Chapter 19
NINETEEN
SCARLETT
Six Months Ago
One of the counselors leads me down a narrow wooden walkway that curves gently through tall grasses and low-hanging branches. Then the door opens onto a space that looks like it belongs in a luxury eco-resort.
The walls are paneled in pale wood, which looks smooth and warm to the touch. A large bed sits against the far wall, covered in crisp white linen and layered with throws in muted greens and sandy browns.
On the walls, framed photos of forests and coastlines hang in simple wooden frames, and there’s a woven rug under my feet.
I inhale the scent of eucalyptus and citrus that lingers in the air as I stare through a large window that looks out toward the trees, and far beyond them, I notice a sliver of ocean glinting in the late afternoon light.
“This will be your room for the week, Mrs. Grant,” the woman announces pleasantly. “Dinner is at seven. Orientation for our new guests starts in an hour, and you are allowed to observe.”
“Thank you.” I’m genuinely impressed.
She smiles before stepping out of the room and leaving me alone.
I set my bag down on the bed and take a slow look around, letting the calm of the room sink into my bones. My shoulders start to loosen, and the tight knot I’ve been carrying since being told I would be separated from Sadie eases a little.
Maybe this place really is what they promised and I should just relax.
Before orientation, I unpack just enough to feel like I belong here, at least for a while.
I hang my cardigans in the small wardrobe, line my toiletries neatly beside the stone sink, smooth the already-perfect bedspread with my palms.
Glancing at my phone on the bedside table, I feel its magnetic pull. I step across the room toward it, but I hesitate before picking it up.
I don’t have to message Matt anymore.
The divorce was finalized last week.
Matt and I are still living in the same house until I can find something small and affordable, so I don’t have to blow through my settlement and savings.
But living together when we are no longer a couple is unbearable. Going from sleeping in the same bed to being nothing but roommates who barely speak is torture.
For the next few days, at least, I won’t have to listen to his footsteps moving around the house, dreading him walking into whatever room I’m in.
Still, obligation is a hard habit to break, so I grab the phone and type anyway.
Arrived safely in Saltspray Cove. Camp is beautiful. Sadie is settling in. Hope you’re okay.
I stare at the message before sending it, then do.
Matt won’t reply for hours, maybe not at all, and I can’t find it in me to care.
The truth is, our marriage ended the moment our daughter died from SIDS. The moment the world split into before and after it happened.
We tried to survive it at first. And when it was safe to try for another baby, Matt convinced me to. But it never worked. Each month was a new disappointment. And all the while, I knew something Matt didn’t.
I had been taking contraceptive pills without telling him.
The moment our Amelia was gone, I knew I couldn’t do it again. I couldn’t live through that kind of pain and emotional overwhelm again. And I did everything I could to prevent it.
Matt found the pills by accident, a year ago, in a small plastic pack tucked into a coat pocket I’d forgotten to empty. He filed for divorce three days later.
My phone buzzes. It’s a message from the man I’ve been seeing.
Let me know when you’re free. We can meet.
I don’t answer yet.
Orientation is held in a large open room overlooking the ocean, its glass walls wide open so the sea air drifts in freely. Plants spill from every corner. Ferns, palms, and long trailing vines wrapping around wooden beams.
The sea stretches out beyond the windows, endless and blue, the waves rolling in slowly.
By the time I arrive, the children are already seated on woven cushions—eight in total—arranged in neat rows on the floor of polished stone.
Each of the teenagers is dressed the same, in blue jeans and pastel T-shirts that match the colors of the buildings. A clean and simple uniform.
The weird thing is that their phones are next to them even though before coming here we were told they would be taken until departure day, so they can be fully present. I was glad the adults are allowed to keep theirs.
Near the entrance, a long wooden table holds a clear, empty plastic box.
Less than a minute later, Megan points to it. “It’s time to let go of your phones for the duration of your stay. Please put all the devices in the box and return to your cushions.”
One by one, the teenagers approach it without groaning or bargaining. They don’t even attempt to secretly send off last-minute texts.
They simply drop their phones in and return to their places without a word.
Sadie goes third. She hesitates for half a second, then places her phone inside before turning away. When she sits again, her shoulders relax, as if something heavy just slid off them.
When they are all done, Megan steps forward barefoot. “Welcome. This space is about complete presence.” She gestures for everyone to close their eyes. “Place one hand on your chest,” she continues, demonstrating. “Feel your breath.”
The room grows quiet except for the sound of the ocean and synchronized inhalations.
“In through the nose,” Megan continues. “Slowly count to four.”
They all comply.
“Now hold.”
They do as they are told.
“Now breathe out through the mouth longer than the inhale.”
I watch as the kids’ shoulders sink almost as they exhale.
The process is repeated again and by the third round, the energy in the room has shifted to something much lighter.
Megan moves among them as they breathe, occasionally kneeling to adjust a posture, or to place a hand between a child’s shoulders, murmuring praise.
“Good job, Sadie.”
Next, Megan instructs them to lie back on the mats.
“Let your thoughts float past,” she coos. “You don’t need to hold them.”
Soft chime sounds fill the room.
“Have you ever seen yours this quiet?” another accompanying parent next to me whispers.
I shake my head. “Not even close.”
After several minutes, Megan claps softly to end the session and the kids sit up and then stand in unison.
Then two staff members enter carrying trays of tall glasses filled with thick, vibrantly colored smoothies. Orange, green, red, colors so bright they almost glow.
As the kids take them from the trays, no one grabs and there are no spills.
Sadie accepts hers with both hands, the orange concoction.
I manage to pull her aside as the others begin sipping.
“How are you doing?” I ask quietly.
When she smiles at me, her expression is serene in a way I’m not used to, so relaxed. “I’m good.” She takes a sip. “Really good. These smoothies are amazing. We already got some before and they said we will get one every day.”
“That’s wonderful,” I say and Sadie grins and joins her new friends, the two girls who arrived the same time as us. Maybe they are sharing a room.
See, nothing to worry about.
After a few minutes, Megan calls for attention again, and the children are guided through a grounding exercise next, palms pressed to the floor, eyes closed, counting the seconds of contact to natural stone.
“Your body knows how to be calm,” she tells them. “We’re just reminding it.”
By the end, the kids look even more relaxed and peaceful.
When the session ends, they rise and file out quietly.
Back in my room, my phone buzzes again. This time it’s a message from Judy.
How is Sadie? Is she okay?
I type back quickly to reassure her. Judy is a helicopter mom and I know how hard it is for her to be separated from her daughter.
She’s great. Calmer than I’ve ever seen her. Really receptive to the program.
Then another message appears, from him. He also left a lot of missed calls, five in total.
Are you able to slip away tonight? Or are you busy?
I stare at the screen for a long time, then type.
Surprisingly, I have time. Let’s meet on the beach. There’s something I need to tell you.
The beach is quiet except for the rhythmic sound of waves sweeping against sand.
His silhouette waits by the shoreline of the public beach nearby, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched against the evening chill. I rehearse my ending speech with each step toward him, the words I’d practiced in the mirror growing fainter as the distance closes.
He thinks this is just another stolen moment, but I’ve already decided: tonight is the last time. I need to end the secrecy and the guilt. The way I feel like I’m living two lives and failing at both of them.
His face brightens when he spots me. My prepared first sentence sits ready on my tongue, but then as soon as we are standing in front of each other, he pulls me close and his lips find mine, warm against the cool air. Suddenly, my fingers betray me. They curl into the fabric of his jacket.
For just a moment, I let myself forget why this is wrong. I let myself forget everything else… even my best friend. Just like I did for the past three months.
Since that first time Gabriel took me into his arms.