Page 33 of The Love Haters

I dropped my shoulders. Classic Beanie.

“It’s called exposure therapy,” Beanie went on. “You have to do the scary thing over and over until it’s not scary anymore.”

“But…” I said, trying to make my voice sound reasonable, “I don’t want to.”

I stared at the swimsuit, and it stared back.

“Look,” Beanie went on. “Before, you were just scared. But now you have a diagnosis from the internet. And a higher purpose. Now,” she said, like this changed everything, “it’s a hero’s journey. You are conquering your own long-held fears.”

Beanie waited as long as she could for me to get on board with this new concept.

Finally, she said, “Didn’t you just say this swim class was full of eighty-year-old ladies?”

I had definitely mentioned that somewhere in my opening monologue. “Uh-huh.”

“Problem solved,” Beanie said then. “You’ll have the best-looking thighs there.”

TWO MINUTES LATER,I was stepping one long, naked, imperfect leg and then the other into that godforsaken swimsuit… while I pep-talked myself.

I could do this! This wasn’t so impossible! I might not be good atbathing suits. But I wasvery goodat doing what needed to be done! I was good at achieving goals. Maybe a higher purpose was just what I’d needed all along.

I pulled the suit up, snapped the straps over my shoulders.

Then I wrapped a complimentary beach towel around my waist like a sarong.

And then, with a deep breath of self-encouragement, I took the hibiscus clip Rue had given me, and I clipped it to my hair just above my ear.

Then I put one sparkly flip-flop in front of the other out my cabin door, across the little porch, down the steps, along the walkway, and past the palmetto plants—cheering myself on the whole time—until I arrived at a wood deck near the pool where the ladies were gathering before class as they waited for their lifeguard-slash-swim instructor.

It felt a little bit like an out-of-body experience, but I did it.

Exposure therapy.This was good for me.

And just for the record—and I am not exaggerating here—it was the cutest crew of old ladies I had ever seen in my life. A group I would come to know as The Gals.

I had been so scared to walk out there. I had expected a lion’s den—and instead found myself surrounded by lambs: kind-eyed women with grandma vibes who cooed welcoming greetings as Rue gave me a hug.

They were all smiles and color—decked head to toe in vibrant tropics-wear like a flock of hummingbirds. Hummingbirds who believed color was the answer to everything—and who possibly had afriends-and-family discount at Vitamin Sea. All of them had lost husbands, and—with the exception of Ginger, who was Rue’s friend from childhood—they had all met when Rue taught a journaling class called the Joys of Grief.

That was seven years ago. In the time that followed, the four of them became a tight group—traveling, shopping, going to matinees—and one by one they’d all wound up moving to Rue’s cottages. Theirs were lined up side by side, and they cooked group dinners, often grilling outside when the weather was fine, and always chatting with other Starlite guests by the pool.

“Half retirement home, half resort” was how Rue had described it yesterday. A little living-your-best-life miracle.

Rue led the introductions with basic details to get us started: Childhood friend Ginger, her red hair faded to blonde in a sensible bob, was a retired prosecutor. Benita, who immigrated to the keys from Argentina with her husband, had run a restaurant for thirty years before passing it on to her kids. Nadine, originally from Jamaica, was a librarian who read a hundred novels a year and chose all the books for the Starlite book club. Not to mention Rue herself, in a hot-pink one-piece that matched today’s glasses, draped in a sheer floral cover-up that fluttered in the wind.

A heck of a lineup.

Here they were: ready to swim.

It was such a relief. I’d thought I couldn’t do it—but here I was, doing it. And it wasn’t so bad. Maybe I’d shock the hell out of myself by turning out to love it, I thought.

Until I saw Rue reach up to wave at someone.

I followed her smile, and then I saw, unlatching the picket-fence gate…

Hutch.

The same Hutch from yesterday.

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