I came to the island searching for peace, a fresh start to heal from my past. Instead, I found HIM—charming, attentive, and everything I didn’t know I needed. But just when I started to believe in new beginnings, a single moment shattered it all.
Even though I’d spent decades there, my living room felt like a stranger’s space. At 55, I stared at the open suitcase, wondering how my life had come to this.
“How did we get here?” I asked the chipped “Forever & Always” cup in my hand before tossing it aside.
I ran my hand along the couch. “Goodbye to Sunday coffee and pizza fights.”
Memories buzzed in my mind, unwelcome guests I couldn’t evict. In the bedroom, the emptiness hit harder. The other side of the bed stared back at me like an accusation.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I muttered. “It wasn’t all my fault.”
Packing became a scavenger hunt for things that still mattered. The laptop sat on my desk like a beacon.
“At least you stuck around,” I said, patting it.
After two years of work, my novel was inside. It wasn’t finished, but it was mine—proof I wasn’t entirely lost.
Then, Lana’s email came:
“Creative retreat. Warm island. Fresh start. Wine.”
“Of course, wine,” I laughed.
Lana had always been good at making disasters sound appealing. The idea felt reckless, but wasn’t that the point?
I stared at the flight confirmation. My inner voice was relentless.
What if I hate it? Or if they hate me? What if I fall into the ocean and get eaten by sharks?
But then another thought crept in.
What if I enjoy it?
I exhaled and closed the suitcase. “Here’s to running away.”
I wasn’t running away. I was running toward something.
***
The island greeted me with a warm breeze and the rhythmic sound of ocean waves crashing against the shore. For a moment, I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, letting the salty air fill my lungs.
This is exactly what I needed.
But the peace didn’t last. As I approached the retreat, the serenity of the island was replaced by loud music and bursts of laughter. People mostly in their 20s and 30s lounged on brightly colored beanbags, holding drinks that seemed more umbrella than liquid.
A group near the pool burst into laughter so loud it startled a bird from a nearby tree. I sighed.
Creative breakthroughs, huh, Lana?
Before I could retreat into the shadows, Lana appeared, her sunhat tilted at a jaunty angle and a margarita in hand.
“Thea!” she shouted, as though we hadn’t emailed just yesterday. “You made it!”
“Regretting it already,” I murmured but plastered on a smile.
“Oh, stop,” she said, waving a hand. “This is where the magic happens! Trust me, you’ll love it.”
“I was hoping for something… quieter,” I said, raising an eyebrow.
“Nonsense! You need to meet people and soak in the energy! Speaking of which,” she grabbed my arm, “I have someone you must meet.”
Before I could protest, she dragged me through the crowd. I felt like a frumpy mother at a high school party, trying not to trip over discarded flip-flops.
We stopped in front of a man who, I kid you not, looked like he belonged on the cover of GQ. Sun-kissed skin, a relaxed smile, and a white linen shirt unbuttoned just enough to be suggestive but not sleazy.
“Thea, meet Eric,” Lana said with excitement.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Thea,” he said, his voice as smooth as the ocean breeze.
“Likewise,” I said, hoping my nervousness didn’t show.
Lana beamed as if she’d just set up a royal engagement. “Eric’s a writer, too. He’s been dying to meet you since I told him about your novel.”
My cheeks flushed. “Oh, it’s not finished.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Eric said. “The fact that you’ve poured yourself into it for two years… that’s incredible! I’d love to hear about it.”
Lana smirked and backed away. “You two talk. I’ll find more margaritas!”
I glared after her. But in a few minutes, whether it was Eric’s undeniable charisma or the enchanting ocean breeze playing tricks on me, I found myself agreeing to a walk.
“Give me a moment,” I said, surprising even myself.
Back in my room, I rummaged through my suitcase and pulled out my most flattering sundress.
Why not? If I’m going to be dragged around, I might as well look good doing it.
When I stepped outside, Eric was waiting. “Ready?”
I nodded, trying to act casual, even as my stomach did an uncharacteristic flutter. “Lead the way.”
Eric showed me parts of the island that seemed untouched by the chaos of the “retreat.” A secluded beach with a swing hanging from a palm tree, a hidden trail leading to a cliff with a breathtaking view—places that weren’t in any guidebook.
“You’re good at this,” I said, laughing.
“Good at what?” he asked, sitting on the sand nearby.
“Making someone forget they’re wildly out of place.”
His smile widened. “Maybe you’re not as out of place as you think.”
As we talked, I laughed more than I had in months. He shared stories of his travels and love for literature, which matched mine. His admiration for my novel felt sincere, and when he joked about framing my autograph one day, I felt a warmth I hadn’t in a long time.
But beneath the laughter, something tugged at the edge of my thoughts. A faint unease I couldn’t explain. He seemed perfect, too perfect.
***
The next morning started on a high note. I stretched, my mind buzzing with ideas for the next chapter of my novel.
“Today’s the day,” I murmured, reaching for my laptop.
My fingers flew over the keyboard as I woke it up. But when the desktop appeared, my heart stopped. The folder where my novel had lived—two years of blood, sweat, and sleepless nights—was gone. I searched every corner of the hard drive, hoping I had mistakenly deleted it. Nothing.
That’s odd,” I said to myself.
My laptop was there, but the most important part of my life’s work had disappeared without a trace.
“Okay, don’t freak out,” I whispered, clutching the edge of the desk. “You probably just deleted it.”
But I knew I hadn’t. I bolted out of the room and headed straight to Lana. As I passed the hallway, muffled voices caught my attention. I froze, my heart pounding. Slowly, I moved toward the sound. The door to the next room was slightly ajar.
“We just need to pitch it to the right publisher?” he asked.
My blood ran cold. Eric’s voice was unmistakable. Peeking through the gap, I saw Lana leaning in, her voice a low hum of conspiracy.
“Her manuscript is brilliant,” Lana said, her tone syrupy. “We’ll figure out how to position it as mine. She’ll never know what hit her.”
