The Writing Retreat(46)

After what had happened with Wren, though, I’d reconsidered. Perhaps I wasn’t able to imagine sex with women simply because I hadn’t experienced it before. After all, it wasn’t like I went around spontaneously daydreaming about sleeping with men, either. Most of the sex I did have was combined with a lot of alcohol, and it was something I did because it was expected, not because it felt great. What had happened with Wren, though: it had felt great.

So maybe my aversion was from being taught early on that being queer was abnormal and undesirable. A bully in one of my grade schools had started a rumor that I was a lesbian, which caused the other girls to jerk away from me when I got too close. And I had a distinct memory as a teen of Mom telling a boyfriend about the “queen” who’d come into the grocery store that day; she flounced around, mimicking him. Even in the shows I watched that had likable gay characters, they were there to provide exoticism or, more commonly, comic relief.

So then the question became: If I set aside this lifelong conditioning, what did I feel? Could Wren and I turn our friendship into something more? I truly didn’t know. But the more I sat with it, the more I felt a thin ribbon of excitement. It must mean something that two heretofore self-identified straight female friends had ended up naked in bed together. Maybe there was more to the story for both of us. Maybe our bond was showing us a truth that had been too buried to see.

Unfortunately, Wren had not been interested in exploring that.

Now, across the table from me, Wren kept her eyes on Roza. Her lips shone a perfect rose color. It was impossible to imagine they’d ever kissed down my thighs. I felt a pull deep in my belly and then, with a swelling of sadness and shame, wished the whole tangle of feelings away.

After the meeting, I followed the other girls into the dining room for lunch. They walked two by two, pairing perfectly: the conventionally beautiful Wren and Poppy, a contrast in brunette and blond, Wren in jewel tones and Poppy in pastels. And the über-hip Keira and Taylor, Keira with her stylish red glasses and black jeans, and Taylor with her messy short hair and tattoos.

I trailed behind, the fifth wheel, drab and plain and alone. After that one conversation with Taylor, I thought maybe I could join her and Keira, make us a trio instead of a duo, but Taylor had become more distant. Maybe she had been coming on to me and thought I’d rejected her. Or maybe she was happy enough hanging out with Keira and wasn’t thinking about me at all.

I didn’t know, and at the end of the day, it didn’t matter. What did matter was the writing, and it was going well enough to keep my focus. Even if Roza was calling it boring, I knew, deep down, that she was just trying to push me.

I would’ve expected that seven days in one house with one small group would’ve felt claustrophobic. But the story had me in its grip. I didn’t even go out and take walks like the others, I just stayed mostly in my room and wrote.

A week into the retreat, we all had our lunch routines. Wren and Poppy picked up sandwiches from the buffet lunch Chitra laid out and headed out: Wren to their room and Poppy to the cold parlor, which she’d inexplicably chosen as her office. Taylor and Keira usually left too, but today sat at the table. Outside, snow was falling in gentle flakes.

“Alex, join us!” Taylor called.

Embarrassingly, I felt a flash of gratitude. Maybe that need to belong would never totally go away.

“Roza was harsh on you today,” Taylor said as I sat. “How’re you feeling?”

“I’m fine.” I shrugged. “I know she’s just trying to help me.”

“If that’s what you want to call it.” Keira frowned. “Yesterday in our one-on-one, she wanted to know all about my mommy issues. I had to meditate for a full twenty minutes afterwards to stop feeling gross.”

“Therapy with Roza.” Taylor laughed. “She’ll break you down to build you back up… or at least get a good story out of you.”

“Exactly.” Keira rolled her eyes. “Who’s meeting with her today?”

“I am.” I picked up an apple slice. “It’s our second one-on-one.”

“That’s right, you were the first to meet with her.” Taylor tilted her head. “She got your juices flowing.”

The phrase struck me as sexual. “She did.”

“What did you talk about last time?” Taylor asked.

Oh, you know, just about sleeping with Wren and me almost maiming her afterwards.

“Just writing. Writer’s block, I mean.” I chewed thoughtfully, avoiding eye contact with Taylor. Why did it feel like she was staring into my soul?

“Well, you’re lucky you don’t have that problem anymore.” Keira swept back her braids. “This word count is taking a toll on me.”

“Really?” I said. “Your writing is so polished. I assumed it was… effortless, I guess.”

“Oh, no.” She was grim. “Every day’s been a struggle. I’m used to writing super-shitty first drafts. But I don’t want Roza—or any of you guys—to read that. So I write, and go back and edit, and…” She rubbed her eyes, pushing up her glasses. “It’s a lot.”

“It’s been a struggle for me too.” Taylor tapped her arm. “As you know.”

It was surprising to hear. Everyone had been making their word counts, churning out decent writing, and seemed cheerful enough at the meetings, cocktail hours, dinners, and evening drinks. But it seemed that, despite their retreat besties, they were having a tough time. And trying to keep that fact from Roza.