The Break-Up Retreat(21)

Jesus, I feel like a bug pinned to a table for examination. As though she’s forcing my wings apart and peeling my exoskeleton off, studying every detail, looking for irregularities.

“We slept together on the second date,” I say.

“And how was it, the first time?” Martina tilts her head to the side.

I didn’t prepare much about my fictional sex life for my backstory. I’ve got Isobel Anderssen’s entire work and family history clear to me, but not so much her sex life, other than having decided that she doesn’t have any major kinks or fetishes, that she’s a solidly vanilla heterosexual who would consider pink handcuffs scandalous.

I thought that would be enough. I was more worried about getting caught on irregularities, years and dates, things that could be memorized and verified. I didn’t expect to be questioned in detail like this in the first session.

But maybe I should have been.

Forum posts and anonymous reviews of Himlafall swirl in my head. Boundary-crossing. Disrespectful. I felt violated.

Suddenly, I can feel the others staring at me, their undivided attention like an itch. I can’t wait too long; I have to say something.

“It was . . .” I search through memories of sex, a hazy vortex of sweaty skin and faces that blend together. Finally, I land on a memory of Poor Linus, the only proper boyfriend I’ve ever had, and I grasp onto it.

“It was clumsy,” I finally say. “We didn’t know each other well enough, yet. And we were a bit drunk.”

“Did you have an orgasm?” Martina asks immediately.

“Jesus Christ,” I say, in genuine shock.

“Answer the question, Isobel.” The softness has gone from her voice.

I want, so badly, to push back, to show anger; to tell her that she can’t talk to me like this, that she’s not entitled to this kind of information from me, or from anyone. That these are vulnerable people, in this room, people who trust her, and that this is a disgusting way to treat that trust.

But I have to swallow it down. I have to play along. See what comes next, what comes after this.

The memory of Poor Linus rubbing the space between my left labia and my thigh until I faked a satisfied sigh pops in my head.

“No,” I respond. “No, okay? I didn’t.”

“Yet you say your sex life was good,” Martina says.

A faint smile is playing on her lips, now.

Stress and frustration get the better of me.

“What do you want me to say?” I blurt out.

“How did you feel, when you were having sex?” Martina leans back in her chair.

“I felt . . . powerful,” I say, surprising myself.

I didn’t mean to say that; I don’t know where it came from.

“Because of his attraction to you?” Martina says.

“Yes,” I say. “It felt good, to know that I could . . .”

“To know that you could have that effect on another person,” Martina finishes my sentence. “And to know that you could be that close to someone and still withhold that part of yourself.”

I stare at her, the shock of recognition making my fingertips tingle.

“Yes,” I say, feeling oddly breathless. “Exactly.”

Martina nods slowly.

“How many of your relationships have functioned that way?” she asks me. “Sexually, that is.”

I open my mouth, but no words come out.

“How many of the people you have slept with have you actually been attracted to?” Martina elaborates. “How many of them did you sleep with because you were simply drawn to the fact that they were attracted to you?”

“I don’t know,” I say. My voice sounds weak, and far away.

“I think you do know, Isobel.” Martina shakes her head. “I think it’s quite clear to everyone in this room.”

I can feel the weight of the stares on my face like something physical, like heat, or pressure; both light and utterly unbearable, all at the same time.

I feel dizzy.

I have to pull back, have to regain control.

I’m not supposed to be telling her about myself. I’m not supposed to be talking about Isobel Lindschold. I’m supposed to be talking about Isobel Anderssen, the woman who falls too fast and too easily, the woman who is still dreaming about the ex-boyfriend who left her and blocked her phone number.

“How did you feel when he left you?” Martina asks, snapping me back to attention.

I think the sudden change in direction is meant to disorient me, but this is better. This part, I’ve practiced.

“Horrible.” I draw a deep breath. “I felt lost. I felt . . . like I’d never be whole again. I felt like he’d taken the rest of my life away. All those plans, for our wedding, for our family, just . . . gone. In an instant.”

Martina’s gaze lingers on me.

Then she smiles and looks over at Pernilla.

“Do you believe her, Pernilla?” she asks. “Do you think she’s being truthful?”

“No,” Pernilla says. Her voice is higher, now, than it was, some of the polish having come off of it. “She’s just saying what you want to hear.”

I open my mouth to respond, fake outrage mixing with real anger, but Martina holds up a hand in my direction, stopping me cold.