The Break-Up Retreat(44)

“Martina doesn’t know yet,” I tell Sandra. “None of the staff members know. Don’t lose your cool. The moment you let yourself be scared, you’ve already lost.”

Sandra stiffens; then she surprises me by letting out a small laugh.

“Is that one of your dad’s sayings?” she asks me.

I feel myself redden.

“Maybe,” I admit.

“Yeah,” Sandra snorts. “That line of thinking worked out so well for him.”

She sighs, and some of the tension seems to drain out of her.

“Okay. Okay. You’re right. We’ll proceed. I’ll take that meeting with the doctor tonight, and you sneak in and check out the files. Then, once they’ve all gone to bed, you meet me in the woods and we’ll debrief.”

“. . . the woods?” I swallow. “Don’t you think that’s going a bit far? Can’t you just come to my cabin?”

“Still freaked out by nature, are you?” Sandra smirks.

“I’m not freaked out by nature.” I can’t quite keep the sour note out of my voice.

“It’s fine.” Sandra is clearly amused. “I know you’re a big city girl. But there’s nothing out there that will hurt you. Just walk to the other side of the pond and in through the trees at the split pine, until you get to the big rock. I’ll wait for you there. Ten o’clock.”

“There are bears here, you know,” I say.

“Trust me, I’d rather tussle with a bear than with Martina Hastings.” She grows serious again. “And, besides that, we’ve already been seen together. If I go to your cabin, or if they see you stalking around the staff quarters, that’ll be it. I know the woods are mighty dark and deep, but it’s safer that way. Nice and quiet, too. No one will hear us.”





Chapter 25


Martina is starting us off with a lecture on attraction, today. She has drawn a diagram on the whiteboard, and she is gesturing with the pen as she talks.

“. . . we are told that attraction is something innate, and primal.” She stabs the air with her pen. “But when we view attraction as something outside of our control, it leads us to making bad decisions. When we let attraction reside in the subconscious, it gives us an excuse to let ourselves be run by our impulses, as opposed to taking control of the process.”

I notice, offhandedly, that she has buttoned her shirt wrong. One side of her collar is higher than the other. And her hair isn’t its usual smooth, shiny self; the braid looks hastily pulled together. A little tuft of hair is sticking out the middle of it.

Martina stops and lowers the pen for a second.

“This is important, ladies,” she snaps. “So please pay attention.”

I see Clara jumping at the harshness of her tone; Leyla seems to sink deeper into her chair in a mild show of teenage-style defiance.

“The world tells us that we have no power.” A little bit of spittle has gathered at the corner of her mouth.

“It tells us that we are supposed to wait to be chosen. That to be chosen is an honor, and we should be grateful for any attention, sexual or romantic, that we get. But we have to reframe ourselves as the ones who do the choosing. When we’re not thoughtful and proactive in how we go about engaging with potential partners, we fall back on stereotypes. We end up picking who we think we should be with, rather than those we might actually be able to build a happy life with.”

She looks around the room, fixating on each of us for a few seconds, letting the intensity of her stare do the work.

She’s agitated , I realize, my pulse quickening ever so slightly.

Something has happened. Something has changed.

But what?

When Martina lands on me, she smiles. It is not a kind smile.

“Let’s take you, Isobel.” She taps the pen against the palm of her hand. It’s a harsh, meaty sound.

“What about me?” I ask her, my voice climbing half an octave in surprise.

“We established yesterday that you pick sexual partners because you like the attention, correct? And not because of an innate sense of animal attraction.”

“I don’t—” I begin to say, but she raises her voice and begins to talk over me.

“Being chosen made you feel powerful.” It’s not a question. “Engaging with partners who were attracted to you made you feel like you were the one in a position of strength. But you never actually made use of that strength, did you?”

“What do—what do you mean?” I stammer.

Martina stops tapping her palm.

“Let’s open this up to the group,” Martina smiles. “How do you think Isobel used her power?”

She looks around the room.

The silence that follows is a terrible, oppressive thing. The pressure to say something, anything, is overwhelming; I feel as though my ears are about to pop.

“You’re not helping Isobel by staying quiet, you know.” The disappointment in her voice is scalding. “You are supposed to be her companions through this process. You are supposed to help nurture her, just as she is supposed to help nurture you.”

She throws me another glance, cruel and quick.

“And challenging the harmful ideas she is carrying around is part of that process.”