The Retreat

Dan snoozed all three of his alarms, finally lurching awake to toss back the duvet with his guts parked in his throat at 4:32. Oversleeping meant no time for coffee. Afternoon light glowed dimly around the edges of linty blackout curtains that were half an inch shy of fully covering the window pane but not narrow enough to provoke a return to Lowe’s. He pressed the pads of his fingertips to his temples, silently pleading with the ache that seemed determined to camp out behind his orbital bones to kindly fuck off. He didn’t need all of his brain, but some functional real estate within the grey matter would be nice after punching the clock at seven. It would be a long night.

He swung open the drier lid to discover his Carhartt khaki flame-resistant work pants, still unfortunately damp, smelled like dank basement since he apparently forgot to move them over yesterday. He thought of her as he tossed them back in and hit the start button in an attempt to minimize the swamp ass he was likely to endure for the next twelve hours. Megan wouldn’t forget, he thought to himself with equal parts sadness, self-pity, and irritation. His clothes smelled of old brie much more frequently since he’d been served. The paperwork lay untouched on the kitchen counter, as it had for weeks.

He tried to pull off his gold ring to switch to plant-approved silicone and found that he physically couldn’t. The puffy sausage that was once his finger throbbed under the pressure of the band; he winced as he tugged some more, but it wouldn’t budge over the ludicrously fat knuckle which had ballooned to nearly cartoon-sized proportions since last night. He balled his fists, opening and closing his fingers a few times, as if the muscle action would magically deflate his swollen hands. He hadn’t checked it lately but was certain his blood pressure would warrant lecturing from his doctor. Dan had regretted the last slice of Red Baron Four Meat Classic Crust (her favorite) even as his molars were still working to break down the nitrate-rich ham right before bed, but he couldn’t muster the desire to stop himself from eating the whole damn thing that they used to split between them. Megan also normally called in his prescriptions, and an empty Lisinopril bottle on the nightstand taunted him. Maybe his systolic number would be high enough for a night shift-ending stroke, a thought that didn’t sound bad to him at this particular moment. He forced the thought out of his head. He might be straddling the fence line of depression, but it wasn’t time to give up just yet.

He couldn’t be late. This was the most important job he’d ever had.

Dan grabbed a coffee-stained legal pad riddled with his clumsy scrawl and a bag of jalapeño chips for the car before stepping outside into the heat of a June evening.

Megan slammed her laptop shut and sighed. Who knew that one could actually get tired of working from home? Sure, she didn’t have to put on real pants if she didn’t feel like it, but a project management gig that she didn’t care about was not conducive to doing things she actually enjoyed, i.e. not working. What she really wanted right now more than anything was to get out of her cramped studio apartment with oak cabinets from the 1980s and medium-pile carpet that had likely soaked up enough offensive fluids to fill a bathtub or two over the past few decades. She wondered how much of the place would turn into a neon sign on a luminol test, a thought that was comical to consider but also made her shudder. Some things are better unknown.

The place wasn’t ideal, but at least she was no longer doing laundry for an insecure man-child who had actually asked her how to boil eggs once. Her apartment was shitty, but it was temporary, and most importantly, it was hers. Her name wasn’t on the house and she didn’t care for the idea of living with the juju of her failed marriage anyway, so it was an easy choice to leave. Popcorn ceilings and expanding rings of rust-colored water stains in the bathroom were but a short layover on her ride to freedom. She was saving for a big move.

The house she and Dan had lived in was a much more commutable distance to the office while her Craigslist lair’s location was an hour in the wrong direction. Her change in coordinates, along with a well-rehearsed pitch to her boss to let her work from home for her mental health for a while because of The Divorce (the tears, though unplanned, were quite effective) successfully landed her a hybrid designation. Only Wednesdays in the office. For all other days ending in -y (excluding weekends), she could carry out her basic job requirements typically prior to reaching the bottom of the mug on her third cup of medium roast. The rest of her day was spent intermittently checking for emails to appease the powers that be while mostly focusing on her favorite screen time: writing. Only lately, the writing had stalled. Being in her apartment alone nearly all the time had left her in a bit of a slump that she badly needed to escape.

She and Dan met in college. It was fun, easy, predictable. They’d fallen into a codependent state of being that their early-twenty-something brains naively registered to be deeply in love. She’d done well as a journalism major and turned down an offer across the country – probably the closest she’d ever come to identifying a “dream job” – in order to be with him. She wanted a future with his deep blue eyes looking back at her from the next pillow over in the mornings, her fingers forever interlaced with his. A job was a job was a job as long as they could build a life together, so she quickly let go of her journalistic ambition. He’d done well as a creative writing major and had put together a first draft of a YA novel that she genuinely thought had potential, but he’d never been able to get any serious traction towards publishing. He promptly accepted a position at the chemical plant upon graduation since he had no passion for teaching high school English. The novel still lay indefinitely dormant in the purgatory of an external hard drive in the upstairs home office.

For a brief moment, she felt a subtle flutter of emotion at the thought of those eyes.

She could still vividly remember being in love with Dan. She was a quiet observer to her past desire now that she was finally out of the house and away from him, no longer recognizing it as her own experience but able to acknowledge that it once existed. Once the chaos finally quieted – all arguments terminated, all boxes packed, all hope of changed behavior and reconciliation forfeited – she sensed that her feelings for her husband had slowly drifted down into the depths of her heart chambers like silt settling on the floor of a now undisturbed lake, unseen and unable to cloud her judgment so long as everything remained still. Some trigger would occasionally stir it all back up – usually something small like finding one of his unmatched socks hiding in the back of her drawer, a stowaway that seem planted there to remind her of how different her life had been not long ago.

Her grief wasn’t really for Dan himself. Seven years of marriage taught her that although they had good times and there were things she legitimately missed about being with him, they were never really that good for each other. Her sense of loss was more rooted in forfeiture of precious time, sadness at what could have been, and frustration at her life for not turning out the way she envisioned. She had wasted so much time. And for what?

She needed a fresh start, a personal palate cleanser: something to bring her back to herself with new focus and excitement for living her life however the hell she wanted, a concept that had crawled completely out of reach until she finally mustered the courage to call an attorney.

Buried within the code of her Instagram algorithm lay the answer. A millennial-aged man sporting a tan felt fedora, broken-in black Blundstones, and a tapestry of fine line wildlife forearm tattoos popped into her feed in a targeted ad following a reel of a blonde Gen Z makeup artist violently stirring her mushroom matcha with a glass straw.

“Come with me to Alaska on the writing retreat of your life!”

She still didn’t have a clue who the host author was when she tapped PAY NOW to submit her deposit.

Dan parked the used-but-new-to-him Honda Civic around the corner, giving him a diagonal view of her apartment building with sufficient cover from the dense layers of lush sugar maple leaves swaying on the row of trees that lined the sidewalk.

Her blinds were open. The golden hour glow illuminated the back wall of her living room in soft yellow light, creating a natural spotlight where she sat with slender legs extended on the chaise, face scrunched in cute concentration as she scrolled on her phone.

Dan’s phone buzzed. He glanced down at his notifications. It had been easy enough to get himself added as an authorized user on her new account without her noticing. He was still her husband, after all.

CHASE SAPPHIRE PREFERRED: You made a $1200.00 transaction with WRITE ALASKA LLC at 5:28 PM ET.

Alaska?

A quick Internet search brought up the retreat’s website. A week in a fishing lodge at the edge of the Prince William Sound surrounded by the breathtaking scenery of the 49th state. Hiking, campfires, and whale watching were to be sandwiched between morning and evening guided sessions to contemplate reflective prompts and regain one’s imaginative spark in the company of twenty other adventurous creatives.

Creative writing was his thing, and Megan knew it. Why would she sign up? Unless…

Was this an invitation?

He didn’t think she knew he’d been checking in on her, but he also knew not to underestimate her. She was so smart.

Dan blushed as he broke into a smile. She was such a romantic, always had been. It was the perfect place for them to reconnect. Hope surged upward through him like hot steam filling his lungs to cleanse the tightness in his chest that lingered since the day she left. He rubbed his temples again in soft, slow clockwise circles. He picked up the legal pad from the empty passenger seat.

I love you, I love you, I love you. I can’t wait to be with you again.

Glancing over his shoulder, he slipped quietly out of the car and jogged up to the tree with an unobstructed view of her front door. He checked that the camera was still in place, battery light still glowing green. All good.

Satisfied, Dan pulled onto the highway and headed toward the plant. He’d put in a PTO request tonight.

“Everyone, please take a few minutes to write about why you came. What brought you to Alaska?”

Megan wrote furiously. Words didn’t come out in a slow leak as they had in her apartment, effort painfully intertwined with each sentence. Here, it was as if the vault had been blasted open. She let her thoughts pour out as fast as her cramping hand would move across the paper.

After a few minutes, their host continued.

“Why should people read what you write? How are your ideas original? How can you cultivate yourself into an author someone should read?”

Heads were bowed around the room as if all were joined in sacred prayer. The atmosphere was silent save for the soft murmur of ballpoints leaving trails of thought behind them.

“I’m excited to hear from folks in a few minutes if anyone feels comfortable sharing what they wrote. Before then, I’ll give you one more prompt for this evening’s session: Write about three moments that changed the trajectory of your life.”

Megan thought for a moment.

Moving to Virginia right before middle school.

Dad dying when I was nineteen.

She paused.

The day I met Dan.

She looked up from her notebook.

A pair of glacier blue eyes locked with hers from across the room.

Alarm rose into her throat from the pit of her stomach in waves of white heat. He sat in the floor, legs crossed, a yellow legal pad resting on his thigh and the luxury fountain pen she’d bought for his birthday last year tucked behind his ear. He smiled, lifting a hand in a small wave.

She forced a soft smile in return. Shock quickly transformed to anger. What the hell is he doing here?

He stood up, quickly jerking his head toward the door that led from the lodge’s small conference room to the path outside. Can we talk? He mouthed to her.

She considered this. Everyone would see them leave together. There was safety embedded in multiple witnesses. And besides, she knew Dan. He could be impulsive and he’d clearly been invading her privacy, but she had never felt unsafe with him.

She wanted answers.

She got up and followed him outside.

Megan stormed out of the building, blowing past her husband who stood confused. “Hey!” he shouted. “Where are you going? I thought we were going to talk!”

She said nothing but kept going, willing her legs to propel her faster as her breathing intensified both from rage and the increasing incline of the trail. Black dots swam in her peripheral vision, dancing in all directions like tadpoles in shallow water.

The absurdity of the situation settled on her. She frequently dealt with his lies and manipulation over the years, but this was crazy. Bat shit crazy. How had she been so stupid? How had she not seen this coming? How had she fallen in love with this man she now realized she didn’t know at all?

The Sitka spruce that lined the path on either side thinned. Megan burst into a clearing bordered by a cliff’s jagged edge overlooking the sound far below. Dark water churned and sprayed against the rock as the crisp wind blew hair in her face. The snow-capped peaks of the coastal Chugach range bore witness in the distance while the defiant Alaskan summer sun remained high above them despite the late evening hour. She sat down and began to cry.

Dan finally reached her, panting. He said nothing.

Megan finally looked up at him, tears streaking her cheeks, her bangs stuck to the sides of her face.

“Explain yourself.” Her voice sounded foreign to her, someone else’s.

“I just… I thought you wanted me to come with you.”

“And why would I want that, Dan? How did you even know I was coming? The blatant disrespect for my autonomy, my privacy –”

“I thought maybe you were ready to work things out.” He looked hurt, eyes downturned, shoulders rounded and heavy with grief. She saw he was wearing the gold wedding band she’d picked out. He was turning it around his finger as tears fell into the dirt below him. “I love you, Megan. Please.”

Her fingernails dug into her palms. Her arms shook. “How many ways do you need to hear it from me, Dan? I don’t love you anymore. Is divorce not enough? Here’s your sign, buddy. You are pathetic. Being your wife has been the most utterly unfulfilling and embarrassing seven years of my life. I truly hate myself for donating so much of my time and effort to mothering you because you can do nothing for yourself. You certainly never took care of me. Even worse, I gave up everything for you.” She sucked in a sharp breath. “You ruined my life.”

And then he punched her.

She fell to the ground, hands trying to protect her face, but Dan sat on her torso and swung wildly. He just wanted her to shut up. His breath escaped in short sobs as he hit her again and again until he collapsed, falling beside her, both of them gasping. Blood poured from her nose and mouth as her eye swelled.

His mouth hung open in horror. He turned over his hands, staring at them as if detached from his body. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I – I didn’t mean to...”

He scrambled up and paced away from her, arms crossed over his chest as he clutched at his shoulders and cried harder.

Funny enough, Megan was thinking about the retreat as her consciousness waned and it looked as though her husband would beat her to death. She thought about the host’s question earlier. Why should people read what you write?

She’d be a survivor. A hero.

The solution had come to her as she listened to the cartilaginous crunch of her nose breaking when his fist connected. It was obvious. He’d almost certainly left behind evidence of stalking her. He’d practically done the work for her. Murder-suicides carried out by scorned husbands happened all the time.

She didn’t plan on dying today, though. The shoreline wouldn’t be far from the landing. She was sure she could make it back as long as she avoided the rocks.

Dan never learned how to swim.

He was still facing away from her, staring off into the mountains. He’d gone quiet.

She ran up behind him with arms outstretched and pushed hard. The sound of the waves masked his scream. She watched him disappear.

Megan smiled and wondered how quickly she’d be able to get a book deal when it was all over. Blood dripped from her chin, iron taste overpowering her tongue. She didn’t mind.

She looked around one last time, arms outstretched into the wind, and jumped.