The months I’d spent killing myself at Benji’s Boot Camp flashed before my eyes. Mornings upon mornings of extra pull-ups, push-ups, and sprints, whatever it took to feel and look perfect on my wedding day.
She continued, “The purpose of our Breakover is to start you on a journey of self-love, which, of course, comes from the inside, but there is something empowering about taking the time to pamper yourself. So, you’ll spend today at our spa. We have you booked for a massage, followed by a facial, mani/pedi, blowout, and makeup application.” She slid over a small binder. “Here’s your schedule for the next few days.”
I opened it and scanned the first few pages quickly. Words like meditation, yoga, and healing jumped off the page.
“We sublease the property’s bungalows for the participants of the Boot Camp, but as you probably already noticed, there will be other guests around. It’s high season, and this is one of the nicest beach resorts on the North Carolina Coast, so it’s usually full occupancy this time of year. But don’t worry, we’re able to take advantage of everything it has to offer from yoga to surfing to the amazing farm-to-table fare produced by the hotel’s world-renowned chef.” Louisa leaned over and flipped to the back of the binder. “This is the story of Blackbeard, the famous pirate. According to local legend, Topsail got its name centuries ago, when pirates would hide their boats in the channel between the island and the mainland, and only the tops of the boats’ sails were visible to ships approaching from the Atlantic. Rumor has it, Blackbeard’s treasure is still buried somewhere on the island. In tribute to him, each Boot Camp, we bury a treasure chest somewhere on the beach. We enclosed a map of the property and some clues to help.”
“That’s fun.”
“We think so. Now, just a couple of Boot Camp ground rules,” Louisa said, passing me another form. “We pride ourselves in offering our guests a completely safe space to work through their breakup. As you know, this is a device-free program. You may leave your phone in your room for emergencies, but we will ask you to leave the Boot Camp if we see you with it during the day.”
“That’s not a problem. I’m looking forward to getting off the grid.”
“Yes, many of the Boot Camp participants tell us what a huge relief it is to be able to unplug from their life for a few days.”
She looked down at her watch. “We should wrap this up, so you have a few minutes to unpack and get to the spa.”
I stood up from the chair.
“One last thing,” she said, “for this to work, it’s important that you submit to the process, be vulnerable, and try not to pass judgment on others. Everyone comes here with their own set of past experiences and a different journey in mind.”
“I understand, I really do.”
“Good. See you at dinner tonight.”
I followed the hotel map inside the folder to my bungalow, a beautiful white beachfront cottage nestled just footsteps from the sand. Each cottage had a private screened porch, small but modern kitchen, and a private walled garden with an outdoor shower. The bungalow was modern and luxurious, while still maintaining the integrity of the hotel’s Southern charm. Looking around, it was easy to see how two weeks at the Boot Camp cost almost as much as my planned three-week honeymoon across Asia.
Fortunately, back when I booked the honeymoon, I’d taken the travel agent’s advice and purchased travel insurance. In the end, I was able to recoup most of the money I’d laid out for the trip. It was Merritt who convinced me to use the refund on the Boot Camp. As she said, if I wasn’t into eating, praying, and loving my way around Bali, then I needed to do something else to shake things up.
I threw my suitcase onto the bed, opened the double French doors that led out to the veranda, and let the salty sea air pour into the room. I leaned over the railing and noticed a handsome surfer dragging his board behind him as he headed toward the hotel. His black wet suit hung halfway unzipped, exposing his tan, muscular chest and washboard stomach. He shook out his long, shaggy, sandy-colored hair, pushing it back and off his face with his hands. Our eyes met for a moment when the hotel room phone rang from inside. I rushed to answer it.
“Joanna Kitt,” I answered.
“Joanna, this is the Retreat House Day Spa. We have you booked for a 2:00 body scrub and wanted to confirm you are still coming?”
“I’m on my way,” I said, hanging up. I hurried back out onto the patio and searched the beach for the mysterious surfer, but he was already gone.
Chapter Twelve
Turns out, the Breakover was exactly what I needed. The last few weeks of insomnia, alcohol, and crying jags had wreaked havoc on my skin and hair and nails. I always prided myself on being fairly low-maintenance and fortunately seemed to be able to get away with a more natural look. I wasn’t big into makeup or blowouts, preferring to keep my routine simple. Lately, though, simple wasn’t cutting it. My skin had taken on a lifeless hue, and the bags under my eyes were more than fifty shades of gray.
My Breakover started with a sixty-minute aromatherapy massage using essential oils, followed by a twenty-four-karat gold anti-aging facial and diamond microdermabrasion to remove dead and dry skin.
“After a breakup, when you haven’t been sleeping, and you may have a lot of stress, your skin is really sluggish. It can look puffy, and it loses its pallor, and sometimes its tone,” the aesthetician said, rubbing different serums into my face. “This Vitamin A will bring that healthy dewiness to the skin in the long term and help to heal the skin.” She leaned forward and put pressure on the corner of my eye.
I popped up on my elbows. “Ow! Is a facial supposed to hurt like that?”
“You have a clogged tear duct,” she answered matter-of-factly.
“I do?”
“From crying. It’s not uncommon here, believe me. I just released it. Use a hot compress on the corner of your eye every night this week for fifteen minutes and it will go away completely.”
I settled back down on the table while she finished the treatment. After that, I was given a revitalizing foot scrub using natural sea salt, signature pedicure, and paraffin manicure before the technician led me to the spring water mud pool for detoxification.
I slid into the brown, murky water and sat beside a woman who looked extremely familiar, although I was having a tough time placing her face, especially since both her eyes were covered with cucumber slices.
“I don’t know about you, but this is nothing like what I expected,” the woman said.
“The spa?”
“The Boot Camp. I was imagining group therapy sessions, where we confront our daddy issues and cry about our dysfunctional childhoods, not facials and foot massages.” She popped one of the cucumbers into her mouth, then turned to me and extended her hand. “I’m Zosia.”
“Zosia Barry? Never mind. I’m so sorry—we’re not supposed to pry,” I said.
“You’re not prying. My face has been splashed everywhere lately.”
Zosia Barry was the soon-to-be ex-wife of Richard Barry, CEO of Jungle, the world’s largest e-commerce marketplace. He’d been caught having an affair with his much younger assistant, and the two of them were currently locked in a fierce battle over their billions in assets. News of the Barrys’ impending divorce was the leading headline on every major news outlet.