RETREAT:

  Catalina

  Olivia Rose

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2022 by Olivia Rose

  Cover design by Olivia Rose

  Edited by Erica Bakos

  Proofread by Mariel Pomeroy

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copywrite owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  Published by Olivia Rose via Kindle Direct Publishing

  To anyone who has ever been shamed for their choices.

  Fuck them.

  Part One

  Daisy

  It takes most of my willpower not to bang my head against the table.

  “So,” my mom pauses, wiping the orange juice from her bottom lip. I wonder if anyone else at this ridiculous work brunch saw her pour a shot glass worth of vodka into it. “Carol, what’s JJ up to these days?”

  Carol Hansen’s smile is bold, happy to talk about her oldest son. My phone buzzes in my lap.

  “Wonderful,” says Mrs. Hansen as I read my latest text.

  Here we go, it says.

  “His professor tells me he’s at the top of his class,” Mrs. Hansen continues, going on and on about Johnny’s master’s degree and internship.

  My mother nods along, sipping her screwdriver, as if she actually cares. We both know she doesn’t. “And what about Calvin?”

  “Calvin picked up a fourth instrument this year,” Mrs. Hansen says boastfully, “Jacque says he’s naturally gifted.”

  My mother nods along. “Jacque?”

  “Oh,” Mrs. Hansen bristles a little, casting a not-so-subtle glance towards her husband, who is currently too distracted by my father to overhear a word she says. “Calvin’s tutor.”

  Mom’s expression is even less subtle.

  My phone vibrates again.

  Pretty sure they’re banging.

  Turning slightly in her seat, my mother flattens her Lilly Pulitzer skirt over her crossed knees. “And what about you, Owen?”

  I glance up at the middle Hansen son as he drapes a bumpy arm over the back of his chair, smiling charismatically. “What about me, Mrs. Fell?”

  My mother has the audacity to blush. Mrs. Hansen doesn’t seem to notice. She turns her chin from the conversation completely, as if she couldn’t care less about her middle child’s ventures.

  “What have you been up to this past year?” my mom presses.

  “Traveling, mostly,” Owen admits, shaking his overgrown hair from his eyes. The Hansen’s are a very blonde bunch, but Owen’s head of hair is at least two shades darker than his brothers’. “My band has played all the way up the west coast now.”

  I don’t miss it when Mrs. Hansen scoffs against the rim of her iced latte, but it doesn’t seem to faze Owen.

  Nothing ever does.

  “Oh!” Sarah Fell feigns interest well. In my near-nineteen-years on this planet, I’ve never seen my mother genuinely enthusiastic about anything. “How very exciting!”

  My fingers go to typing beneath the table as Owen nods in agreement.

  Ignore her. She wouldn’t know good music if it blew out her eardrum.

  Owen glances into his lap. “We were hoping to travel a bit longer,” he says, “but you know, life has other plans.”

  At that, Mrs. Hansen straightens. “Your father and I will not be paying your bills forever, Owen.”

  The table quiets, but it isn’t because of the tension. It’s because of the drama. These deep-pockets live for it, even the grown men at our table.

  Owen says nothing, just continues casually looking into his lap, completely unbothered.

  My mom and Carol embark on a new, shallower topic—something about their next trip to the Mall of America. My phone buzzes again.

  Is that vein popping out of her neck?

  I glance between Owen and his mother, my fingers tapping on the keyboard.

  Hard to tell under all that Botox.

  Across the table, Owen chuckles.

  ҉

  Owen

  “What a schmuck.” Dad’s been in a shit mood ever since we left brunch. “He wants me to consider a gentler approach—how much gentler does he want me to be?” He brutally drags the keycard through the lock on the villa’s front door.

  Mom follows close behind, not really listening as she scrolls through her Nordstrom shopping cart.

  “We send these influencers all over the fucking world,” he rants, tossing his tweed suit jacket to the entryway daybed. “I have soy lattes sent to their homes when it snows, cars collect them when they want to go out—we schmooze the fuck out of these children.” He throws his hands over his head. “Should I lay out a carpet everywhere they walk? Carry them myself?”

  I don’t follow them into the kitchen, where he no doubt goes on and on about how degrading his six-figure position is, how embarrassing it is to even be seen with clients half his age. I can barely hear my mom mumbling some half-assed response as I take the stairs two at a time.

  When I reach the landing, my phone vibrates against my hip.

  I know it’s from Daisy, but when I read her name, I smile anyway. Do you know what they’re decorating for?

  I fall into bed, fingers typing back.

  Who?

  Idk, whoever’s in charge of decorating on this island.

  They’re decorating Avalon?

  Daisy sends a picture of the main road, one side a line of stores and restaurants, the other side open to the ocean. In the picture I can see one of Catalina’s locals on a ladder, hanging lights from a lamppost. Just the main street, she says.

  Idk, I send back.

  When she doesn’t respond, I realize how unbearably bored I am, and shoot her another text.

  Where are you going?

  She responds, To the beach.

  Avalon’s beach is private. If you want to relax in a chair, you have to make a reservation.

  I shoot back, You booked a chair?

  Three, technically.

  For you and all your friends?

  Funny. She texts again, He reserves them every time we come, but I doubt he’s in the mood to go suntanning now.

  When she says he, I know she’s talking about her dad. And when she says he’s in a bad mood, I know it’s because of my dad.

  Because our dads fucking hate each other.

  Our paths have crossed infrequently over the last six years, so I’m never surprised when she shows up a little bit older, a little bit different. Her boobs have gotten bigger, her legs longer, ass rounder.

  But we’re nineteen now, and the differences are getting harder to spot. She hasn’t changed her hair since the last retreat, which I like—I’ve always thought her natural color was prettiest on her. She’s still tattoo-less, as far as I can tell, which doesn’t really matter to me either way.

  But one thing that never changes, is that horrible attitude I’ve become so addicted to.

  I hesitate before sending the next text. Want some company?

  It’s a moment before her response comes in.

  I’ll let you know if one of my friends cancels.

  With a smile to myself, I jump up from the bed and grab my swim trunks.

  ҉

  Daisy

  Owen looks dangerously good in swim trunks

  He talks too much for his own good, but the view he paints certainly makes up for it.

  “He thinks he’s better than everyone around him.” Owen drapes an arm over his forehead as he leans back into the lounge chair. The scent of saltwater is thick in the air, mingling very tropically with my pina colada. I take another sip as he goes on. “And did you hear the way my mom was talking about Johnny?” His sunburnt nose scrunches in distaste. “He’s like the Hercules to her Hera.”

  “Hera wasn’t Hercules’ mother.”

  Owen sits up. “What are you talking about?”

  I push my sunglasses down my nose to look at him. “Hercules was a demigod. His mother was a mortal named Alcmene. Hera was just Zeus’s wife. In fact,” I take another gulp of my frozen drink and lift a finger, as if to mark my point. “Hera hated Hercules for his illegitimacy. So, if anything, you’re more likely the Hercules in this scenario.”

  He blinks at me several times. “Huh.”

  I nod sufficiently, forcing down a tipsy hiccup.

  Owen’s gaze narrows on my drink. “Is that alcoholic?”

  I raise a brow at him, and he mirrors back at me a devilish grin. As if I could’ve made it through this vacation without alcoholic assistance.

  When the server comes back around, I order two more—one for me, one for Owen.

  By the third round of drinks, the sun is beginning to set, and I’m sufficiently buzzed.

  “We should slow down,” says Owen. I perch myself up on my elbow to look at him. “My mom will kill me if I show up drunk to dinner.”

  “Dinner!” I palm my forehead. “I forgot.”

  He laughs. “Are you drunk already?”

  I shake my head vehemently. “Nothing I can’t walk off.”

  He chuckles, but his brows are all twisted, like he’s thinking about something unpleasant.

  Prematurely offended, I ask, “What’s that look for?”

  Owen blinks and shakes his head. “Nothing,” he
says, looking out onto the water.

  I chuck an ice cube at him. “What is it?”

  He wipes the residue from his arm. I can’t really read his expression, and I don’t know if that’s because of the rum, or if it’s just because I’ve never seen him do that weird puckering thing with his mouth. “I just—I had a thought.”

  I wave a hand around. “Care to share?”

  He shrugs. “Well, it’s just—I hate them, you know?”

  I blink at him. “You mean, your parents.”

  Owen nods, arms crossed over his perched knees. He keeps his eyes ahead of him. “They expect me to be like Johnny.”

  “So?”

  “So,” he sneers, “I don’t want to be like Johnny. I don’t want to go into music production—I want to play.”

  I plant my feet in the sand between our chairs. “Then… play.”

  “I do,” he says, as if it’s shocking. “I play, and I’m good, but they don’t care, because the electric guitar won’t make me rich.”

  I kick at the sand, wiggling my toes as I prod for a longer look inside that pretty head. “And that bothers you?”

  “No.” He looks down. “Yes?” He shakes his head. “I don’t care about money like they do.”

  I nod along, because I actually understand how he feels. I might not relate to the struggle of being an overshadowed sibling, because I’m an only child. And I might not understand what it is to be called to a creative outlet, because truthfully, I’m far from artistic. But I’ve seen firsthand what too much money can do to a person, and I have no interest in following that path.

  “You don’t have to be like them,” I say.

  “I don’t plan to,” he replies harshly.

  “Then, what’s with the moping?”

  He shakes his head again, though now, it’s more at himself. The corners of his mouth relax, like he’s about to smile.

  But he doesn’t. Instead, he turns to face me, knees bumping against mine as he leans over the gap between us. “I want to disappoint them.”

  I try to keep in the laugh. “Didn’t we just decide that you already have?”

  His eyes wrinkle as a smile slowly spreads across his face, dark at first, then playful. “I’m feeling vindictive, Daisy.”

  “Like, you want to burn down their villa?” I lean back onto my hands. “Could be fun, but I don’t think it’s smart to start a fire while we’re stranded on an island.”

  He shakes his head, but his gaze doesn’t leave mine. Something builds in my lower belly. “Our parents hate each other.”

  I tilt my head at him, considering. It’s true enough, Owen and I never see one another outside of these work outings. Our fathers have always had this egotistical dick competition, each of them thinking their position is better than the other’s, each feeling underappreciated. As if their six figures each weren’t enough to assuage their greed.

  His smile broadens. “What if we dated?”

  My mouth opens instantly, but he quickly waves a hand to keep me from interrupting.

  “Hear me out,” he says, leaning back, mirroring my position. “Wouldn’t they hate it?”

  I glance around, as if the answer will materialize in the air around me. “I don’t know, maybe?” Chewing my bottom lip, I add, “Probably.”

  “Yes.” He nods enthusiastically. “Yes, they would fucking hate it.”

  We met something like six years ago, and have been steadily pressing each other’s buttons ever since, harmonizing in our shared parental hatred. We maintain a text-based relationship outside of these retreats, but it’s been fairly tame thus far—spare the occasional crass emoji or meme on Instagram. Still, what he’s suggesting is significantly astray of our typical routine.

  I can’t say the thought of expanding our communication doesn’t intrigue me.

  I drop to my elbows behind me, crossing my ankles in the sand. “Okay, I’ll bite.”

  Owen’s smile widens, and just like that, he has my full attention.

  Part Two

  Owen

  Several tables were reserved in advance for the FYM retreat. The social media start-up, For Your Media, was founded by my father’s college roommate, and has grown tenfold in the last six years. My dad, John Hansen, is the head of client relations—basically, he makes a lot of money to scout and schmooze potential internet influencers.

  Daisy’s dad, Michael Fell, is the company’s top investor. He built and sold some manufacturing enterprise a while back and made enough money to retire twenty times over. Now, he spends his days dangling funds over my father’s head and offering his input wherever it isn’t wanted.

  These retreats are usually exclusive to top employees, but this time is different. FYM is celebrating another million-dollar milestone, so they rented enough villas and condos for most of the company.

  There are too many suits to count. Not black suits, obviously, but tweeds and linens—the sort of breathable suit jacket you wear to a country club, or a beach wedding. Husbands and wives wear similarly pretentious outfits—long skirts, flowy pants, those dumb straw hats, even though it’s nine p.m..

  Families are gathered around cocktail tables, servers are walking around with drinking trays. Torches are lit all around the space. My mother takes up with one of the other wives, leaving me with my father as we stroll across the beachfront tables.

  I fix the loose collar of my t-shirt, reveling in the fact that my dad hates what I chose to wear. I absently trace the Nirvana lettering across my chest when I finally spot Daisy.

  She’s standing beside her mom at a more secluded table, but they aren’t talking. They’re never talking, now that I think about it. Daisy doesn’t really talk about her parents. All I know for sure is that her mom is detached, and her dad is a dick.

  The short, yellow dress Daisy’s wearing does wonders for her figure, elongating her tanned legs. Her light brown hair is loose down her back, cheeks slightly red from the earlier sun. Even from a distance, I can see that her lips are glossier than usual, like she put on chapstick or lip-gloss.

  But it’s her eyes that get me—big and brown, constantly darting down to the phone in her hand, like she’s waiting for her screen to light up with a message.

  She’s so fucking pretty, it almost hurts to stare, like looking directly at the sun.

  While my dad and I move casually around the event, I pull my phone out of my pocket and start typing.

  You look terrible.

  My vantage point of the girl changes as we circle the perimeter of the crowd, akin to a hunter stalking its prey. Through the bodies between us, I catch a glimpse of her smiling down at her phone, small fingers fast at work.

  My phone pings with a new message.

  I bet your dad would disagree.

  I cover my laugh with the back of my hand, typing with the other.

  Jokes on you, he hates nice things.

  I can see her flush from across the party, but when her eyes dart up to scan the crowd, they don’t find me. There’s something oddly satisfying about watching her from afar, where she can’t watch me back.

  My phone hums again. So do I.

  My fingers type, So bitter.

  The way she smirks into her phone sends heat down my spine.

  My dad puts a hand on my shoulder and nods towards a table. “Let’s sit here.”

  I follow him to our seats, refusing to take my eyes off Daisy for even a second. She keeps looking for me in the crowd of people, but never spots me. I feel like I’m winning a competition, like I’m beating her in a race. It sends an excited chill down my spine and into my gut.

  I send, Marco.

  She texts back, Polo.

  I chuckle at my phone. Marco.

  When I look up, she’s gone.

  My phone vibrates again. Polo.

  I glance around skeptically, searching the faces around us, but everyone is moving towards the table, ready to sit for dinner.

  My fingers type again. Marco.

  Then she’s over my shoulder, her breath shipping goosebumps across my shoulders, tickling my outer ear. “Polo,” she whispers.

  ҉

  Daisy

  The way Owen goes stiff tells me I startled him, and so I laugh, content with having won our little game of hide-and-seek. I take the seat across from him and his father.