The Break-Up Retreat(40)

“It’s not so much work, really, once you get it down to a routine,” she offers, picking her cup up before appearing to change her mind and putting it down again on the table.

When she meets my eyes, I swear it looks like she’s softening.

“It’s nice, when you’re in a place like this,” she continues, shooting a look of disgust down at her green tea.

I lean forward over the table and lower my voice. Something about it being just the two of us in the large, echoing room makes it feel oddly intimate.

“Wouldn’t you just kill for a cup of coffee?” I ask her.

She pushes her lips together.

And then she rolls her eyes.

“Lord, would I ever,” she whispers back. “I can’t stand this herbal nonsense. I don’t understand how being given a proper breakfast would interfere with our so-called treatment.”

I laugh, delighted; and Pernilla gives me a begrudging smile.

“Yes,” I agree with her. “It seems strange, doesn’t it? But this whole place seems a little bit strange to me.”

“What do you mean?” Pernilla asks.

She has pulled back, a bit, and I waver; I don’t want to risk the faint connection we have built.

But the memory of yesterday, of how Martina held her back when the rest of us were taking a break, makes me push on.

“I just mean that the methods seem a little bit . . . extreme to me,” I say. “And there is something about this place. Isn’t there?”

Pernilla knits her hands together in her lap and looks down at them. I can see the indentation where her ring used to be, a faint line of soft skin at the base of her ring finger. She is stroking it with her thumb.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking.” I lower my voice even further. “I noticed you’re not wearing your wedding ring anymore.”

Pernilla whips up her head.

She pushes her lips together. I see the muscles working in her achingly thin neck as she swallows.

“Is that so?” Her voice has gone sharp.

“Where did it go?” I ask her.

Pernilla straightens up fully in her chair.

“I don’t think what jewelry I wear is any of your business,” she says, with all the ironclad confidence a lifetime of condescension can bring.

But I know I’m onto something. I can feel it, almost touch it.

“Did you give it to Martina?” I ask her. “Did she get you to give it to her? Did she talk you into it?”

I can feel her wavering.

She opens her mouth.

But then the doors at the far end fly open, and Leyla comes walking in, followed by Clara.

“Oh, good, I was worried I was late!” Clara says, before waving at us.

“Good morning!”

I see something behind Pernilla’s eyes locking shut.

She stands up from her chair, pushing it back sharply.

“I have just realized I am not very hungry,” she announces to the room, not even giving me a glance as she leaves through the same doors the others have just come in through.

I slump back in my chair, disappointment nailing me to the wooden chair.

A gentle wisp of steam is still rising from her cup of green tea.

“Do you think there is any chance of getting some orange juice?” Leyla asks, taking a seat next to me. “I don’t think I can choke down another cup of tea.”

The frustration is making me want to snap, but it’s not her fault she decided to arrive at breakfast at an inopportune time. Nor is it her fault I decided to try to make a breakthrough with Pernilla in the dining hall.

Clara sits down opposite me.

“Hey, are you okay?” Leyla asks me, nudging me with her elbow. “You look tired.”

“I didn’t sleep great,” I mutter.

Clara moves the cup of tea out of her way, so quickly the hot liquid splashes over onto the table.

“I have some green coffee eye masks you can try,” she offers. “They will get rid of those horrible dark circles in a jiffy.”

She puts her fingers to her cheeks and pulls upward.

“They might actually help with those bags, too,” she adds.

“Yeah, and heal her relationship with her parents, and grow back her hymen, right?” Leyla asks her, smirking.

Clara flicks her pink braid over her shoulder and stares at Leyla. She’s wearing her hair like Martina, I realize, and her clothes look like the good doctor’s, too; the same kind of white linen button-down, tucked into the same kind of light-wash, straight-legged jeans.

“The hymen is a myth,” she points out, with an icy bite to her words. “You of all people should really know that.”

Leyla snorts.

Just then, the doors open to the kitchen, and one of the waiters comes out, carrying a plate of whole-wheat toast, cottage cheese, and fruit salad.

She stops when she sees us.

“Where did Mrs. Boman go?” she asks.

“Pernilla realized she wasn’t hungry,” I explain, as Leyla remarks: “Wait, she asked you to call her Mrs. Boman? That is ridiculous.”

“I’ll take it!” Clara chimes in. “I’m absolutely starving. I barely slept a wink. I need to refill my energy deposits.”

Leyla groans.

“Just say you need to eat, like a normal person.”