The Break-Up Retreat
Camilla Sten
Chapter 1
Despite blasting the air conditioning, my hands are sweaty on the steering wheel. The sun seems brighter up north than I’m used to, the light so harsh and white I’m squinting through the windshield despite my sunglasses.
The car smells like stress sweat, and antiseptic cleaning agent, and pine, courtesy of the jaunty little air freshener hanging from the mirror. It’s bright pink and heart-shaped, which makes me think it should smell like strawberry, something that irritates me more than it ought to.
The combination of smells reminds me of a hospital room. I wonder if the car rental people thought about that. If there was some other, worse smell here before, and they decided this was preferrable.
I’ve been on the road for over four hours now, the rolling fields of sprouting wheat and rye slowly and steadily being replaced by woods, first sparse and lush, now thick and impenetrable. I’ve only stopped twice, first to use the bathroom, then to get some terrible, burnt, roadside coffee.
When my phone rings, I twitch, my hands slipping on the wheel momentarily. For a second, I think it’ll be them, somehow. That they’re calling to tell me they know that I’m a fraud, that they’ve reported me to the police, and that I won’t be admitted to the clinic.
But then I see the name flashing on the fancy Bluetooth-connected touchscreen on the dashboard, and I feel myself relaxing for the first time today.
It takes me a couple of seconds to figure out how to accept the call, but then my best friend’s voice fills the car at maximum volume.
“Isobel!” Armin yells at me.
“Holy fuck, that’s loud.” I struggle to turn the volume down. As I fiddle with the different faux buttons on the touchscreen, I once again curse inwardly over my decision to get a shiny, modern vehicle at the rental place.
I thought it would help with my cover story. But I won’t have any use for a cover story if I end up crashing the rented car into a tree because I can’t figure out how to operate it.
“Are you still alive?” Armin asks me, as I finally manage to get his voice down to a manageable level.
“More or less,” I respond, noticing that I’m using my speaker-phone voice but unable to stop myself. Slightly louder and more articulated than normal, as though I’m talking to someone who’s hard of hearing.
“Have they murdered you yet?” he continues, not acknowledging what I’ve said. “Did they tar and feather you? Or put you in a bear costume and burn you in a pagan ritual? Put a cage full of bees on your head?”
“Not yet.” I laugh. “But I am still on my way there, so don’t give up hope.”
Armin sighs.
“All I want is to be interviewed for one of those true crime podcasts,” he ponders, wistfully. “Like, I want to go on My Favorite Murder or The Witching Hour and talk about what a wonderful person you were, and how all I want is to see justice served.”
“I don’t think they are doing The Witching Hour anymore,” I say, mildly distracted by a sign warning me for potential moose crossings up ahead.
Jesus, I really am in the rural north.
“Also, I think you’d come across better on TV. One of those Netflix originals, you know?”
Armin hums thoughtfully.
“You might have a point, there,” he says. “I know exactly what I’d wear, too.”
“Well, I’ll do my very best to get murdered so that your dreams can come true,” I tell him, smile still lingering on my face as my anxiety begins to fade, little by little.
“Seriously, though.” Armin’s voice grows serious. “How are you feeling? Still feeling good? Pumped?”
I consider lying, but he’d hear it in my voice if I did.
“Nervous, mostly,” I respond. “But it’s too late to back out now.”
A few moments of silence pass by, and then he says, the levity leeched from his voice, “If you want to back out, I’ll help you out with it. I can loan you some money, you know.”
A pang of something akin to shame hits me, makes my palms prickle and my cheeks grow hot.
“I’d never ask you for that,” I say, trying make it sound lighthearted, knowing I’m not successful.
“I know,” Armin sighs. “I know that. But I just wanted to offer.” He pauses, for a moment, and then adds: “Again.”
There is a lingering discomfort in the silence that follows, stemming from the talk we had last night.
I can see his face as clearly now as I could fourteen hours ago, sitting in a small, dingy pub—my choice, not his—his sharp, regal features softened by the dim lighting, his eyes full of concern.
It hadn’t been a fight. Not really. But it had been as close to a fight as we’d had since we were teenagers.
“All right,” he says, clearly making an effort to try and brighten the mood. “I’ll quiz you before you get there. How did you hear about The Break-Up Rehab?”
“They won’t call it that,” I correct him. “Apparently, they’re very particular about calling it by its legal name.”
Another car passes me, going the opposite direction; it’s a sleek, shiny, gray BMW. There’s a woman in the driver’s seat.
For a fleeting second, I wonder if she’s coming from the clinic, but then I shake the thought. There are lots of other reasons she’d be on this road.