“Are you fucking kidding me?” I mutter under my breath as soon as the bus pulls onto a potholed road. Looking out of the window, the only thing I can make out is a vast space of trees, sand, and water, and yet more water. It feels as if I’m part of another world even though that is impossible. We are as deep in North Carolina as one can get.

Throughout our drive, I spied a few shops, the Pea Island National Wildlife Refuge, and even caught a glimpse of the Fort Raleigh National Historic Site. It sure feels like we’re far away from civilization, fumes, and traffic, but the driver keeps assuring me we’re only “a stone’s throw” away from the buzzing nightlife.

I should have clarified his interpretation of the term “buzzing nightlife.”

Roanoke Island is beautiful. I’ve read tourists are all over this place, but right now it feels more like a death sentence than a blissful oasis. On top of the seclusion, the clouds are as dark and ominous as the feelings inside me and the dread of losing myself.

Okay. I’m not going to panic. I refuse to. I’m going to stay on this tiny island for only six weeks. Six weeks.

Forty-two days.

1008 hours.

It should be as easy as pie. Except, I have the feeling it won’t be.

It’s going to be a fucking disaster, that’s what it is.

“What are you in here for?” A voice disrupts my thoughts.

I turn my head.

A young woman is sitting behind me in the half-empty bus, her expensive fragrance wafting over. Apart from me and her, there are eight other women—all ranging from their mid-twenties to their forties, all of them miserable looking. Or maybe that’s just reflection, and I’m only seeing what I want to see.

Most of them are dressed in casual clothes, except for the one behind me. She’s wearing a short dress and high heels—I glimpsed at her attire when she asked the driver to stop several times. Something about her having a weak bladder. She’s the reason we’re late. In fact, very late, which has diminished my hope of figuring out how to file a complaint immediately upon our arrival.

I barely give her another glance as my attention focuses back on the scenery outside the window.

“To be honest, I still have no idea,” I mumble more to myself than to her.

That’s half the truth.

Theoretically, I know what I did was wrong when the judge court-ordered me to this place.

Theoretically, too, I know they were all exaggerating when they claimed I broke into Bruce’s home. What I did was most certainly not breaking and entering.

I lift my hand to the glass and draw an invisible heart, my mind wandering back to the person who’s responsible for this.

“I don’t belong here,” I find myself whispering. “It’s all a big misunderstanding.”

“That’s what everyone says before they hit rock bottom.” She lets out a knowing laugh a moment before she slides into the empty seat beside me. A pale hand moves past me, hovering in mid-air. “I’m Sylvie, by the way. Sylvie Holton.”

I shake her hand. “Just Vicky.”

“This place is going to be amazing,” the girl continues, oblivious to my wish to be left alone.

“How do you know?” I narrow my eyes to regard her closer. Her long, blonde hair looks like a cascade of bright sunshine over her naked shoulders. Her eyes, blue and wide, are staring at me, full of curiosity and something else: knowledge.

As though she’s been here before.

“I just know.” She lets out a laugh, and I instantly know she’s one of those people who seem to laugh and smile all the time. I’ve always admired optimists and their ability to see the positive in the aftermath of drama. That’s a skill I haven’t mastered yet. “That, and my research has dug up a few things.”

“Yeah?” I pull up my brows in interest.

“Yeah,” she replies matter-of-factly.

My curiosity is piqued. “What did you found out?”

“For starters, they’ve just reopened some of the historical centers,” she says with a soft smile, like that’s supposed to tell me something. “This place actually gets a lot of tourist attraction, but since there are going to be renovations in the next few weeks, the place will be closed to the public before summer, which is why they’ve turned one of the historical buildings into a temporary rehab center.” The words pour out of her like a waterfall. Jesus. She can talk fast without breathing. I can barely keep up with her.

“Good for us,” she continues. “I’ve always wanted to have a whole island to myself.” Her eyes light up.

I don’t think the renovations plan was included with the info leaflet they sent me as a means of making it look like I had a choice in coming here. And I sure didn’t take it upon myself to find out much about the place after the hearing.

My eyes narrow as I give her a critical glance. Her eyes are framed by heavy eyeliner. She’s wearing fake eyelashes. Her whole posture is relaxed. Too relaxed for someone who is about to enter this kind of facility. She’s styled as though she’s about to join a party. She wears expensive designer shoes. And isn’t she the one with tons of bags? The driver could barely cram them inside.

Maybe she’s one of the counselors?

“Are you about to start working here?” I ask, unable to control the sudden mistrust seeping into my voice.

“I wish.” She lets out a hearty laugh. “But no, I’m here to get therapy.” She eyes me, amused. “Like you.”

I cringe at the word.

She says it like it’s not a big deal.

I give a sigh, curiosity rising within me.

“You don’t seem too bothered by this,” I state. “What are you in here for?

“I came of my own free will.”

“Right.” It makes so much sense, and yet it doesn’t. “I didn’t know that was even possible.” I draw my eyebrows up in surprise, then give a short nod. “Well, good for you. So, you can leave anytime, right?”

“Yeah, but who would do that?”

“Yeah, who would do that?” I make a face. How anyone could choose to stay of their own will is beyond me.

“Do you know where you’ll be placed?”

“No idea. And right now, I’m not sure I want to know.” I shrug and turn my head back to the window, eyeing the unknown territory and ignoring the pangs of desperation washing over me.

I wish they had let me keep my phone.

The very phone I had to hand in before we boarded the bus from New York to North Carolina. The only thing that would have kept me connected to the world, my real world. Now it’s gone, a figment of my past. Gone along with pictures of Bruce. His texts. The possibility of checking his updates on Facebook to see if he’s online and what he’s up to.

Bruce.

My heart slams against my ribcage.

If only I could get in touch with him.

Oh, wait.

A thought hits me.

If Sylvie can leave anytime, maybe she’ll send a secret message to Bruce for me. Maybe she’ll become a sort of messenger. I’ll ask for nothing major. Just to know if he’s okay and that he’s received the long text I sent right before they confiscated my phone.

The thought makes me giddy with excitement.

“Sylvie, right?” I ask to be sure I got the name right, which earns me a small nod. “You said you could leave anytime?”

“Yeah,” she replies and adds quickly, “I hope they’ll place us together in the same group so we can support each other.”

“That would be great,” I say with a sudden rush of excitement. “It would be a lot of fun if we could get to know this place together and help each other out.”

For example, by texting certain people, which I don’t mention just yet.

“I’m not sure we can roam freely, what with the renovations under way,” she says thoughtfully.

“Of course.” I nod my head. “But maybe they’ll make an exception to ensure we’re not bored to death.”

She lets out a loud, hearty laugh that has everyone turning their heads toward us, and I can’t help but realize I like her. Maybe we’ll be friends.

It wouldn’t be so bad to have an ally in a place like this, especially when my new friend is going to help bring Bruce and me together.

“I doubt that’s even possible. My job is already boring as shit,” Sylvie says. “I’m a business strategist. You?”

My stomach relaxes before tightening into knots again. “I’m a nurse…”

That’s how I met him, I want to tell her.

Bruce.

He was visiting his elderly gran after New Year’s Eve, and she introduced me to him. A few weeks later, I ran into him again at Starbucks, and he invited me for coffee.

God, I miss him.

I can’t wait for the whole thing to be over and get back to my old life.

“Look.” Sylvie moves her arm past me and points a long index finger to the window. “We’re here.”

I follow her line of vision. As I make out the shapes, my smile dies on my lips and my frown deepens.

Ahead of us is a white building. It’s expensive and big. And frigging ancient.

It must be at least two hundred years old. At least from the look of it.

Please let it not be it.

Please.

I shudder at the thought of sleeping in an old bed. It’s an irrational fear I have. Like the fear of never meeting someone who’ll love me and want to grow old together. Or ending up all alone with only a couple of cats as company. Nothing against cats. I love them, but let’s face it, they’re not always exciting company.

It’s the same fear⎯the fear of losing someone⎯that got me in trouble with the judge. In my humble opinion, it’s nothing that reading a self-help book couldn’t solve.

They didn’t have to send me to rehab.

There, I just said it.

It’s an ugly word.

Rehab.

I associate it with needle marks on arms, yellow-stained faces, and moody alcoholics. To be honest, I’m sure being branded a love addict isn’t worse. It’s not like I follow Bruce everywhere and have to know what he is doing every minute of the day.

It’s simply enough if I know what he’s doing every day.