Chapter 3
Chapter Three
The moment Harper and Everett stepped back inside Cabin Seven, the door thudded shut behind them.
The silence in the cabin was louder than the wind outside.
It pressed against her ears, demanding to be filled, but she refused to offer it anything.
In a courtroom, there were rules. There were stenographers to record every lie and a judge to sustain objections.
Here, there was no one to strike his pity from the record.
It was just her, him, and the oxygen getting thinner by the second.
Everett slipped off his boots by the door.
It would’ve been easier if he’d tracked mud across the floor. Of course, he had to be considerate. He had to demonstrate the exact kind of quiet thoughtfulness that had made her fall for him. It’s irritatingly efficient of him to ruin her sour mood with perfect manners.
She pretended she didn’t notice. She absolutely noticed.
Three years of separation, three years of building a life that didn’t require his approval, or with her crying in her car. She needed to get a grip.
“I meant it,” he said.
The words hit her solar plexus like a physical blow.
“You meant it when you said you loved me. You meant it before you walked out. Duly noted.” Her chest constricted, vision blurring at the edges.
He let a small, reluctant smile ghost across his mouth. It’s the kind of smile that used to unravel her on the spot. The kind of smile she rebuilt walls to avoid.
Her eyes stung traitorously. For one terrible second, she remembered how he’d smile at her over his morning crossword, asking if she knew a six-letter word for ‘forever.’
Always, she’d said, still half-asleep and honest. Always.
She looked away quickly, jaw clenching until her teeth ached. She walked to her bedroom, her hand trembling slightly on the doorknob.
The click of the latch was the most satisfying sound she’d heard all day. A physical barrier. Wood and drywall are reliable; they don’t leave, and they don’t change their minds. She leaned her forehead against the cool painted surface, breathing in the stale cabin air.
I survived the drive. I survived the session. I can survive the silence.
Sleep should have come easily. She was in a comfortable bed. Her suitcase had been unpacked. Her favorite gray sleep shirt smelled faintly of lavender from home.
The scent that once meant safety now felt foreign.
She shifted. Turned her pillow over. Tried reading. Then writing. Every word blurred.
Through the wall, she heard Everett moving. A creak. A muffled cough, the same dry rasp he got when he was anxious. Running water. Then quiet.
Too quiet.
She hated how her body registered the silence like a held breath, how it recognized someone she once knew down to the last heartbeat.
She padded down the hall for tea, anything warm to calm her nerves. As she entered the kitchen, she stopped short.
Everett stood barefoot near the stove. Moonlight brushed over his arms and collarbone. He stared at the kettle heating on the stove.
He looked… settled. His shoulders weren’t hunched the way they used to be when he would pace the kitchen at 2 a.m. The restless drumming of his fingers against his thigh was gone.
“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked.
He looked up, surprised. “Not really.”
She reached past him, her hand automatically going for the blue mug, her favorite color.
Their arms brushed.
He inhaled sharply but didn’t move away.
She stepped back, clutching the mug tighter than necessary.
“It’s too quiet here,” she said.
He nodded. His hand twitched toward the kettle, as if to pour for her out of habit, then stopped.
They stood waiting for the kettle to boil. Not speaking. Not comfortable. But not entirely miserable either.
This shouldn’t feel almost normal.
The kettle shrieked.
Both of them reached for it. Their hands collided, skin against skin, warm and familiar, the shape her fingers still remembered.
They both pulled back as if burned. The kettle wobbled. He steadied it. She steadied herself.
“Sorry,” Everett murmured.
“It’s fine,” she said. “Reflex.”
“Yeah.” He paused. “Old habits.”
Her stomach dropped.
We had habits. We had a life built on reflex.
He studied her face briefly.
“Goodnight, Harper.”
She grabbed her mug and turned toward her room.
“Goodnight.”
Don’t look back. If you look back, you lose.
She didn’t look back.
The door closed behind her. The burning behind her eyes threatened to spill over.
She woke up to air crisp enough to sting her cheeks as the couples gathered on the retreat lawn. Yoga mats were scattered over the damp grass. Birds chirped. Sunlight filtered through the pines like nature was aggressively rooting for them.
Harper narrowed her eyes at the sky.
“This place is too bright,” she muttered, forcing a lightness into her voice like armor. “It’s suspicious.”
Everett stretched his arms overhead. “It’s weather, Harper. Not a conspiracy.”
“Nature is judgmental,” she shot back. “Remember the raccoon that raided our picnic when you left the cooler unzipped?”
Everett gently corrected, “You tried to make friends with it.”
She scowled. “Semantics.”
Before Everett could retort, Marnie and Cal appeared from opposite ends of the lawn like two parenting experts who’ve seen every meltdown imaginable.
Marnie clapped. “Welcome to Trust and Touch. Here we’ll focus on physical attunement, body awareness, and nonverbal communication.”
Harper whispered, “This is already terrible.”
Everett bumped her elbow lightly. “We’ll get through it—”
“Don’t touch me during Touch.”
He lifted his hands. “Noted.”
Marnie laid out instructions. “Partner yoga increases trust, connection, and shared balance. Couples will support each other.”
Harper deadpaned, “Does divorce court have an injury waiver?”
Everett’s lips twitched.
They were assigned the back-to-back seated fold, which required sitting with backs touching, legs extended, and arms linked behind them.
Linked… Behind them… Attached.
Harper swallowed hard, then dropped onto the mat with military precision. Everett sat behind her. Their backs pressed together.
Marnie instructed, “Exhale together, then gently fold forward, relying on your partner to support your spine.”
Everett leaned slowly, guiding them toward the stretch.
He released her gently.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
The apology landed softly.
Uselessly.
“Sorry doesn’t rebuild broken trust.”
Claustrophobia tightened her chest. “This isn’t yoga,” she muttered. “It’s a trap.” She could feel his shoulders tense.
“We’re not in crisis,” he said quietly.
“You always did prefer denial, ignoring smoke until the house was already burning down around us. If you had to admit to having a problem, you might have to fix it, and you were always better at maintenance than repair. We were always in crisis. You just refused to label it.”
The silence stretched between them like a held breath.
“Up next—the trust fall. One partner falls backward. The other catches them. This teaches safety, reliability, and—”
“Humiliation,” Harper muttered.
“—connection,” Cal finished.
Everett positioned himself behind Harper. “I’ve got you.”
She crossed her arms. “You said that before, but then you ran away.”
He swallowed. “This time I mean it.”
“Haw.” She clenched her jaw. If I admit I’m shaken, you win.
“Fine.”
She stepped away. “You’re up.”
He turned away from her, arms crossed over his chest. “Ready.”
It’s a trust exercise. She’s perfectly capable. She’s not petty. Not nearly as petty as he deserved. Logically, she knows the physics. He falls. I catch. Simple.
But as he leaned backward, A flash of memory slammed into her: Everett walking out. Everett disappearing. Everett leaving her empty-handed and alone. Her body reacted before her brain did. She took half a step too slow.
Everett stumbled, catching himself at the last minute. He turned, shock and hurt flickering across his face. “You didn’t catch me.”
Harper’s heart twisted into shards. “I—”
Cal stepped in, tone gentle. “What happened there?”
Harper whispered, “I… hesitated.”
Everett just looked at her for a long, silent beat. Not angry… Not accusatory… Just… wounded.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That makes sense.”
The words gutted her.
Marnie clapped her hands. “Hydration break!”
The couples eagerly scattered.
Harper stood in place while Everett walked away, shoulders tight, hands on his hips, breathing through something she’s never seen him let himself feel before:
Being hurt by her.
And she hated how much she hated that. She closed her eyes, chest heavy. This was supposed to be easy. Just survive the retreat. Just sign the papers. Just get out. But nothing about Everett Gleason had ever been simple. Especially not the parts she never stopped caring about.