Page 14 of From Wink to Kink

Then Tyler is beside me.

“You good, man?” he asks quietly. I nod, grateful he’s keeping his voice low. No doubt all the guys know about last night in lockup, and that my ass is in deep trouble, but they’re probably not ware I was ordered to see a therapist or how pissed team management is with me.

“So that retreat thing you were telling me about,” I start.

“Oh, yeah.” Tyler brightens. “So, Ruby, is going to Costa Rica next week. The brochure she had looked real nice, all tropical and shit. They have what they call week-long ‘wellness retreats.’ I don’t know what the hell that means, but how bad can it be? You should go, get your chill on.”

I pause. Costa Rica? A tropical paradise? It doesn’t sound half-bad and maybe it would give everyone the impression I’m getting my life in order.A little sea and sun never hurt anyone, especially if there are babes in skimpy bikinis running around.

“Do you have any more information?”

Tyler shakes his head. “I can give you the number to call to book your reservation. I actually booked Ruby for it myself, as a gift, so it’s right here at the top of my recent calls.”

“That was good of you, a real nice thing to do.” I type the number he rattles off into my phone then duck out of the locker room for some quiet while I make the call.

The man who answers isn’t all that fluent in English, so there’s some confusion about which retreat I want. When I explain I don’t care, that I just want to come ASAP, it gets even more confusing.

Finally, I say, “It’s the retreat for next week, the same retreat Ruby Brooks is booked for. Ruby Brooks. Can you book me for the same?”

“Ahhh,” the clerk breathes as I hear him typing something. “Si. Yes. Ruby Brooks for wellness retreat. Yes, yes, I can book you for the same. Your name, sir?”

I give him my information, relaxing now that we’re on the same page. He gives me my confirmation number, promises to send an email, and I’m all set.

I perk up as I head for my PT session. I honestly think a wellness retreat sounds pretty fucking bogus, but I can report back to the shrink, who will report back to Coach and the GM, and everyone will be happy with me.

Look at me, getting shit under control.

7

RUBY

I’m surroundedby a hurricane of clothes, toiletries, and an alarming number of books. My beat-up suitcase lies open on the bed, mocking me with its limited capacity. The Costa Rica retreat is still two days away, but in my world, that's practically last minute.

"Okay, Ruby," I mutter to myself, "you've got this. It's just a week in paradise. How hard can packing be?"

Spoiler alert—very hard, when you're me.

I reach for my set of packing cubes, a purchase I'd made from Amazon in a fit of organizational frenzy after binge-watching travel blogs at 2 a.m. If what the hype says is true, these little nylon pouches promise to revolutionize my packing game, not that I really have one. So far, they've mostly revolutionized my ability to curse in creative ways. And leave my clothes a wrinkled mess.

I start with my dresses, a couple cheap cotton numbers I found on the sale rack at Old Navy, carefully rolling each like I'm preparing sushi for the world's pickiest fashion critic. I move onto T-shirts, shorts, and underwear, each getting their own cube. So far, so good. When I’ve overstuffed each cube but none has yet burst at the seams, I’m pretty sure I’m winning. Until I get to my yoga pants.

"Come on," I grunt, trying to shove my Target special into my last, already-bulging cube. "You're supposed to be stretchy!"

With a final, forceful push, I hear a sound that can only be described as the death rattle of ripping nylon. The cube explodes, sending yoga pants and other garments flying across my room like they were shot out of a cannon.

Abandoning the cubes, I turn to my bookshelf. If I can't control my packing, at least I can make sure my literary babies are in order before I leave. I run my finger along the spines, smiling at the familiar titles. But then I freeze. There’s an out of place book. The urban fantasy title should not be in the middle of my romance books. That’s just wrong.

"Wait a minute," I mutter. "The Complete Guide to National Hockey League Statistics? I definitely don't own this."

Then it clicks. Lucy, my sister-in-law-to-be, has been in my room. I adore the woman, I really do... except when she borrows books without asking. I love her, I’m glad my brother loves her, but she never puts my books back where they go. Never. And she’s been in here borrowing them again. Which is fine. Sort of. I don’t mind loaning her books to read. I just wish she’d letmeput them back where they go. I make a mental note to have a talk with her about book borrowing etiquette when I get back from my trip. I’ll keep it nice, of course. I don’t want her to think I’m anal.

As I'm reshelving the hockey stats book under 'S' for 'Sports I Don't Care About', another title catches my eye. "Ooh,Tide Lines. Perfect for Costa Rica."

I pull it out and add it to my 'to-pack' pile. But then I spotEat, Pray, Love.Well, I am going on a spiritual journey of sorts. That goes in the pile too.

Before I know it, I'm pulling books off the shelf left and right, making piles all over my floor. And I figure, while I’m at it, I might as well do a little organizing. I decide to change the order of the shelf—classics on the top, favorites after that, followed by romance, fantasy, urban fantasy, police procedurals, and so on. Settling into the task, I grab my copy ofSense and Sensibility, put it on the shelf, then take it off again. Is this a good vacation book?

But then I spotThe Last Quetzal, which, given that it’s about Central America, seems totally appropriate. Goodbye, Jane Austen. I also snag the aspirationalYoga for Beginners,Lost in the Cosmos, in case I’m jonesing for some sci-fi comedy, andWar and Peacein case I really want to challenge my reading speed.

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