The Break-Up Retreat(24)

“Don’t you think that sounds a little bit strange?” Leyla asks. In the golden light from the window, she looks like a figure from a Renaissance painting, all strong curves and soft features.

“I don’t know what would be strange about that,” Clara says, crossing her arms across her chest and raising her chin.

“I’m just saying,” Leyla says. “If she’s made such a major, revolutionary breakthrough in the field of psychology, wouldn’t she want everyone to have access to it? Wouldn’t she have wanted to test it in a clinical environment and published a peer-reviewed paper or two on it?”

“The world of academia is old-fashioned and elitist,” Clara says, with all the confidence of someone who has recently learned the word elitist .

“That may be so,” Leyla says. “But I still think it’s a bit strange to claim to have developed a radical new treatment protocol and to decide to keep it a secret. Seems a bit greedy to keep that information to yourself is all.”

“If you’re such a sceptic, then why are you here?” Clara asks, cocking her head to the side, smiling in name only.

Leyla shoots the exact same slim non-smile back at her.

“My mom wanted me to come,” she says. “And I love my mom. It’s only a week out of my life. So I’m here.”

“So you just took a spot that could have gone to someone who would have really needed it?” Clara asks, dangerously close to a sneer. “That was really nice of you.”

Leyla rolls her eyes.

“Trust me,” she says. “Nobody needs this. Least of all you, princess.”

Clara draws a sharp breath, her chest and throat reddening, and I open my mouth to try to break it up; but just then, the door swings open.

“Everyone enjoying the break?” Belinda asks, a bright smile on her face, which falters rapidly as she picks up on the humming tension in the room.

Leyla grins at her.

“I’m having a great time,” she says.

Belinda looks over to me, and all I can do is shrug.

“Um,” Belinda says, and then, seeming to decide to focus on something less heavily loaded: “I got your tea, Isobel.”

“Thank you,” I say, taking the cup from her and gulping down half of the weak, black coffee in two sips.

I burn my tongue, and when I begin to cough, Katarina moves toward me and slaps me on the back with surprising strength.

“Thank you,” I manage to choke out.

Katarina looks down at my cup, then up at Belinda.

“That smells like coffee,” she says.

“Well, that’s it for the break!” Belinda chirps. “Please, if you can all follow me back to the group therapy room.”

When we all file back into the room, like unusually obedient children, I notice that Pernilla is sitting back in her chair.

Her eyes are reddened, her lips slack.

Martina is standing by the window, looking out.

And when I look toward Pernilla’s finger, she’s no longer wearing the heavy diamond ring I saw her twisting less than half an hour ago.





Chapter 14


The rest of the group therapy session is less intense than the first hour; Martina pivots away from having us talk about our past relationships, and instead has us play word association games, come up with examples of strategies for moving on from past relationships, and lectures us about the neurobiology of break-ups. For the last half hour, she even brings out a whiteboard.

I keep sneaking looks at Pernilla, who barely seems like she is there at all. Martina doesn’t ask her any questions, either; she just sits there, occasionally attempting to twist the ring that is no longer there.

At the end of the session, when we all pile out for lunch, Pernilla doesn’t follow.

Once lunch is over, when the waiters are clearing away the plate, I lean over the table and ask Anna, as casually as I can muster:

“Hey, do you know why Pernilla isn’t here?”

Anna shakes her head.

“Maybe she just wasn’t hungry,” she says. “People have different circadian rhythms. She might just not be someone who eats lunch.”

“I bet she doesn’t,” I hear Leyla mutter, but I ignore it.

“Is she okay, though? She looked upset.”

Not just upset. She looked devastated. And that ring. . . . I think about the way Pernilla was moving when she left the group therapy room. Slowly and with great effort. The way she didn’t engage with what was said during the second half of the therapy session.

She almost looked like she’d been drugged.

“It’s sweet of you to worry,” Anna says, smiling. “But I’m sure she’s fine.”

I stare at Anna long enough for her smile to begin to falter; only then do I realize that I’m acting weird, and I shake my head, force a laugh.

“Sorry,” I say. “Yeah, of course she is. And either way, we’re in a safe place. You guys have medical training, right?”

I smile.

“We’re trained in therapeutic caretaking,” Anna responds. “We’re perfectly capable of handling anything that might come up, with any of our patients. Don’t you worry.”

Leyla clears her throat.

“But you don’t have any medical training?” she asks Anna. “Like, say one of us had an accident. How long would it take for an ambulance to reach us?”