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Misadventures of a City Girl
Available September 12, 2017
Keep reading for an excerpt!
Chapter One
MADISON
Pop!
My heart leaps at the sound. A rush of fizz pours from the top of the champagne bottle, dousing my hands. I curse inwardly and mop the mess off the counter. Not bothering with a glass, I take the bottle with me to the couch and curl up for another quiet night in. I flip through the channels and settle on a made-for-TV movie. All I need is a pint of Ben & Jerry’s to complete my look as a miserable divorcée.
I thought when all the paperwork was finalized today, something would change… I would change. I was no longer Madison Cleary, the wife on the arm of a rising star. I was officially Madison Atwood again. The new Madison should feel happy and relieved and free. But something about this celebration feels so incredibly empty.
I close my eyes and exhale a tired sigh.
Goddamn him. As hard as I try, I can’t seem to let go of my anger.
Rejection. Hope. Failure. Determination. Yes…determination is here and fighting for ground too.
I put the bottle down and reach for my laptop. The Internet has answers and surely this isn’t the end for me. The failure of my marriage has been a devastating blow, without a doubt. But I can’t let my famous and infamously unfaithful husband—ex-husband—jeopardize my future.
Sometimes it feels like he’s everywhere, though. Clients, gigs, and friends still exist in our shared circles. If I ever want to feel completely myself again, I need a break. I need to get away from LA, the whispers, and the chapter of my life that I’d just signed into the past.
A trip to Baja, maybe. Meet a sexy, rich producer who would blacklist the fucker I’d stood by so faithfully through his rise to fame. We’d sip expensive champagne and eat just enough decadent food to fuel our back-to-back sexcapades. And of course we’d kill time in between by frolicking in the clear blue ocean.
I let that fantasy play out for a few minutes before tugging my thoughts back to reality, or at least a more realistic getaway. The last few months of marriage to Jeremy and the subsequent months negotiating our divorce had produced the most anguished dry spell I had experienced since high school. Jeremy and I had met as naïve, fumbling teenagers. We’d been together ever since. I’d been stupid in love with him then.
The memory hits me, but the pain hits me harder—deep in my gut, before it travels up my esophagus causing a painful burn. All those memories are tainted now, and I hate him for that more than anything.
Maybe it won’t always be this way. Maybe one day I’ll heal. He’ll be a memory, but a distant one. I won’t always feel this way…
Emotionally charged, I start a new search for spa retreats. As much as I wish I could fuck the feelings away on a tropical island with a beautiful stranger, I know no good will come from that. I need a real break. Something restorative. Some
thing that can heal all the tears in my heart.
The first few search results return locations in northern California. Far enough from LA, but close enough that I could come back for work in a pinch. I click through website after website. The options are either too dated, too crunchy, or tout a brand of spirituality I’m not ready for. I don’t want to be converted. I just need some quiet time, maybe a few massages, and some fresh mountain air.
Pure determination brings me to the second page of results. I click on the website for Avalon Springs Retreat. My heart lifts and brings some hope up with it. Avalon Springs is basically a spa in the mountains. Home-cooked meals, yoga classes, a few outdoor excursions, and big blocks of time meant to help people re-center. The owners look like legit hippies. The accommodations appear clean and comfortable. And it doesn’t seem like a convoluted tourist trap for the prima donnas I’m hoping to take a break from.
I check my schedule, ignore the pricing—because I deserve this no matter the cost—and book a four-week stay.
Today I am Madison Atwood, and the next chapter of my life is going to start at Avalon Springs.
* * *
“Here’s your room key. You have a king suite in the Olive Annex, which is that way. It’s only the next building over, so you’re not far from the dining room and the classes.” The young girl with flawless skin and thick blond dreads points to the front entrance of the retreat. “Every Saturday we do an orientation session here in the main house. That’ll start in about an hour.”
“An orientation?” I lift my gaze from the paper nametag where Indigo is written in sloppy script to her pale gray eyes.
She smiles loosely, as if she hasn’t experienced an ounce of tension in her life. “Yeah. It’s kind of like a meet and greet. You’ll introduce yourself to the other residents, do some breathing exercises and stretching, and Vi and Lou will talk a little bit more about the springs.”
“Great,” I mutter, not bothering to disguise my lack of enthusiasm. I doubt this easy-breezy flower child will pick up on it anyway.
I tuck the cool metal key into my back pocket, a small sign of my commitment to this getaway that I already fear is a complete and utter mistake. The reception area is noisy as a pack of people linger outside what appears to be a yoga class. Or maybe it’s the beginning of the orientation gathering. Anxiety hits and the familiar burn in my stomach follows.
There is nothing quiet about this. Nothing restorative. Sure, this is a definite break from the city scene, but these are not my people. I can rub shoulders with Hollywood’s rich and famous, but five minutes with this enlightened collective is sending me into a tailspin.
