I laugh as George goes on.
“This week will soothe your soul and set your spirits soaring. Your face will hurt from smiling, and your heart…” He places a hand on his chest like he’s taking an oath. “Your heart will be ready to love again.”
“I’ll sign up for the smiling and soaring,” I say. “But what makes you think my sleep, self-esteem, and appetite need your assistance?”
“Obviously, your body is your own,” he says, serious now. “I’m not going to tell you what to do with it. But do you feel like none of those areas need improvement?”
I shrug.
“I think enjoying good food, being surrounded by nature, and spending time away could help,” George says. “I just want you to feel like your old self again.”
My chest twinges. I wonder if George misses how things used to be, too.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s do it. I accept your plan. Eating, relaxing, fresh air. It sounds easy enough.”
George’s smile is devilish and all too familiar. It’s the one he offers before issuing a dare. “Yes, but that’s not The Plan. The Plan is much more intensive. The Plan is the reason why in one week, you will leave Vancouver Island a changed woman.”
“The Plan is a sex cult, isn’t it?”
He nods. “The sexiest. But also thecultiest.”
“So when you say I’m leaving Vancouver Island a changed woman, you mean…”
“You’re leaving it in a body bag. I’m sorry.”
I snap my fingers. “There’s always a catch.”
We grin at each other, and it feels like heaven.
“So there’s no plan,” I say.
“Fuck off. There’s a plan. I’ve got notes. I’ve done research. I have anitinerary.”
“Anitinerary?” This is very hard to believe.
“And,” George says proudly, “each day has a theme.”
“Now you’re shitting me.” My smile is bananas.
“I’m struggling not to be offended by the look on your face,”he says, but he’s just as bright. “I’m serious—I have it all figured out.”
“All right, genius. Let’s hear it.”
“There’s a process to getting over a breakup,” he says, crunching on a pretzel. “You’ve lost someone important—and that’s hard. But there are steps you can take to process what’s happened and, with any luck, move forward.”
I stare at his profile, the peony pink kissing his cheeks. “You really mean this, don’t you? You have an actual plan.”
“I do.”
George is horribly smart. He’s one of those people who can get by without putting in much effort. In high school, he half listened in class while he doodled and passed me notes. He didn’t study for a single test but had good grades, which meant I had to double my efforts to best him. George has never coasted in his work, though—he’s a hustler. He went freelance and has succeeded in an industry that becomes more demanding even as it dwindles. George’s passion for reporting is one of the things I admire about him, even when it’s pulled him far from home. When he digs into a story, he’s both tenacious and stubborn. I’m fairly certain he’s decided to make me his next assignment, but I have other priorities.
“I really am okay.” I take a moment to stare at the glass-like surface of a massive lake that reflects the gentle mountains rising above its shores. “I was a disaster after everything happened, and there are still days when I feel like a supreme failure. It sucks living at home and starting over, but it’s not all bad. The stuff I need to figure out isn’t about him.”
George looks at me from the corner of his eye. “When you say you were a disaster aftereverything happened, what exactly are you referring to?”
I gawk at him. “You know what.”
“Yes, but remind me: What happened?” His tone is even, not sharp but not indulgent, either.
