Chapter 13 Abby
Abby
Considering coach buses get a bad rep for being dirty, cramped and equipped with bathroom stalls the size of a broom closet, the one on this retreat is weirdly luxurious for something on wheels.
“You have to go back out there,” I tell myself in the mirror.
I glance down at the sink and suck in a breath like it might oxygenate me with courage.
Maybe if I pass out, I can be excused from this whole weekend.
That’d be nice. It’s clean yet dramatic.
Unfortunately, I’m starting to get lightheaded from holding my breath too long and oh, right, I’m not literally auditioning for a tragic role in a medical drama.
I exhale, unlock the stall door and step out with my head held high. Too high. Now my neck hurts. Okay, tone it down, Abby.
I once wanted to be an actress, back when I was nine and convinced I’d be the next Hilary Duff.
I even pulled off a full-blown sob story about our pet fish Fred “jumping” out of his tank, just so my parents wouldn’t find out I tried to set him free in the fountain off 25th Avenue.
Turns out, fountains are basically chlorinated death traps and not exactly the peaceful aquatic escape I imagined.
RIP Fred. I really did try. Looking back, I think my parents knew the truth and just…
pretended they didn’t. Which now feels like some gentle parenting 101.
Proof that sometimes white lies are totally fine. Harmless, even.
What Jonathan and I are doing is just a white lie. A tiny, barely-a-problem, save-face-at-work kind of fib. It’s fine. Totally fine.
I slide back into my seat beside him and he reaches into a lunch bag packed with snacks.
“Want a candy bar?” he asks, pulling out a Hershey’s like some sugar-coated peace offering.
“Yes,” I say, entirely too excited, even though it’s slightly past ten in the morning. A sugar spike might be the only thing keeping me upright today. I start to unwrap it, grinning like a kid.
“These are my favorite,” I admit.
“I know,” he mutters under his breath.
I freeze mid-bite, turning toward him. “Are you stalking me now?” I tease, chocolate already melting in my mouth.
He laughs. “Now that’s sexy.”
I giggle as I chew the massive bite down. Before I can stop him, he grabs my hand, leans in and takes a chunk out of the bar like it’s a shared ration in the apocalypse.
“You have your own, you maniac,” I protest.
He smirks and unzips his lunch bag again, revealing a stack of candy bars.
“Oh my God,” I say, laughing. “You’re planning to keep us high on sugar all weekend?”
“And hopefully booze,” he adds with a wide smile.
“You’ve got chocolate on your face.” I giggle while pointing to the smear.
“Where?” he asks, immediately wiping blindly at his cheek.
“Here, let me.” I lean in and swipe my thumb gently across his cheek to clean it off.
He catches my wrist, brings my thumb to his mouth and sucks off the chocolate, because we’re now living in an alternate universe where my appendage landing in his mouth is acceptable.
Warmth floods through me. Not the polite kind.
The kind that hits places that should absolutely not be lighting up for Jonathan Slack.
He lets go of my thumb, but not my eyes and now I’m just sitting here, blinking like an idiot, frozen in place like Ricky Bobby in Talladega Nights; I don’t know what to do with my hands. Except mine were just in his mouth, so yeah… new level of awkward.
Jonathan stays silent too, his expression unclear. Regret? Confusion? Did he really enjoy that? Did I?
Finally, he breaks the tension with a shrug. “Gotta play the part, right?” Then he turns back to his phone like he didn’t just give my thumb the world’s most confusing foreplay audition.
“Right,” I echo, trying not to choke on the lingering sexual tension in the air.
He lifts one of his AirPods toward me. “Wanna watch Love Island?”
I blink, in dismay. “You watch Love Island?”
He nods, eased as ever and smiles. “Who doesn’t?”
That smile of his is dangerously effective and could probably convince a nun to buy lingerie.
“True,” I say with a laugh, taking the AirPod and slipping it into my ear.
He leans back, holding his phone between us, angled just slightly closer to my side. We settle into a rhythm, me trying not to notice the way our shoulders brush, or how he laughs at the same parts I do.
Two episodes and one very steamy British argument later, the bus begins to come to a halt and through the oversized windows, the retreat estate comes into view.
It’s stunning. Wooded and serene, like a movie set for rich people pretending to rough it.
Jonathan stands and shimmies in front of me to grab our bags from the overhead compartment. He angles himself so it’s his butt near my face, not his crotch, which is gentlemanly… I guess.
Also, his butt looks firm. Like, distractedly so.
The man has a face that could make a Greek god jealous and a body that probably came with its own gym membership.
Ever since our kisses, I haven’t been able to stop replaying them in my head.
Not just because I was mortified. Because… they were good.
I’d be lying if I said I’d mind having to kiss Jonathan again for appearances’ sake. It’s not like it means anything. I’m not about to fall in love with Jonathan Slack of all people. So what can it hurt? …Right?
Except then he had to go and suck chocolate off my finger like some sort of dessert-loving Casanova and now my brain won’t stop showing me slow-mo flashbacks of his firm ass in my face. Like, is it illegal to want to squeeze it? Or bite it?
Dear God, Abigail. Pull it together. You are losing it.
I give my head a small, involuntary shake, hoping to rattle the mental image loose. Unfortunately, Jonathan notices.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, turning toward me, brows raised.
“Oh… uh, I think a bug flew by me,” I lie, far too quickly.
He laughs. “Girls and their bug issues.”
“Whatever,” I mumble with an eye roll, though…
he’s not wrong. I hate bugs. Hate them. Just thinking about them makes my skin crawl.
Like the overthinking, bug-averse nerd I am, I did Google the local wildlife before this trip.
The worst-case scenario is a tick, which is objectively gross and potentially life-altering, Lyme disease, anyone?
But Cedar Lakes’ website promised they spray regularly and maintain the tick population.
So… whew. One less thing to spiral about.
When I step off the bus, all thoughts of bugs and butts, fly out of my head.
This place is… jaw-dropping. Rolling green hills, perfectly manicured shrubbery and views so idyllic it’s like Mother Nature got a glam team.
The entire group collectively gasps as we take it all in, like we’ve just stumbled into a luxury yoga retreat or a catalog for rustic-chic weddings.
We get to pretend we’re relaxed and thriving here all weekend. Can’t wait.
I read that Cedar Lakes used to be a summer camp until someone got the genius idea to turn it into a highly sought-after venue for weddings and corporate retreats.
With its tree-lined lakes and the Shawangunk Mountains lounging in the background, I can definitely see the appeal.
If you’re looking for wholesome but make it editorial, this is it.
Which, of course, means a tiny pang shoots through me at the thought.
Marcus and I had planned to get married at the Central Park Boathouse.
Classic, timeless and elegant, just like I’d wanted.
I had designed the whole thing myself: an upscale boho dream, overflowing with florals and greenery.
The kind of wedding people would still talk about years later.
Well, they do, just not for the right reasons.
Instead of easy elegance, my guests got me ugly crying on a bench, then making a dramatic escape in a limo with Lila, while my mom had to go out and break the news to the guests.
I blink the memory away as we walk toward the main building to check in. Clusters of people are already sprawled around unlit fire pits while a live band belts out Rod Stewart like they’re headlining Madison Square Garden.
Then—over the music—I catch something that sounds suspiciously like Jonathan’s voice somewhere off to the left, half-laughing, half-serenading along.
“Wake up Maggie…” he croons in a low, gravelly imitation of Stewart’s voice, just enough of a tease to make me squint at him.
“Wow. You’ve got a surprisingly good voice… for a tall ogre,” I say.
He grins and keeps going, his version getting louder, cheesier—absolutely just to embarrass me. The worst part? I kind of like the sound of it.
He’s mumbling about being led away from home and something about heartbreak, then—without warning—grabs my hand and spins me into him.
People nearby clap along to the beat. Jonathan twirls me again, still holding my hand, still delivering his off-key-but-somehow-charming Rod Stewart performance like the lyrics are his personal confession.
My coworkers are laughing, singing along, and I’m standing there—breathless in the arms of the man I’m supposed to hate—while he hams it up.
What the hell is happening to me?
I glance over and spot Marcus, standing stiffly near the front of the group, designer carry-on in hand like he’s about to board a private jet instead of a lakeside retreat.
He’s watching me and Jonathan while we spin, laugh and dance as if we for-real like each other.
He seems confused. Or worse, like he didn’t think I deserved to look this happy.
Even if it’s fake. Except… in this moment, it’s not.
I’m not pretending. I’m not performing. I’m just… enjoying it.