14. The Cottage
THE COTTAGE
I had to force myself to pack for the retreat.
Toothbrush: the one from Lena's bathroom mug, which I took back last time I was there. Bass: in the case, zipped, the only thing in my life that always cooperates. Hoodie: the one that smells like her apartment—laundry detergent and coffee.
I text Lena: Hey babe, I’m leaving at six.
She replies: Safe drive.
I love you.
Ten minutes later:
I love you too.
The van is cramped with five people and their instruments.
Sandy's in the back with her guitar case and a bag of snacks.
Jeremy's driving and singing. Ana's shotgun with her phone, scrolling through playlists like she's in her own peaceful world.
Jo brought Rebecca with her, and is sitting in the middle row.
I'm behind Jeremy, window seat, watching the city give way to suburbs give way to countryside.
Nobody talks about the fight because nobody knows there was a fight.
Jeremy watches me in the rearview mirror.
"Rhonda, you okay?"
"I'm alright."
Jeremy raises his eyebrow.
"I'm here if you want someone to chat with," he says.
"Thanks, Jem."
I don't take it. He doesn't ask again. Sandy opens a bag of crisps and offers them around. The sound of crunching fills the silence. The countryside rolls past in greens and greys. I rest my forehead against the window and try not to think about the text message I'm holding like a stone.
By the time we're two hours in, Sandy's restless. She's been quiet, which means something's brewing.
"Can we stop at the next town?" she asks. "I need a snack."
"Bro, it’s a twenty-minute detour," Jeremy says. “No way.”
"I know. But if I have to sit in this van for two more hours without snacks, I'm going to lose my mind."
Ana looks up from her phone. "We just stopped two hours ago."
“I know. I just—I need something to do with my hands that isn’t reading about myself,” she says.
“Alright, alright.”
Jeremy takes the next exit. The café in town is small and good, the kind of place that exists in the space between somewhere and nowhere.
We all get out, stiff and creaky from the van.
Sandy goes to the counter and orders a triple shot latte.
I order a coffee. Ana orders a caramel slice.
Jo orders herbal tea and a scone. Jeremy orders nothing—he never eats or drinks when he's driving.
While we wait, Jo pulls me aside.
"Hey," she says. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, why?"
"You've been quiet all morning."
"I'm tired."
"From what?"
"Just stuff," I say. "Band stuff. Industry stuff."
"Really? I’ve been doing a lot more now. Are you sure its not personal stuff?"
I don't answer. The coffee comes. Jo takes hers and doesn't push further.
Back in the van, coffee in hand.
“I’m sorry, by the way,” Sandy says, to the van generally, to nobody. “For the mess. For dragging everyone up a mountain because I can’t keep my life off the internet.”
“You didn’t drag us,” Ana says. “Rhonda dragged us.”
That gets a laugh, even out of Sandy—a small one, but real.
“It’s okay,” Jeremy says, eyes on the road, “It’s a good excuse for a retreat. Now we can all have a break and have fun.”
“You guys are the best,” Sandy says, and she means it, and she puts her head against the window and goes quiet, and this time nobody fills the silence for her. We just let her have it.
The van is warm and, for a little while, nobody’s thinking about heartbreak or frameworks
I'm not there with them. I'm three hours away, sitting next to Lena, trying to figure out how to be the person she needs me.
Jo notices me not laughing. She reaches over and squeezes my knee.
The van is warm and the road hums under us, and I put my head against the cold window and I’m gone before I decide to be—out cold, mouth probably open.
When I wake we’re on gravel and the trees have gone white and someone has laid a jacket over me.
The cottage is warm and wooden and smells like pine and old books.
I hand out rooms like a camp counsellor. Jo and Rebecca take the blue room upstairs; Ana and Jeremy get the ones down the hall; Sandy’s at the end. Erica gets the room beside Sandy’s. She arrives an hour behind us—headlights swinging across the snow, her assistant Jenny at the wheel.
I choose a room at the back with a view of the garden and the trees beyond. I put my bass case against the wall and sit on the bed and look at my phone. The screen is dark. No messages.
I pick the phone up. I put it down. I pick it up again.
At dinner, Sandy and Erica keep not quite looking at each other.
The kitchen fills with five people and their appetites. Someone brought wine. Jo's telling a story about a soundcheck gone wrong. Ana's making observations that are too smart and accurate. Jeremy's eating and nodding and being the ballast that keeps us all from floating away. Sandy is quiet.
I sit at the table and laugh at the right moments.
At 10 PM, I sit in my room.
I call Lena.
"Hi," she says. I can feel the exhaustion in her voice.
"Hi."
Silence.
"How was the drive?" she asks.
"It took forever. We stopped for coffee so many times."
"Yeah?"
"Sandy needed caffeine. She was restless."
"About Erica?"
"Yeah."
There's another pause.
"What did you eat for dinner?" I ask.
"I didn't cook."
"Did you eat anything?" I ask.
"Yeah. Toast. Coffee."
"Lena—"
"I know.” She sighs. “I'll eat something."
"That's not—I wasn't going to—"
"Then what were you going to say?"
I can hear it in her voice. She's tired.
"I don't know," I admit. "I don't know what to say."
"That's the problem with us, isn't it? Neither of us knows what to say anymore."
"Lena—"
"You should eat. And I should probably try to sleep. It's late."
"Wait. Don't—can we talk?"
"I don't think I can do this on the phone, Rhonda. I don't think I can do this right now."
Something in me pulls tight.
"Okay," I say.
"You should eat," she says again. "You need to take care of yourself."
"So should you."
"Yeah. We both know that."
"I miss you," I say.
There's a long pause.
"I know," she says. "I miss you too."
"Will you be okay?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
"Goodnight," I say, and my voice cracks on the second word.
"Goodnight, Rhonda."