“Streamlining,” he repeats, tasting it like an unfamiliar spice.
“We don’t need six facilitators when one will do,” I say. “And I’m a one-woman orchestra.”
He lowers onto the stool opposite me, legs wide, elbows on thighs, camera cradled like a sleeping animal. “You’re seriously doing this.”
“I’m seriously doing this,” I say, running a hand through my loose waves. “The retreat model is an ATM with better views.”
“And you’re… what again?” He looks delighted. “A reiki master?”
“Certified,” I say. “By the Church of Me.”
He laughs. “Say the other one.”
“Hypnotherapist.” I give it sacrament weight. “I take their hand, count backward from ten, and by seven they’ll be confessing to crimes they didn’t commit and thanking me for the privilege.”
“Your ethics are showing.”
“They’re designer,” I say. “I wear them for photos.”
He studies me the way he does when he’s mapping continuity. “And Harper?”
“What about her?”
“If she resurfaces mid-retreat,” he says, “with a story that hurts.”
“Then she can buy a day pass and try breathwork,” I say.
He leans back, pleased and a little appalled. “God, I love you.”
“I know,” I say, and drink.
We run three segments. The intro lands on the third take. The sponsor break lands on the first—Second Chances with Shae Halston is brought to you by… insert brand that wants my redemption to rub off on their protein bars. Everyone wants in on absolution. It’s tax deductible.
At lunch we eat salads that taste like cardboard. Blake spreads the Costa Rica itinerary across a high table: drone shots, mock schedules, talking points.
“Seven nights,” he says, tapping the grid. “Forty attendees. Two tiers: Healer’s Circle and Survivor Pass.”
“Healers pay more,” I say. “They get a selfie and a bonus session where I pretend to touch their aura.”
“Schedule?”
“Morning ocean plunge. Breathwork. Hypnosis. Afternoon workshops on forgiveness, resilience, and selling your pain at a markup. Evening cacao ceremony. Sunrise yoga for the ones who like punishment.”
He laughs. “And tell me about the practitioners again?”
“Cancelled,” I say brightly, spearing a cherry tomato that bursts like a tiny crime scene. “Their fees are wasteful. It’s not fraud if the experience feels real.”
“And it will?”
“Ask my followers,” I say. “Meaning is a group project.”
He drums his fingers once. “Evelyn’s fine with this?”
“Evelyn is fine with compelling,” I say. “Compelling is me on a deck in linen, touching a woman’s forehead while she sobs about her cousin. Compelling is not a forty-five-year-old man with a ponytail explaining nervous systems.”
Blake doesn’t argue. He knows which battles he wins. He picks the ones with good lighting.
I check my phone. The retreat account has crossed a quarter-million in deposits and sponsor payments. The pretty-water-bottle brand wants to send engraved ones. The powdered-mushroom brand wants to send a shaman. I tell them to send money.
