Page 2 of The Seven Month Itch
Her chin dips to lower the designer shades now on the bridge of her nose. Moss green eyes dare me to look away. “Let Detective Stabler try,” she says with a smirk.
Emma Douglass is as unapologetic as the day I met her two decades ago. We enjoyed detention on our first day of high school after our homeroom teacher overheard Em say he looked like a predator onAmerica’s Most Wantedwho kept young girls chained up in the closet. In her defense, Mr. Shaw did give off magic potion vibes. His wild beard and unkempt gray hair favored Dr. Vink—with a va-va-va—fromAre You Afraid of the Dark?But mad scientist living in his mother’s basement was more his speed, not kidnapping. At least, I hope not.
She told me we’d be friends that day, the same way she told me to get on the plane with no sudden moves today. Em gets under my skin, and she’d have zero issue committing a felony offense, but I can’t live without her.
Emma grew up the daughter of a US senator and a mom who gives the Beverly Hills Housewives and their Botox dealers a runfor their money. Her parents are Blair Underwood and Milla Jovovich look-alikes—the ultimate DC power couple, fit for a Shonda Rhimes drama.
With her mom and dad lusting after private jets and crustless sandwiches, our bond strengthened over the years. She spent many nights at my house, which translated to home-cooked meals my mom would whip up on days her middle school class didn’t suck her soul. My dad, God bless him, has a brilliant mind as an engineer, but he couldn’t boil water in Hell. He did his best to step in and make dinner for “his girls,” but we kept the fire department and local pizza shop on standby.
Our home was humble compared to Emma’s, but it was comfortable, full of laughter, and the occasional burnt meal. It was a far cry from the fancy political galas she endured, but a place she called home. Em will lose a limb before she parts from her designer labels, but with us, she felt seen. Not like some heirloom her parents showed off for the cameras and later ignored.
We took the same classes in high school and attended Bodie University together, much to her father’s disappointment. Senator Douglass wanted Emma to go to his alma mater back in DC, but he lost that debate to his iron-willed daughter. She stayed in California after we graduated, left the San Diego area for Malibu, and never looked back. I packed up what little I owned and headed to Texas as a newlywed.
Our annual girls’ trips became a tradition during spring break. We plan them together, so it should’ve been a red flag when she asked for my credit card but never revealed the itinerary. February is the month of our trip—or so I thought. My soul almost fell out of my butthole this morning after her attempt to break down my door with stilettos like we needed to leave for witness protection.
Emma was wise to wait until we were midair and I was two drinks in to tell me we were off to a singles’ retreat. First, who has a weeklong singles’ retreat? Second, what inspired her to spend our girls’ trip looking for love? I’m fresh from the Land of the Broken Heart, and she…well, she hates romance but seems determined to get me back on the dating scene. No matter how many times I tell her I’m okay.
That‘s because she knows you‘re not.
Whatever.
It’s not that Ihaven‘tthought about it. I’ve been…busy.
Is a swan dive into work after your marriage hits a brick wall an unhealthy coping mechanism? Sure, I’ll admit it. But at least I scored a promotion and a fancy new title. That has to count for something, right?
Seven months of grief and resentment passed in a suffocating haze that never relaxed its grip. The wounds are still fresh, and I’m not ready to face the music. Divorce is a foreign tune I don’t want to learn, at least not yet.
The urge to hit the reset button after a relationship that started when I was a freshman in college isn’t there. Who in their right mind gets their heart stomped into the ground and jumps at the first chance to give it to someone else—at a retreat, of all places? Not me.
My pulse trumpets as we turn down a private entrance. Gravel and ice crunch in a symphony under the weight of the tires. I grip my armrest and steady my breaths. Everything clenches, including my vagina for good measure.
“Stop preparing for a crash landing and open your eyes,” Emma says next to me.
Post lights and white fencing lead to a hotel the size of the place inThe Shining. I don’t need to look at a map to know I’ll freeze to death in the hedge maze if there is one. With myluck, terror twins with pigtails in matching outfits will follow me around the halls. Perverts might be more survivable.
My eyes lift to a view that takes my breath away.
The resort sits at the bottom of a valley. It’s a mountain scene straight out of a Christmas movie—the kind where you kiss in slow motion as snow floats from the sky. Maybe if I rent a car and drive it into a ditch, I’ll meet some hot local who’s good with his hands and builds rocking chairs for elders in his spare time. I’ll bake cookies for the rest of my life if it erases all reminders of my failed marriage.
Okay, this place is gorgeous. I bet Mariah Carey has a chalet off the property and yodels her Christmas songs to wake up the town during winter. It’s that over the top.
Maybe Iwillrecharge and clear my head here. Christmas was painful back home with my parents, who flooded me with questions about my ex, if I’m okay, and my daily fiber intake. They meant well, but they treated me like a wounded animal in one of those commercials with the Sarah McLachlan song, the kind you can save with the change in your purse. It was my first Christmas as a woman on the road to divorce, and I didn’t have a chance to sulk with a bottle of wine and watchThe Holidaylike I wanted.
A change in scenery in a place that doesn’t remind me of my ex will do me good. If that means I entertain the company of strangers like a twistedBacheloretteepisode with true crime potential, so be it.
The shuttle door swings open, pulling the heat and the last of my patience with it. A man in a gold-and-black uniform with a fancy row of buttons dips his head inside. He’s missing the white gloves and tiny hat, but the pompous look is present in his glare.
“Welcome to The Ravine. Please watch your step on your way out. We hope you enjoy your stay,” he says to me. Or the sky. It’shard to tell who he’s talking to with his nose in the air. What a charmer this one is.
“She”—I nod back at Emma—“took me against my will. But I promise not to press charges if you turn the heat on outside.” I take his hand to get out and smile. His scowl etches deeper into his features, and I shrug.
Guess sarcasm isn’t a language they speak in these parts.
Em and I join the small group that files out the Sprinter and trudges over a path of snow toward the entrance.
Ropes of garland curl up the entrance’s four columns like holiday ribbon. The first-floor windows still have wreaths in the center that I know cost more than a month’s salary. It’s not hard to picture this resort in its full glory during Christmastime.
How Emma found a seven-day retreat in the middle of nowhere still baffles me. Come to think of it, maybe this trip has nothing to do with me. She watches videos of men chopping thick slabs of wood in suspenders and pants that squeeze their cheeks. She would die a happy woman if she found herself a mountain man who’s the perfect blend between the Brawny paper towel guy and Chris Evans.
