by Beth Merlin
His face turned ashen as he tried to recall the chain of events.
I slapped my hands to my forehead. “God, I’m so stupid. Another woman would’ve put this all together, but not me. Not stupid, trusting me.”
Sam reached his hand across the table and caressed the side of my face. “You aren’t stupid. I’m stupid. What I did was stupid. I hurt you in the worst way possible, and I know that. How can I make it right? Please, Jo, don’t let a few months ruin everything we’ve meant to each other for so long.”
I wanted to believe him. I wanted nothing more than to erase this whole thing from our relationship and go back to the way we were. Maybe he was right, what was a few months’ fling weighed against years of love and mutual respect? On Law and Order, people were found not guilty by reason of insanity all the time, weren’t they? Maybe Sam went temporarily insane? The pressures of work and the wedding causing him to do something so completely contrary to his true nature, he was just coming out of the fog.
“Look,” he said, taking both my hands into his, “I didn’t want to tell you her name or who she was because I thought it’d somehow make the affair more real. But it is real, and it did happen, and if we’re going to move past it, I need to own that. No secrets.” Sam swallowed hard and said, “Her name’s Lena.”
My stomach dropped. In a city of millions, it seemed so unlikely his lover was the same girl I’d met earlier that day at the audition, but Sam had also mentioned she was an aspiring actress. “Lena Moore?”
His head shot up. “How did you know that?”
“I…I… met her.”
“Met her? When? How?” he panted.
My conversation with Lena played back like a song on repeat, her prattling on about her boyfriend, who was supportive and would be disappointed if she couldn’t get up the nerve to finish out the audition.
“At an audition today.” I pushed back from the table and narrowed my eyes. “Sam, are things even over with her?”
“I’m going to end it,” he whispered.
I stood up from the booth. “You’re going to end it?”
“Sit down. You’re making a scene.”
“I loved you more than anything in this world. I trusted you more than anyone in this world.”
He reached over the table and tugged at the bottom of my shirt. “Jo, come on.”
I shook my head as fat tears rolled down my cheeks. “I don’t even know who you are.”
“It’s just me, kid. Your Sam.”
“You’re not my Sam. Not anymore, and not ever again.”
Chapter Eleven
“Thank you for calling Retreat House Breakup Boot Camp, where our program fostering development, empathy, and self-love will help you discover your personal power.”
I cleared my throat and squeaked out a hello.
“Retreat House Breakup Boot Camp, can I help you?” the operator repeated.
“Hi, my . . . umm . . . name is, umm—”
“Take a deep breath and start again,” a woman with a clear, calm voice said into the phone.
I closed my eyes and breathed in and out. “Hi, my name is Joanna Kitt.”
“Hello, Joanna, how can I help you?”
I’d been fighting making this call for weeks, but I knew in my heart, or whatever was left of my heart, it was time. According to Merritt, a breakup wasn’t all that different from the death of a loved one. In the case of my breakup with Sam, I’d already moved through four out of the five stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining, and depression. Now, I was firmly stuck in the acceptance stage, unable to do just that, accept that Sam and I were over.
Days led into weeks, and I was starting to come apart at the seams. Empty takeout boxes and wine bottles littered the apartment. Work was usually the one place I could hold it together, but even that was becoming a daily struggle. After watching me fall deeper and deeper into despair, Merritt convinced me the Boot Camp might just be the thing I needed to help me admit things between us were really done.
I looked down at the pamphlet Regan the Wedding Unwinder had given me back at the bridal salon. On the cover was a beautiful beachfront property, a group of women doing yoga on the sand, while others carried surfboards into ocean waves. Every part of me yearned to be there, carefree, basking in the sun and sand.
“Regan Westman gave me a brochure on your program,” I answered.
“Yes, of course, we get lots of referrals through Regan and the bridal salon.”
“I guess I’m interested in learning a bit more about the Boot Camp.”
“Wonderful. Well, we’re located on beautiful North Topsail Beach on Topsail Island off the coast of North Carolina. Our philosophy is around healing the body, mind, and soul, so our retreat is phone and personal device free. We want our clients to unplug and really focus on themselves and not the outside world.”
So far, she was saying everything I wanted to hear. Ever since the email went out canceling the wedding, I’d been fielding calls from family members, friends, and acquaintances on both sides, checking in on me. Although I understood and appreciated their concern, having to share and continuously repeat details of our breakup was pure torture for me. The notion that I could turn all of that off for a couple of weeks was more than tempting.
“We limit the experience to fifteen guests at a time, and the next camp we have an opening for starts in two weeks.”
“Two weeks! I don’t know if I can—”
“We’re booked solid for the next three months. As you can imagine, people are much more interested in confronting their breakup during the beautiful summer months in Topsail versus the winter. We just happen to have a cancellation for the next session.”
“You’re booked solid for the next three months? That’s a lot of heartache.”
“Heartbreak takes all forms. People come here fresh off a breakup or following a decade-old divorce. We cater to anyone who wants a new start.”
“A new start? My heart is broken into so many pieces I don’t think it’ll ever be put back together the same way again.”
“Then give us a chance. What do you have to lose?”
I sighed deeply into the phone. “Not a thing.”
Two weeks later the taxi pulled up to the hotel, a casual but elegant building, reminiscent of a grand seaside mansion. The driver, a Topsail native, told me the four-story resort with detached bungalows was designed to feel like it’d been on the island for centuries, with long wraparound porches, Charleston brick, and ornate ironwork. He pulled around the circular driveway, and when he stopped the car, helped me lift my suitcase out of the trunk. I rolled the bag to a bellhop and followed him down the black-and-white tiled entranceway, up to the front desk.
I dug through my bag for the printout with my reservation information and set it down on the counter. The woman at the reservation desk scanned it and handed it back to me.
“Let me go get our Retreat House greeter. Just one moment,” she said.
I glanced around the lobby. I don’t know what I was expecting Retreat House to be like, exactly, but this wasn’t it. Normal-looking families and couples were grabbing coffee and pastries from the small table set up by the entrance to the dining room. Small children were carrying sand toys out to the beach. Where were the bleary-eyed, heartbroken women with their disheveled outfits and unkempt hair?
A few minutes later, a woman in a brightly printed sundress and the most perfect beachy sun-kissed blowout swept through the lobby and over to where I was standing.
“Joanna?” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Dr. Louisa Brier. I run Retreat House. Why don’t you leave your bag here. The bellhop will bring it to your bungalow, and we can chat for a few minutes,” she said, motioning toward an office off the lobby.
I followed her, and we stepped inside. She opened the sliding glass door at the far end of the office. “Let’s sit out on the patio. It’s too nice to be inside.”
We sat down at a small table covered with a large blue-and-w
hite umbrella facing the Atlantic Ocean.
“So, Joanna,” she said, pouring two glasses of lemonade, “what brings you to Retreat House?”
I set down the drink. “A recent breakup. Isn’t that why everyone comes here?”
“Yes, but people get broken up with all the time, and not all of them feel they need a two-week respite to move on with their lives. I guess what I’m asking is, why here? Why now?”
“This was a very long, very serious relationship. We’ve been together since high school and were supposed to get married this August.”
“And you were able to get away from work?”
“Yes, my boss encouraged me to take some time for myself. I’ve worked for him for a long time.”
“Good, it helps to have a support system back at home. Have you thought about what you want to get out of your time at the Boot Camp?”
“To be honest, I feel like I’m drifting without an anchor.” I set the glass of lemonade back down on the table. “Sam was my anchor.”
Louisa shared a sympathetic smile. “You can be your own anchor. Through therapy, meditation, and other healing activities for the mind, body, and soul, we’ll show you how.”
She placed a stuffed folder on the table and pulled out the top few pieces of paper from inside.
“First things first, your Breakover,” she said, handing me a schedule.
I looked down at my outfit. “My Breakover?”
“After a breakup, we often feel we need to drastically change our look. That’s almost always a mistake. The demise of a relationship is never really about anything as superficial as a haircut or losing ten more lbs. The best place to start is figuring out how you want to feel. It’s not about wanting to look like Victoria Ellicott, it’s about feeling more sophisticated, more put-together, and therefore coming across as more confident and self-assured.”
The months I’d spent killing myself at Benji’s Boot Camp flashed before my eyes. Mornings upon mornings of extra pull-ups, push-ups, and sprints, whatever it took to feel and look perfect on my wedding day.
She continued, “The purpose of our Breakover is to start you on a journey of self-love, which, of course, comes from the inside, but there is something empowering about taking the time to pamper yourself. So, you’ll spend today at our spa. We have you booked for a massage, followed by a facial, mani/pedi, blowout, and makeup application.” She slid over a small binder. “Here’s your schedule for the next few days.”
I opened it and scanned the first few pages quickly. Words like meditation, yoga, and healing jumped off the page.
“We sublease the property’s bungalows for the participants of the Boot Camp, but as you probably already noticed, there will be other guests around. It’s high season, and this is one of the nicest beach resorts on the North Carolina Coast, so it’s usually full occupancy this time of year. But don’t worry, we’re able to take advantage of everything it has to offer from yoga to surfing to the amazing farm-to-table fare produced by the hotel’s world-renowned chef.” Louisa leaned over and flipped to the back of the binder. “This is the story of Blackbeard, the famous pirate. According to local legend, Topsail got its name centuries ago, when pirates would hide their boats in the channel between the island and the mainland, and only the tops of the boats’ sails were visible to ships approaching from the Atlantic. Rumor has it, Blackbeard’s treasure is still buried somewhere on the island. In tribute to him, each Boot Camp, we bury a treasure chest somewhere on the beach. We enclosed a map of the property and some clues to help.”
“That’s fun.”
“We think so. Now, just a couple of Boot Camp ground rules,” Louisa said, passing me another form. “We pride ourselves in offering our guests a completely safe space to work through their breakup. As you know, this is a device-free program. You may leave your phone in your room for emergencies, but we will ask you to leave the Boot Camp if we see you with it during the day.”
“That’s not a problem. I’m looking forward to getting off the grid.”
“Yes, many of the Boot Camp participants tell us what a huge relief it is to be able to unplug from their life for a few days.”
She looked down at her watch. “We should wrap this up, so you have a few minutes to unpack and get to the spa.”
I stood up from the chair.
“One last thing,” she said, “for this to work, it’s important that you submit to the process, be vulnerable, and try not to pass judgment on others. Everyone comes here with their own set of past experiences and a different journey in mind.”
“I understand, I really do.”
“Good. See you at dinner tonight.”
I followed the hotel map inside the folder to my bungalow, a beautiful white beachfront cottage nestled just footsteps from the sand. Each cottage had a private screened porch, small but modern kitchen, and a private walled garden with an outdoor shower. The bungalow was modern and luxurious, while still maintaining the integrity of the hotel’s Southern charm. Looking around, it was easy to see how two weeks at the Boot Camp cost almost as much as my planned three-week honeymoon across Asia.
Fortunately, back when I booked the honeymoon, I’d taken the travel agent’s advice and purchased travel insurance. In the end, I was able to recoup most of the money I’d laid out for the trip. It was Merritt who convinced me to use the refund on the Boot Camp. As she said, if I wasn’t into eating, praying, and loving my way around Bali, then I needed to do something else to shake things up.
I threw my suitcase onto the bed, opened the double French doors that led out to the veranda, and let the salty sea air pour into the room. I leaned over the railing and noticed a handsome surfer dragging his board behind him as he headed toward the hotel. His black wet suit hung halfway unzipped, exposing his tan, muscular chest and washboard stomach. He shook out his long, shaggy, sandy-colored hair, pushing it back and off his face with his hands. Our eyes met for a moment when the hotel room phone rang from inside. I rushed to answer it.
“Joanna Kitt,” I answered.
“Joanna, this is the Retreat House Day Spa. We have you booked for a 2:00 body scrub and wanted to confirm you are still coming?”
“I’m on my way,” I said, hanging up. I hurried back out onto the patio and searched the beach for the mysterious surfer, but he was already gone.
Chapter Twelve
Turns out, the Breakover was exactly what I needed. The last few weeks of insomnia, alcohol, and crying jags had wreaked havoc on my skin and hair and nails. I always prided myself on being fairly low-maintenance and fortunately seemed to be able to get away with a more natural look. I wasn’t big into makeup or blowouts, preferring to keep my routine simple. Lately, though, simple wasn’t cutting it. My skin had taken on a lifeless hue, and the bags under my eyes were more than fifty shades of gray.
My Breakover started with a sixty-minute aromatherapy massage using essential oils, followed by a twenty-four-karat gold anti-aging facial and diamond microdermabrasion to remove dead and dry skin.
“After a breakup, when you haven’t been sleeping, and you may have a lot of stress, your skin is really sluggish. It can look puffy, and it loses its pallor, and sometimes its tone,” the aesthetician said, rubbing different serums into my face. “This Vitamin A will bring that healthy dewiness to the skin in the long term and help to heal the skin.” She leaned forward and put pressure on the corner of my eye.
I popped up on my elbows. “Ow! Is a facial supposed to hurt like that?”
“You have a clogged tear duct,” she answered matter-of-factly.
“I do?”
“From crying. It’s not uncommon here, believe me. I just released it. Use a hot compress on the corner of your eye every night this week for fifteen minutes and it will go away completely.”
I settled back down on the table while she finished the treatment. After that, I was given a revitalizing foot scrub using natural sea salt, signature pedicure, and paraffin manicure before the technician led m
e to the spring water mud pool for detoxification.
I slid into the brown, murky water and sat beside a woman who looked extremely familiar, although I was having a tough time placing her face, especially since both her eyes were covered with cucumber slices.
“I don’t know about you, but this is nothing like what I expected,” the woman said.
“The spa?”
“The Boot Camp. I was imagining group therapy sessions, where we confront our daddy issues and cry about our dysfunctional childhoods, not facials and foot massages.” She popped one of the cucumbers into her mouth, then turned to me and extended her hand. “I’m Zosia.”
“Zosia Barry? Never mind. I’m so sorry—we’re not supposed to pry,” I said.
“You’re not prying. My face has been splashed everywhere lately.”
Zosia Barry was the soon-to-be ex-wife of Richard Barry, CEO of Jungle, the world’s largest e-commerce marketplace. He’d been caught having an affair with his much younger assistant, and the two of them were currently locked in a fierce battle over their billions in assets. News of the Barrys’ impending divorce was the leading headline on every major news outlet.
I sat more upright. “I’m Joanna. It’s nice to meet you.”
She leaned over and cupped my chin in her hands. “You’re such a baby. Are you even old enough to have a broken heart?”
“It’s the diamond microdermabrasion. It took ten layers and ten years off my face.”
She laughed. “Good to know, as that’s my next treatment.” Zosia pulled herself out of the mud pool and used a towel to wipe herself off. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? My soon-to-be ex is off in the Maldives with his new girlfriend, and I’m here working on our relationship. The press has it wrong, you know. I don’t give two shits about the money—the bastard can keep every last cent. What I want is closure. After twenty-nine years of marriage, I think I’m entitled to at least that. Don’t you?”
One of the spa technicians leaned down and whispered, “Ms. Kitt, might I suggest you shower off? Your hair treatment and makeup application start in a half hour.”
