Chapter 11
April
Gemma pulls up in the middle of nowhere—proper bumfuck territory—just outside Hereford, a small town about three hours northwest of London. I’ve barely said a word the entire drive, letting the hum of the engine and Gemma and Anna’s conversation fill the space. And, as happy as they sounded, I couldn’t bring myself to join in. My mind goes back to Lucas and how his younger brother was just in my house. I tried to focus on the scenery, the Tudor-style buildings, winding canals, and postcard-perfect gardens, but none of it registers. There was no flicker of joy or any sense of appreciation, when usually I enjoy road trips.
Now, we’re parked in the middle of a muddy patch, surrounded by sad, drooping trees and a dodgy-looking dam—where I wouldn’t be surprised if a body or two had been dumped. A few weathered tin cabins dot the area and, to be honest, the place gives off an unsettling vibe that screamshorror movie.
“Well, if I wasn’t depressed before, I sure as hell am now,” I mutter, eyeing the bleak landscape.
“Excuse me,” Anna says. “Positivity only, please.” She throws me an encouraging look.
“Seriously, whatisthis place?” I ask as I scan the grim, wet surroundings. Before Gemma can respond, the faint rhythm of bongo drums drifts through the air, growing louder and louder. I frown.Where the fuck are we?
“Where the fuck is that drumming coming from?” I ask as I look around. I’m starting to wonder if I’ve accidentally signed up for a cult retreat instead of whatever this is supposed to be.
Suddenly, a man emerges from behind one of the cabins, catching all three of us off guard. We gasp in unison, and Gemma clutches her chest as if she might keel over from a heart attack. He’s brandishing what I assume is a smudge stick.
“Welcome!” he booms, far too enthusiastically for this depressing setting.
Is he missing teeth? Jesus Christ.
He’s tall, has leathery tanned skin, and is worryingly thin. He’s draped in a set of moonstone beads and a feather tied to a leather strap around his neck. His arms are covered in tribal tattoos, and his clothes are threadbare. I know Gemma found him through TikTok, but he doesn’t look like he can even afford a phone. Nor does he seem the type to believe in 5G. I half expect him to communicate through an empty can and a piece of string.
Before we can react, he steps in front of us and waves the sage stick in wide circles, wafting smoke over us. I glance at Anna and Gemma, silently pleading for one of them to explain what fresh hell they’ve dragged me into.
“Hi!” Gemma says brightly as a short, voluptuous woman steps into view. She’s dressed in a flowing boho-style dress with a blue paisley pattern. She’s wearing Jesus sandals and rhythmically banging a small cowhide drum.
“What’s with the drum?” I ask, nodding my head towards the woman.
“It’s for your energy,” the skinny man replies, as if it’s obvious.
“Of course,” I deadpan.
I shoot Gemma a look, wondering how she’s this enthusiastic.
“Wherearewe?” I whisper-shout at Anna.
“Welcome to our Solstice Retreat,” the woman announces. At least she’s finally stopped banging the bloody drum. “Your friend Gemma here has told mesomeone’sin need of healing.”
“I think I might start crying again,” I say.
Anna loops an arm over my shoulders, pulling me into a side hug. “Ignore her. She’s just a little fragile at the moment.”
“Come, I’ll show you to your cabin, and then we can join the rest of the guests. We’re so pleased to have you here,” the woman continues, gesturing to herself with a smile. “I’m Rose, and this,” she says, nodding towards the hippy beanpole who is now spinning in circles with his smudge stick, “is my husband, Gary.”
We’re led to our cabin, which features a linoleum kitchen, laminate flooring, and a shared bedroom with three single beds squeezed together. The bathroom, however, is surprisingly large, with a full-sized bathtub, a single sink, and a spacious shower.
“I hope you didn’t pay too much for this,” I say to the girls, dropping my bag onto one of the beds.
“Just try to enjoy it. At least we’re together,” Gemma says, hopeful.
I nod, forcing a small smile. She’s right. This is a thoughtful gesture—they meant well. I shouldn’t be ungrateful. If it weren’t for them, I’d be at home, alone, crying into a carton of ice cream. They’ve gone to the effort of organising and paying for this weekend, so the least I can do is try to appreciate it.
If this were any other time, I’d probably be laughing with them, enjoying the absurdity of it all. But I can’t. My mind is trapped in a constant state of missing Lucas. My heart is so broken, it physically hurts. No matter how much I sleep, Iremain exhausted. I’m not sure I remember feeling anything but this anymore.
“Come on, we better meet with the others,” Gemma says, holding my hand and leading me to the central deck.
Twelve other guests are seated around a large, square table, chatting amongst themselves. Eleven women, all older, and one man who, from what I can tell, has a thick Canadian accent. Friendly chatter fills the air as Gary emerges from a nearby cabin, balancing three large mugs on a tray. He hands each of us a cup of tea and I offer him a polite smile in return, reluctantly accepting the mug.
