The Break-Up Retreat(2)

Most of the people going to the clinic probably don’t drive themselves there, either. Based on the price tag, they probably have a driver take them.

Or a helicopter.

More likely, the woman just lives somewhere around here, in one of the small, quaint, interchangeable towns I’ve passed in the last hour and a half.

She might not even be aware of the clinic, or the rumors around it, at all.

“Fine,” Armin says. “How did you hear about The Himlafall Clinic ?”

I smirk at the mockery in his voice.

“Well, I first heard about The Himlafall Clinic —”

“You can’t say it like that,” he interrupts me. “They will sus you out. You have to say it like you mean it.”

“Fine,” I say, taking a deep breath. “I first heard about the Himlafall Clinic a few months ago. An influencer I was following went to the clinic after separating from her partner, and the way she spoke about her experience really made an impact on me.”

“Which influencer?” Armin shoots back, lightning quick.

“Lina Lee,” I answer immediately. “Suck it,” I add.

“I’m on your side, dickhead,” Armin mutters, before continuing. “Okay, Lina Lee, very good.”

“Do you know who Lina Lee is?” I ask him.

“Yeah. Tanya was obsessed with her. She used to make me look at pictures of Lina Lee and ask me if I thought she was prettier than her.”

“Shocker that the relationship didn’t work out,” I say, my voice dry as a bone.

“Yeah, yeah,” Armin says. “Whatever. We’re not talking about me. Back to your cover story. So, Isobel, what made you decide to seek out treatment at the clinic?”

I strike a sad, beaten-down tone.

“My boyfriend of four years, Kaveh, broke up with me a month ago,” I say, adding a tremor to my voice. “I felt like my whole life fell apart. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t work. . . . I lost almost twenty pounds because I couldn’t keep any food down.”

“Tell me more about this boyfriend,” Armin says. “Very handsome, was he? Successful? Grew up with three sisters, which meant he wasn’t embarrassed to buy tampons for you?”

I laugh.

“Yeah, he was a real catch. Love of my life.” I feel awkward after saying that, and, so as not to let it linger, I add: “Thanks again for agreeing to lend me your pictures for the Instagram, by the way.”

“No problem,” he says. “I’m honored you asked me to play the role of the scoundrel who broke your heart.”

I’ve been building the fake social media account for about four months, at this point. I named it @IsobelAnderssen01, mentioned in the first post that my previous (nonexistent) account had been hacked in order to justify why it didn’t go further back. I started posting pictures of food, and cute dogs, and, once in a while, Armin, with cutesy couple captions like “Brunch with this one!” and “We scrub up pretty good!” All to build the image of a normal woman in an average over-thirty relationship, someone who was pretty sure she was heading for marriage and two-point-four kids within a couple of years.

And then, a month ago, I let the account go dark.

“Do you really think they are going to look you up?” Armin asks me.

“I don’t know,” I say. “But based on what I’ve heard . . . maybe.”

The road has started climbing again, and the car climbs along with it. According to the map, I’m getting close. Only five minutes to go.

“Listen,” Armin says, and I hear all the things he’s not saying in the silent seconds that follow, an echo from last night.

“I’m really not sure this is a good idea, Isobel. It’s a lot of money. You might not find anything. And I’m still not convinced this doesn’t legally constitute fraud.”

“Just . . . take care of yourself, okay?”

I don’t know if I imagine his voice wavering.

“You know I will,” I say, quietly. “And I won’t be alone. Sandra is going to be there. You know she’d never let anything happen to me. She’s a mama bear.”

“I know. She told me the same thing a couple of days ago, when I called her to try to talk her out of it.” He sighs. “Call me every day, okay? And don’t get angry with me for saying this, but if you change your mind, I can come pick you up. I’ll pose as your boyfriend. Say that I decided I couldn’t live without you, that I’ve changed my ways.”

“It’s going to be fine,” I tell him.

Just as I reach the crest of the hill, I see the sign.

It doesn’t look like the other road signs. This one has clearly not been put up by the government, which makes me wonder if it’s even legal, but with the amount of taxes Himlafall Clinic must be paying, I can’t imagine anyone caring.

It’s a slim, wooden sign, about four-feet long, painted a partially transparent white to show the wood underneath, which makes it look like a naked cake.

On the sign is written, in tall, slightly curling letters:

WELCOME TO HIMLAFALL. YOUR NEW LIFE BEGINS TODAY.

. . . with an arrow pointing down a wide, well-kept side road.

“I think I’m here,” I tell Armin, breath slightly catching. “I mean, I think it’s here. I think I’ve made it.”