The Break-Up Retreat(27)

“It just . . . seemed like the quickest way to take care of the problem,” I say. “I only need to speak to her for a couple of minutes.”

Belinda nods, slowly and thoughtfully.

Then she says:

“Take a deep breath with me, Isobel.”

I want to protest, but she’s still gripping both my shoulders, and when she pantomimes a big, deep inhale I do the same.

“Do you feel better?” she asks me.

“I . . . sure.” I nod. “Yes, I feel great.”

It makes me feel small and unmoored, having to insist like I’m not upset, that I’m fine. Like an overtired child, up past their bedtime.

“Isobel.” Belinda smiles as she says my name. “Do you feel lonely?”

“What?”

It’s not what I was expecting her to say.

“I know that the absence of a person in the wake of a relationship can be crushing,” she says. “Sometimes that can lead us to reach out to people in ways that aren’t healthy.”

“I’m not trying to reach out,” I protest, but she keeps talking over me.

Her face is very close to mine, her fingers very strong.

“Sometimes we can even tell ourselves we have close bonds to people we don’t know very well,” Belinda continues. “We can even make things up in order to feel seen and heard.”

“I’m not making things up,” I manage to protest. “I really don’t have a knee injury.”

She’s squeezing harder, now. It’s starting to hurt.

“It’s okay,” she says. “You’re safe here. We’re all with you.”

She looks deep into my eyes, and for a moment I think I see a feeling in there. A glimpse of distaste.

Or disgust.

Then she lets go of me, and the relief is such that I take a step back before I can stop myself.

“You don’t have to make things up for us to care about you.” Belinda smiles. “Okay? If you want us to spend time with you, you can just ask. That’s what me and Anna are here for.”

“It’s not about that.” I look over her shoulder, toward the staff quarters. “I just want—”

Belinda steps closer to me, again, and I flinch.

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “We’re here for you. We’re all here with you, in this. There is no need to be embarrassed. You just have to be truthful. Otherwise, what’s the point? If you can’t tell the truth, there’s nothing for you here.”

NOTHING FOR YOU HERE. That is exactly what the note said.

It’s very quiet around us. I can no longer hear the laughter in the distance, the wind sweeping through the treetops. It feels like the world is holding its breath.

“Tell me the truth, Isobel.”

I stare at her.

“Did you—” I begin, but she interrupts me.

“You were going to sneak in to try to get your phone.” Belinda tilts her head. “Weren’t you?”

For a few seconds, my brain refuses to interpret what she’s saying, turn the syllables into meaning.

“Wh-what?” I sputter.

“It’s not the first time someone has tried to do that,” Belinda says. “It’s hard to handle being in the silence with your thoughts. The first couple of days are the hardest.”

“I wasn’t . . .” I begin to say, but Belinda shakes her head, and then smiles, sadly, a touch condescendingly.

“It’s okay, Isobel,” she says. “Especially after the first therapy session. This is a tough process. You are functionally detoxing right now. I’m sure you usually spend hours every day stalking his Instagram page, or listening to old voicemails, or looking at pictures of the two of you together. Am I right?”

I feel like I can’t think.

Is she fucking with me? Is this some game to her? Did she leave that note and use that phrase, just now, to test me, to see what I’d do?

Or was it just a coincidence? Is this all part of the twisted therapeutic protocol of Himlafall?

I can’t tell. Not yet.

So I smile, as ruefully as I can muster, and say:

“Yeah, you’re right.”

I slump my shoulders in a show of contrition.

“It’s normal,” she says. “You have become addicted to the dopamine rush. It’s unhealthy, but your brain can’t differentiate positive dopamine from negative dopamine. It’s going to be really tough for a couple of days, but once you get through that, you are going to be free from it. And from him. I know it’s hard to imagine right now, but I promise you it’s worth it.”

My pulse is still racing, my heart fluttering like hummingbird wings.

“Your individual therapy session is at four, right?” she says, sliding her arm around my shoulders and beginning to walk. “I’ll stay with you until then. I’ll help distract you. We can walk around the pond a few times. We’ll walk slowly, so we don’t strain your knees. You’ll see. It’s funny, how little exercise you really need to feel better.”

“That’s okay,” I try to tell her, but Belinda stops and looks at me, smiles with bright, white teeth.

“Don’t worry, Isobel,” she says, as she walks me away from the staff quarters. Away from Ellen.