Page 44 of The Resort

I stare at the disappointed guests as they walk past. My hands clench into fists, but they’re oblivious, consumed instead by the importance of their own lives, their shallow desires.

“Cass, love!” Greta’s voice plucks me from my anger. “Come take a seat.” She pulls out a yoga mat from the corner and expertly shakes it so that it lands flat against the floor a few feet away from hers. “I’ll grab us some water.”

I take a seat on the mat, tucking my legs up beneath me, and Greta returns a minute later with the waters, two cold glasses garnished with slices of cucumber. She’s dressed in a matching leggings and sports bra set that shows off her toned abs, and her hair is pulled back into a ballerina bun. She gracefully slides down to her mat, her legs crossed in front of her, before leaning toward me and wrapping both of her hands around mine.

“Oh, my sweet thing,” she says, noticing the concern on my face, her expression instantly filling with empathy. “I figured something was wrong when you missed the class. How are you?”

Her words are enough for me to break down, the tears barely having time to form before they flood down my face in waves.Everything rushes out: the fear of being exposed, the paranoia, my sadness over losing Lucy, the shock of Daniel’s murder. Greta, still seated, wraps me in her arms, rocking me back and forth.

As I drove around the island this morning trying to process the note and its implications, I realized that Greta was the exact person I needed. The speech she gave at our engagement party the other night was spot on. If the Permanents are a family, then Greta is the mother. It’s a bit ridiculous, given that she’s only ten years older than me, but she’s a nurturer. Ever since I met her that first night at Frangipani two years ago, she’s taken me under her wing, looked after me in a way. I’ve been thinking of telling her about my past for months now. Every week at our post-yoga coffee date, I consider it, even coming so close as to open my mouth to let it all spill. But something always stops me.

I rub my head against her arm, enjoying the feeling of her caress, convincing myself she’ll fix this. Greta will know what to do. She’ll know how to handle all this.

“That poor girl didn’t deserve to die like that, and neither did that man. You’ve been so strong through all this. I’m so proud of you.”

I look up at Greta’s dark eyes, brimming with compassion. I try to answer, but it’s as if my throat has been filled with medical gauze. The tears keep coming faster, and soon, greedy sobs rack my chest, soaking up all the air. After a minute, Greta’s voice breaks through the chaos, helping me focus on my breathing.In for two. I feel her hand rubbing delicate circles into my back. I can’t remember when that started. I stay there for a few more minutes, enjoying the Scandinavian lilt of her voice, as gentle as a lullaby, directing me when to breathe.Out for two.

When I finally regain a semblance of control, my breath eventually regulating itself, I turn to look at Greta. And I’m struck with an overwhelming urge to tell her, stronger than any I’ve felt before. I think how easy it would be. To confess about the threatening letters, the pills, the things I can’t remember from the Full Moon Party, all of it. To finally put my complete trust in someone.

But if Greta—nurturing, kindhearted Greta—rejects me, what would I do? She would certainly tell Logan; I couldn’t make her keep a secret like that. And then he would know I’ve been lying to him—to all of them.

“We don’t need to talk about it just yet,” Greta says carefully, as if she can hear my inner dialogue.

I nod, thankful for the change of subject, and I let the scents of the candles and the lull of the fan wash over me.

“I’m so sorry,” I finally say when my voice nears something resembling normal.

“What could you possibly be sorry for?” she asks, her forehead scrunched.

“With everything that’s happened, first the engagement and now”—I raise my hands outward, gesturing around me—“all this, I haven’t checked in with you. It’s only been a few weeks since Alice left. How are you doing?”

A shadow falls over her face, and it’s as if something inside her crumples.

“I’m…” she falters. “I’m getting through it. It will just take some time.”

She gives me a small smile, a knife to the heart. Greta is the only person I’ve met on this island who has been up front about her past from day one. After the first night we met at Frangipani,Greta invited me for a walk on Pho Tau beach, just the two of us. As we walked, she didn’t pry into why I came to Koh Sang—thank God—but she was more than willing to share her own story.

She told me all about Alice, the quiet, dark-haired woman I’d seen at Frangipani that first night and a few times since then, Greta’s arm always protectively looped around her waist. “I met Alice in high school in a town outside Stockholm. I knew she was the one instantly, as soon as I saw her. I’d never felt anything like it before.” The memories glistened in Greta’s eyes.

“Alice’s parents didn’t understand. They were old-fashioned, originally from far up in the northern part of the country. They couldn’t imagine their daughter dating another woman. And Alice, well, she couldn’t get over it. In her mind, her parents had tainted the entire country. We needed to go, far away, somewhere we would be accepted. We went to a lot of places—India, Indonesia, Laos. But something happened when we got to Koh Sang. We felt so much love, both of us. We could picture a future here. I would teach yoga, and she would cook at one of the beachside restaurants.”

Greta smiles at me now from her yoga mat with the same wistfulness she had when she talked about Alice on our first beach walk. “We were good here for a while, me managing the studio, Alice basically running the kitchen at Aroy Mak…” She trails off. “I mean, we were better than good. You saw it.”

I did. Greta showered Alice with love at every opportunity. Her mothering nature turned up to full blast whenever they were together. But Alice was different, colder. She was a bit shy and seemed young—even though I’d assumed she had to be the same age as Greta—and I was never able to get a good read on her. While Greta was always the center of the group, Alice stayed more on theperiphery, removed from the rest of the Permanents as if she didn’t want to be a part of what we had. Truthfully, I never really understood what Greta saw in her.

One night, a few weeks ago, just before Brooke arrived on the island, I showed up to Frangipani to find Neil, Doug, and Logan all crowded around Greta. Her shoulders shook as she sobbed into her hands. Alice had left. Greta had come back from teaching a Pilates class to find her apartment empty, Alice’s portion of the closet deserted, with no note and no explanation.

“I just never saw it coming,” Greta says now. “I think I lulled myself into this false sense of security. It seemed like there was nothing to worry about.”

I shiver, her words hitting a bit too close to home. I force myself to nod understandingly.

Our conversation lulls, but it’s a comfortable silence. It always has been with Greta. She’s the one person I feel like I can talk to without judgment, the only one with whom I can have conversations that I won’t recite back to myself for hours, searching for the things I shouldn’t have said or mentally slapping myself for using the wrong tone.

And finally, it feels like the time to confide in her. The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

“Greta, I need your advice. I…I haven’t been fully truthful,” I say, the emotion thick in my throat. “I’ve been lying to Logan…about my past.”

She’s quiet for a moment, and I squeeze my eyes shut, for once afraid to look at her. Afraid of the judgment I might see.

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