Page 75 of Omega's Faith

I need to get away. Completely away.

Back in my room, I pull out my laptop and search for the Serenity Springs Mountain Retreat. Someone told me about it months ago and I’ve had the invite in my inbox ever since.

It’s five stars, invitation only, hidden in the mountains wherecell phones supposedly don't work and the only entertainment is your own thoughts. Perfect. Or perfectly awful. Either way, it's not here.

I book a week starting today, choosing the "executive package" because even running away from my life requires the best thread count.

Ricky answers on the first ring. "How's the sober life treating you?"

"I'm going to a wellness retreat."

Silence. Then: "I'm sorry, what? Did you just say wellness retreat?"

"Serenity Springs. In the mountains. Seven days of digital detox and finding myself or whatever."

"Are you dying? Is this like a Make-A-Wish situation?"

"I'm trying to stay sober," I say, which shuts him up. "Can't do it here. Everything smells like—" I stop. "I just need to get away."

"Want me to come with?"

"No phones allowed. You'd die."

"Fair point." He pauses. "This is about Jonah, isn't it?"

Everything's about Jonah these days. "Just handle things here. I'll be back in a week." I tell Ricky. "Don’t tell anyone where I’ve gone. I don’t need it leaking to the paparazzi.

I pack light—workout clothes, running shoes. No suits, no designer anything. If I'm going to find myself, might as well look the part.

The drive to Serenity Springs takes three hours, winding up into the mountains where the trees get thicker and my phone signal gets weaker. By the time I reach the retreat, I've got no bars at all.

The place looks exactly like its website: aggressively peaceful. Tibetan prayer flags flutter between pine trees. River rocks are set into spirals beside a koi pond. The main lodge is all sustainable wood and floor-to-ceiling windows, designed to lookrustic.

"Welcome to Serenity Springs, Mr. Colborne." The receptionist wears flowing white linen and a smile that suggests she's achieved enlightenment or had excellent Botox. "We're so pleased you've chosen us for your journey of self-discovery."

My journey of self-discovery involves handing over my phone, laptop, tablet, and even my smartwatch. She locks them in a little safe with my name on it, like I'm checking into a psychiatric facility.

"You'll get these back when you check out," she says, handing me a brass key. "The point is complete disconnection from the digital world."

I feel naked without my phone. What if Diana needs me? What if there's an emergency? What if Jonah—

No. Jonah's made it clear he doesn't need me for anything. We left it amicable. He’s on his own healing journey. The last thing he needs is me messing that up.

My cabin is a ten-minute walk from the main lodge, private and pristine. One room with a huge bed, a meditation cushion, a desk with an actual paper journal and fountain pen. The bathroom has a rain shower and a clawfoot tub that overlooks the forest. Everything smells like sage.

I sit on the bed and immediately want a drink. Not because I'm unhappy—well, not just that—but because I have no idea what to do with myself. No phone to scroll, no emails to ignore, no Ricky to coordinate my life. Just me and my thoughts.

Fuck.Maybe this was a dumb idea.

Fortunately, as it turns out, there are plenty of activities. I sign up for all of them: morning yoga at six (I'm terrible), meditation at eight (my mind won't shut up). I eat nourishing plant-based meals that leave me hungry. Then I sit in on workshops on "Finding Your Authentic Self" and "Releasing What No Longer Serves You" led by people who've clearly neverhad a real problem in their lives.

The worst part is seeing it all through Jonah’s eyes. Thousands of dollars a week to eat vegetables and sit in silence.

"This is what you do with your money?" I can hear Jonah's voice, that particular mix of disapproval and disappointment. "This is your idea of working on yourself?"

I tell the Jonah in my head to shut up and then I feel guilty. And then I feel stupid for feeling guilty about telling an imaginary voice to be quiet.

On Day Three. I'm returning from a sound bath where a woman played crystal bowls at me for an hour when I see her.