The Break-Up Retreat(20)

“Why was that?” she asks.

Pernilla looks around the circle, appears to be weighing her words. She’s beautifully put together, looking as pristine today as she did yesterday; a softly patterned silk blouse, slim-fitting white slacks, her sparse jewelry still flashy enough to signal casual, off-duty wealth. But the concealer can’t hide the bags under her eyes, the slight tremor in her hands as she begins to twist the wedding ring around her finger.

“I don’t know,” she says, and I wonder if she is lying, or if she just doesn’t want to say.

“Did anyone else have trouble sleeping?” Martina asks.

Clara shakes her head; Katarina slowly raises her hand.

As does Leyla.

Martina looks at me.

“Not you, Isobel?” she asks me.

I don’t like the way she singled me out, but I smile, automatically. Isobel Anderssen wouldn’t be offended at being called out; she’d be delighted at the attention of her hero.

“I never sleep well,” I say. “I’ve always woken up a lot. I’m a little bit tired, all the time.”

I laugh, but no one laughs with me.

Martina keeps her eyes locked on me, long enough that I have to force myself not to squirm.

“It’s natural for all of you to have trouble sleeping,” she says, finally breaking the eye contact. “Sleep is usually one of the first areas to be affected in times of great trauma. Our bodies end up in fight-or-flight. Often, we process emotional distress much in the same way we would process physical distress.” She pauses.

“It is, in fact, possible to die from a broken heart. Acute emotion-induced stress can put so much strain on the system that your heart simply gives out. Isn’t that fascinating?”

There’s something near lascivious about the way she says this; the way her eyes are shining.

“I’m telling you this because we are so often told to hide our pain,” Martina continues.

“We are told our emotions are not real. That they are not relevant. That we should move on , distract ourselves , and not let our emotions run our lives. But our feelings fulfill important functions. Our bodies work as a system, and feelings are a part of that. If your feelings have been hurt, deeply hurt, it is no less important of a wound than a broken leg would be.

“You wouldn’t keep walking on a fractured ankle. You wouldn’t try to hide it from the world, pretending like nothing was wrong. Yet, I think you have all been attempting to pretend, to various extents, like these recent break-ups haven’t impacted you the way that they have. You have been, in accordance with the metaphor, walking, and running, and jumping, on your broken bones.”

She draws a deep breath, and I find myself echoing her movement, filling my lungs with air, as I hear the women around me doing the same.

“So, the first thing we are going to do,” Martina says, “is bring those fractures into the light. We are going to practice acknowledging the pain. By sharing our stories, one by one, with each other.”

Martina looks at me again.

“Isobel,” she says. “You go first.”





Chapter 12


“I met Kaveh on a dating app,” I begin. “I didn’t think it would turn into anything. I’d been single for a long time. I went on a lot of first dates, and most of the time, it just fizzled out. They just weren’t interesting enough, or funny enough, or . . . something.”

“But Kaveh was different,” Martina says.

“Yeah,” I say. “He always makes me . . .” I pretend to correct myself, shaking my head. This is another thing I have practiced; the heartbroken tend to speak in accidental present tense.

“I mean, he made me feel safe. But not in a dull way. And he never seemed to judge me. He never pried, when I didn’t feel like talking about something, but he was always ready to listen when I was ready to talk. It just felt . . . easy. I thought we were it. I thought we were going to get married and spend the rest of our lives together.”

“And the sexual connection?” Martina asks.

I keep my face still.

There is a challenge in her voice.

Can she tell there is something just slightly off about my story? Are her psychological spidey senses tingling?

Or is it a power play?

“I don’t think I’m ready to talk about that,” I say, casting my eyes down, feigning shyness. “I’m a pretty private person.”

“Sex is an important part of romantic relationships,” Martina says. “Don’t you agree, Isobel?”

She pushes my name, putting the emphasis on the first syllable.

It’s funny. None of it is real, and I still feel a pang of real discomfort, the social pressure like a physical sensation.

I can’t imagine how I’d feel if it was all real. If I was actually dissecting a recently dissolved relationship.

I clear my throat.

“It was good,” I say. “Maybe not as frequent toward the end as it was in the beginning, but it was always . . . good.”

“You were attracted to him,” Martina says. It’s not a question.

When I look up again, she’s staring at me.

“Of course I am,” I say. “I mean, of course I was.”

“How long did you wait to have sex?”