I wonder what exactly they’re handling. They’ve got to do more than patrol cocktail parties and yoga sessions. You don’t need guns for those activities.
In between the two handlers, half their size, is Henry, the shaggy man who took my bags when I arrived yesterday. With his arms crossed and a wide stance, he surveys the beach, his gaze moving among us like a laser. I return my gaze to the other participants before the laser lands on me.
The few women who aren’t closing their eyes—I really need to learn their names today—are staring, gaping, at the newest arrival, Nicknameless Nick. I can feel his gaze boring into my skin, have felt it burning for a few minutes. I glance in his direction, and he smiles at me softly. Offers a quick wink. I avert my eyes and pretend to focus on Christina.
I don’t have time for this.
When the session finishes, after Christina has wished us a glorious second day on the journey, I roll up my mat slowly, hoping it will give one of the other women time to grab Nick. But he’s at my side within seconds.
“Let me take that for you.” His tanned hand is outstretched, reaching for my yoga mat. He’s in front of the sun, light emanating from his body like wings, and I have to shade my eyes with my hand.
“Thanks.” I give him the mat, which he tosses over his shoulder like a ragdoll. He helps me stand with his other hand.
“So, are you going on a date now or meeting with Christina first?”
“Date first. Then Christina. I think I’m fourth in line when I get back.”
“Same here. Fifth or sixth maybe. I’m going to snag some coffee after my date, if you’d like to join.” His smile curves upward and to the left. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t run on just a few hours of sleep.”
“Oh.” I look at my feet, disturbing the sand as we march back to the mansion. “I was going to go on a run after, try to get my energy back up.” And try to spot anything unusual.
“Wow.” His eyebrows lift. “A run. With jet lag. After a yoga session. If I wasn’t about to keel over, I’d join you.”
“Maybe next time.” I shrug.
“Who’s your date with?”
“Ch—Clay.” I catch myself just before the words Chef Clay escape my mouth. I swivel my head to find Clay, but he’s gone. He must have already gone inside. “What about you?”
“Trixie.”
“Who’s that again?”
Nick glances behind him until he spots the woman with the pixie cut. He gives her a slight wave, and Trixie and the woman beside her both blush.
“Interesting name,” I say. Pixie Trixie. Too easy.
“Yeah, well, we’ll see how it goes.” He scratches his cheek as he holds the mansion door open for me. “Hopefully I see you later.”
I turn back to face him, to tell him yeah, maybe, but the handler with the eye tattoo has already thrown his Popeye arm around Nick’s shoulder in a buddy-buddy fashion, leading him toward the kitchen.
The eye follows me as they disappear.
14
Ann
The date with Clay goes . . . well. I guess. I try to concentrate on him during our picnic on the beach, but I keep mentally rehearsing what I’ll say to Christina. There’s no food, only champagne, so Clay ends up more than a little happy. He repeats the same bits of information: he’s a chef, he’s from Texas, he found out about the retreat through an advertisement in the mail. That last part piques my curiosity, actually. Every participant I’ve talked to has gotten a brochure in their mailbox. How were they selected to receive the ad? By looks, background, job? Certainly not by location. And why didn’t I receive an ad? What makes me different?
After our date, I run about three miles past the mansion on the beach. Nothing suspicious of note—just forest. I want to run farther, keep checking, but I don’t have enough time. I need to shower and let Stephanie humiliate me with her chosen attire before my session with Christina.
And then, finally, it comes. The moment I’ve been waiting for. Uninterrupted time alone with Christina. A chance to ask questions about Reese that won’t seem suspicious or out of place.
I straighten the dress Stephanie deemed appropriate for this occasion and fiddle with my watch before knocking on the door to the talking room. Three quick raps.
“Come in,” Christina answers.
I step inside.
The room is small. Not much bigger than an office. Unsurprisingly, the room is all white—white walls, white plush carpet, and two white armchairs facing each other. Unlike the rest of the house, though, there are no windows. No natural light. No dashes of color, however miniscule. There is a single side table—white—next to the empty armchair, and it holds only a box of tissues. Christina sits in the chair opposite me, legs crossed, back straight, hands in her lap. She’s as still as a cat, her eyes following me as if I were prey.
“Please,” she says, gesturing to the chair in front of her. “Sit.”
I do as she says, trying to get comfortable.
“Thank you.” When Christina doesn’t respond, I continue. “I like the room. It’s different from other therapists’ offices.” No degrees framed on the wall, no desk, no blanket, no personal trinkets. It’s colder too, and my post-run sweat makes me shiver.
“Well, I’m not a traditional therapist.”
“What do you mean? You follow an experimental school of therapy?”
“No. I mean I didn’t study psychology. It’s just something I picked up when I started the retreats.”
“Oh. What did you study then?”
“I didn’t go to college. Wasn’t the right fit for me.”
Damnit. With a school name or a license, there are public records. I shift in my seat, trying to segue naturally into another personal question.
“What made you interested in running a singles’ retreat?”
Christina smiles, like she knows something I don’t.
“You remind me of my younger sister,” she says with a tilt of the head. “She’s always interested in others.”
“Well.” I catch myself playing with my watch again, and I force myself to stop. “Guess it’s just how I learned to make conversation. I’m an open book, though. What about me would you like to know?”
“Let’s start with the retreat. Are you comfortable?”
“Very,” I lie.
“And you’re getting along with the men?”
“Yes, very well.”
“Anyone in particular that has caught your eye?” She smiles again, and I rack my memories for her face. I know I’ve seen it before.
“Um, let’s see,” I start. I should have practiced this part more. “I liked my date with Clay earlier. He seems like a nice guy. A little shy, but I’m that way too, so I can’t point fingers. And he’s a chef, which is a very nice skill to have in a partner. I can’t cook to save my life, so I need someone to help me around the kitchen.” I laugh, a little self-conscious, but Christina doesn’t budge. The woman is like a statue.
“What about Nick?” she asks finally, raising her unnaturally arched eyebrows.
“Also seems like a nice guy.”
“You two bonded last night, yes? After he woke you from your sleepwalking?”
How did she know that? Did Nick tell her? I must look confused, because she cuts in quickly. “Magda woke up when you opened her door. In the hallway I told you not to visit.” I search for signs of anger, but there aren’t any. If anything, she appears amused.
“Ah, yes. So sorry about that. Sleepwalking. Now there’s a habit I really wish I could break.” I’m amazed at how easily the lies are rolling off my tongue. “But yes, Nick was kind enough to get me some water and some food after I came to my senses.”
“Between you and me, he’s one of my favorites. Definitely one of the more attractive men who have attended this retreat. You would make a striking pair.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” I sigh. I wish she would divulge more of her personal life and fewer thoughts about Nick. “He looks like an ex-boyfriend.
Sort of makes it weird.”
“I think that’s fate then.”
She offers that familiar smile again, and I focus all my energy on acting normal. Better than normal, even. I spend the rest of our time answering questions like Reese or Honey would respond. Yes, he’s very dreamy. He makes my heart race. I can see our lives together at the end of this. I’d be so lucky to end up with a guy like that. Christina often asks me to rephrase—not unlike an actual therapist—if she doesn’t like my first response. What, specifically, do you like about him? Can you repeat his name again, just so I’m clear on who you’re referring to?
I’ve got to say: I put on a great performance.
But like a spider inching up my spine, Ned’s theory won’t leave me alone. Is Christina asking me to rephrase just to understand me better, or is it for soundbites? But if it is a show, where are the goddamn cameras? In the walls? I make another visual sweep of the room, trying to spot discreet hiding places.
Christina clears her throat, and I refocus on her.
“Well, this has been lovely, Ann. I hope you found it beneficial.”
“I did. Thank you.”
Christina’s gaze darts from me to the door, but I remain seated.
“Would you mind if I asked you a couple questions before I go?”
Her eyes narrow, but she nods anyway.
“You know Reese Marigold was my friend, right? She actually wanted me to come here with her.” I try not to wince—that last sentence hurts every time I say it. I should have come when she asked me to.
“Ah, yes.” She crosses her arms, which is the most movement I’ve seen from her in the past twenty minutes. “Reese. I was sorry to hear about her disappearance. Has there been any news?”
“No, none.” I inch closer to Christina, my butt practically hanging off the edge of the chair. “I was wondering if you could tell me about her time here. Did she find someone? Did she seem happy?”
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