12. Skye
— ? —
Skye
The annual retreat is mandatory.
I read the email three times, looking for a loophole. Selected teams of employees are expected to attend. Transportation provided. Accommodations assigned.
A lakeside resort. Three days and no escape.
I consider quitting again. The word sits on my tongue every time I walk past Jaime’s office, every time I feel his eyes follow me down the hallway, every time Josh asks when “the man” is coming back.
But Josh’s hospital bill arrived last week stamped PAID IN FULL. There’s absolutely no note, no warning, and no discussion at all, just a total zero balance sitting where four thousand dollars used to be.
The fight about it lasted five minutes.
“You had no right,” I shouted even though I know it’s a weak argument because I really needed the money.
“He’s my son too.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to swoop in and fix everything with money.”
“Would you rather he have medical debt before he starts kindergarten?”
“I would rather you ask me first!”
He stood there and took every word I threw at him. Just waited until I ran out of steam and said, quietly, “I’d do it again. Every time. For both of you.”
I cannot afford to quit. And worse, he knows I can’t afford my pride either.
The resort is beautiful in a rustic, expensive way. Wooden cabins scattered through the pines. A lake glittering under the afternoon sun. Team-building activities posted on every bulletin board. The kind of place that costs more per night than my weekly grocery budget.
I left Josh under the care of Shelby’s cousin who took me in when I was pregnant and had just moved to another state.
Shelby meets me at the check-in desk, her own suitcase rolling behind her.
“Please tell me we’re rooming together,” I say.
She shakes her head. “Three per cabin. I’m with Janet and Maria from accounting. You’re with Priya from legal and someone from marketing.”
“And Jaime?”
She checks the list. Her face does something complicated.
“What?”
“He’s two cabins down from you.”
Of course he is.
My cabin is small but clean. I unpack quickly, claiming the bed furthest from the door while my cabinmates make small talk about the drive up and the activities planned for tomorrow.
The plan is simple: hide inside until the welcome dinner, survive the mandatory activities, count down the hours until Sunday checkout.
Seventy-two hours. I can do seventy-two hours.
Shelby finds me before dinner, linking her arm through mine as we walk to the main lodge. The evening air is crisp, pine-scented, deceptively peaceful.
“You look like you’re walking to your execution.”
“Three days. Three days of team-building exercises and forced bonding and him two doors away.”
“I’ll run interference. Anytime he gets too close, I’ll create a diversion.”
“What kind of diversion?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Maybe I’ll fake a medical emergency. Maybe I’ll set something on fire. Maybe I’ll start a very loud argument about expense reports.” She grins. “Depends on my mood.”
“You’re a good friend.”
“The best. Don’t forget it.”
***
The welcome dinner is in the main lodge. Long tables, catered food, too much wine. I sit with Shelby and a group from operations, trying to pretend this is just a normal work event. Trying to pretend I can’t feel Jaime’s eyes on me from across the room.
He’s at the executives’ table, surrounded by department heads and board members. Every time I glance up, he’s looking at me. Not staring but... aware. Like he knows exactly where I am at every moment.
“He’s doing it again,” Shelby mutters into her wine glass.
“I see that.”
“It’s actually kind of pathetic. In a romantic, sad puppy kind of way.”
“Please stop.”
“I’m just saying. The man bought six companies to find you. That’s deeply unhinged.”
“I agree.”
After dinner, there’s a bonfire. My coworkers get drunk on the company’s dime while I nurse a single glass of wine and count the hours until I can disappear. Shelby stays close, a buffer between me and the rest of the world.
The fire crackles. Someone starts an off-key rendition of a camp song. The wine flows freely.
Around ten, Shelby checks her phone and swears.
“What?”
“My fiancé. There’s some crisis with the caterer for our engagement party. Apparently they double-booked and now there’s no one to make the appetizers.” She hesitates, looking at me with worried eyes. “I need to call him. Will you be okay for twenty minutes?”
“Go. I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Shelby. Go save your party. I can survive a bonfire alone.”
She squeezes my hand before she leaves. I stay another half hour, nursing my wine, watching the flames, pretending I don’t notice Jaime watching me from across the circle.
At eleven, I retreat to my cabin.
My cabinmates are still at the bonfire, their laughter carrying through the night air. I change into pajamas, brush my teeth, climb into bed. The sheets are cold. The pillow smells like industrial detergent. Through the skylight, I can see stars beginning to disappear behind gathering clouds.
Sleep doesn’t come.
***
At midnight, the storm hits.
It starts as distant thunder, a low rumble that vibrates through the cabin walls. Then the rain comes, a sudden downpour, hammering the roof like fists. The wind picks up, howling through the pines, rattling the windows in their frames.
Nobody predicted this. The forecast said clear skies all weekend.
And then the dripping starts.
I sit up, disoriented. A drop lands on my forehead. Another on my pillow. I look up and the vented skylight window is slightly stuck on one end.
“No.”
I scramble out of bed, dragging my suitcase away from the spreading puddle. The leak worsens by the second. Within minutes, my corner of the cabin is flooded, water pooling on the wooden floor, soaking into my shoes.
My cabinmates burst through the door, soaking wet and laughing until they see the disaster.
“Oh my God,” Priya says. “The roof.”
We try buckets. The water keeps coming, pooling on the floor, ruining everything it touches. The other two beds stay dry, but mine is a lost cause.
“The main lodge,” someone suggests. “Maybe they have extra rooms.”
We grab what we can and run through the rain to the lodge.
It’s chaos inside. Almost half the cabins have flooded floors too because they left doors, skylights, and windows open before the sudden, heavy rain hits.
The ones closest to the lake taking the worst of it.
Staff members rush around with towels and flashlights.
Guests huddle in groups, wet and miserable and demanding answers.
“We’re completely full,” the coordinator tells us, her voice strained with exhaustion. “The dry cabins are already packed. Three to a bed in some of them. We’re doing the best we can.”
“So where do we sleep?”
“We’re working on it. Just... give us a few minutes. We’re contacting nearby hotels for bus shuttles.”
Shelby finds me in the crowd, her hair dripping, her phone still clutched in her hand.
“Your cabin flooded?”
“Leaked. Badly. The roof just gave up. Yours?”
“Fine. We’re on higher ground, away from the lake.” She grabs my arm. “Come stay with us. We’ll make room.”
“You already have enough people.”
“We’ll squeeze. Janet can sleep on the floor. She owes me a favor anyway.”
“Shelby-”
“I’m not letting you sleep in a hallway.”
“They’re not letting us sleep in the hallway.”
We’re still arguing when Jaime appears.
He’s soaking wet, sweatpants and a t-shirt plastered to his body, hair dripping into his eyes. He looks like he ran here through the storm.
“Your cabin,” he says to me. “Is it flooded?”
“Leaked. My bed took the worst of it.”
“Mine’s dry.” He glances at Shelby, then back at me. “One night. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“She can stay with us,” Shelby says, her voice sharp enough to cut.
“You’ve already got three people. Four won’t fit.”
“We’ll manage. Did you know some had three in one bed?”
“Shelby.” I put my hand on her arm. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. It’s him.”
“It’s one night. And I’m exhausted, and my clothes are soaked, and I just want to sleep somewhere dry.” I meet her eyes, trying to communicate everything I can’t say out loud. “I can handle it.”
She holds my look, then turns to Jaime, her gaze hard enough to leave marks.
“If you try anything,” she says to him, “I will end you. Slowly. Painfully. With whatever blunt objects I can find in the vicinity.”
“Understood.”
“I mean it, Jaime. She’s been through enough because of you. Don’t make it worse.”
“I won’t.”
Shelby hugs me tight, whispers “text me if you need anything, I mean it, anything at all” in my ear, and disappears into the crowd.
I follow Jaime through the storm.
His cabin is cozy and dry, completely untouched by the flooding. One room and one bed. A small couch pushed against the wall that’s clearly too short for either of us.
“I’ll take the couch,” I say immediately.
“Skye, that thing is four feet long. Your feet will hang off the end.”
“I’ll manage.”
He doesn’t argue. He brings me blankets, a towel for my hair, a dry t-shirt that I try not to think about too hard.
“Thank you,” I manage through chattering teeth.
“Try to sleep.”
He disappears into the bathroom. I change quickly, towel off my hair, arrange myself on the tiny couch. It’s exactly as uncomfortable as it looks.
He emerges and takes the bed without further comment. The lights go out. The storm continues to rage outside.
I lie awake, hyperaware of every sound. The rain hammering the roof. The thunder that keeps rolling through like it’s never going to end.
At 2 a.m., I’m still shivering.
The couch is too short. My knees are bent at an awkward angle. The blanket is too thin, still slightly damp from where I clutched it during the run from the lodge. My teeth chatter loud enough that he must hear.
The bed creaks. Footsteps cross the floor.
He stands over me, a shadow in the darkness. “You’re freezing.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not. I can hear your teeth from across the room.”
He returns with another blanket, drapes it over me, tucks the edges carefully around my shoulders. His hands brush my arm through the fabric.
I catch his wrist before he can pull away.
“I hate you,” I whisper. “I hate that you’re being kind to me right now.”
“Good for you.”
The rain pounds against the windows. The cabin creaks in the wind. His wrist is still in my grip, his pulse steady under my fingertips.
He leans down slowly. His forehead touches mine, warm skin against cold.
“Tell me to go back to bed,” he whispers.
I know I should let go, especially when every logical part of my brain is actively screaming at me to do exactly that.
“I can’t.”
He kisses me in a soft, careful way, treating me like a fragile object, and God help me, I kiss him back.