Chapter Three
Namaste, I’m Spiraling
I am not prepared for another guest.
I am especially not prepared for another early guest, because I am currently crouched behind a geodesic dome, holding a bundle of mismatched crystals like I’m about to duel someone in Yu-Gi-Oh.
Toad swears each guest “has a vibe.” Jax was all fire and brimstone. This one, he said, was going to be “very wet energy.”
I didn’t ask what that meant. I regret not asking.
The moment I hear tires on gravel, I know Toad wasn’t wrong.
A sleek black car pulls into the clearing like it’s allergic to dirt. It’s silent. Chic. Probably costs more than my uterus is worth on the black market.
The door opens and he steps out.
Tall-ish, lean, wearing designer sneakers and a hoodie that probably has a tech company logo on it somewhere obscure. He looks like he cried recently and tried to meditate about it. His hair is slightly mussed, like he ran a stressed hand through it one too many times.
He sees me and freezes.
I stand, slowly, like a suspicious deer or a woman who just realized she’s holding a rock named “Greg” in one hand and a fake ceremonial bell in the other.
“Hi,” he says. “Are you Bliss?”
I take a breath, give him the goddess smile. “I am. You’re early.”
His eyes go wide, then horrified. “Oh no. Oh shit. I thought, I must’ve messed up the calendar. Oh god. I did mess up the calendar. I can go. Should I go? I can drive around until the time is right.”
“You don’t need to orbit the retreat,” I say, holding up a calming hand. “You’re here now. And that’s... intentional.”
He nods quickly, like a squirrel accepting a complicated truth. “Right. Yes. Divine timing. I read about that. In a blog. Or maybe a podcast.”
I smile wider. “Welcome to Solstice Hollow.”
“I brought my own grounding mat,” he blurts. “And probiotics. But I’m open to other bacteria.”
I blink.
He blinks.
“I don’t know why I said that,” he adds, voice cracking. “I haven’t talked to a human woman in... like, two months. Not really. Not... skin-on-skin energy interface levels of talk.”
“I.” I stop. “Skin-on-skin what?”
He turns bright red. “Sorry. That wasn’t... I didn’t mean... not like that. I meant, like, energetic connection. Not sex. Unless sex is part of it. Is sex part of it?”
“It’s... not,” I say, although honestly at this rate I might start charging extra for it.
He nods again, too fast, and hoists a sleek carry-on bag out of the car like it’s packed with shame and imported teas.
“I’m Asher,” he says, finally. “Asher Voss.”
The name hits me like a glitter bomb to the face. I knew I recognized him, tech money. The kind of man whose nervous breakdowns make headlines and stock prices dip.
And now he’s here. In my weird little almost-cult.
Asher looks around at the domes, the wild trees, the wood-chopping gremlin in the background who I pray is too far to hear this, and then back to me.
“This place is...” he breathes in, visibly grounding, “...exactly wrong for me.”
“Good,” I say, taking his hand. “That’s how you know it’s working.”
I take his bag. Not because I’m feeling generous, but because he looks like one wrong touch might cause him to drop it, scream, and apologize to the wind.
“This way,” I say, motioning toward the guest path. “You’ll be in Dome Four.”
Asher follows, clutching a small canvas tote bag that I swear has a moon cycle chart printed on the side. I’m afraid to ask what’s inside. Crystals? Books? A backup mat for grounding emergencies?
He walks too fast and then apologizes for walking too fast. Then walks slower and apologizes for that too.
“I just…. sorry,” he says as we pass the koi pond. “I get nervous when I think people are watching me walk.”
“Are you... okay?”
“No,” he says immediately. “But I’m trying.”
Oh. Okay.
I glance at him.
He’s not smiling. Not being sarcastic. He’s just... telling the truth. Raw and earnest, like it’s normal. Like it doesn’t punch me right in the heart chakra.
Which is rude.
He should not be allowed to show up looking like a Whole Foods ad for emotional healing and then say things like that.
Asher looks around the property, his brow furrowed like he’s doing emotional calculus. “This place feels like it’s going to break me open.”
I nearly trip on a root.
“I mean, in a good way,” he rushes to say. “Like... a soft spiritual lobotomy.”
I don’t even know what that means, but my body reacts anyway.
Specifically: my nipples decide to make a guest appearance. Which is just rude, because I’m wearing a blessed linen blend that was supposed to say ethereal guide not yes, I’m lactating for your vulnerability.
“I think that’s what we all need sometimes,” I say carefully. “To... soften and release.”
His head tilts slightly. “Do you need that too?”
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“You seem like someone who holds a lot,” he says, eyes on mine. “Like you’re carrying seventeen things in your spirit backpack, but you’ve convinced yourself it’s fine because you wrapped them in positive affirmations.”
My jaw actually drops. I close it. “Did you just reverse-therapy me?”
He shrugs helplessly. “I’m sorry. I overshare. It’s like a nervous tic. I can stop.”
“I don’t want you to stop,” I say, before I can help it.
And now it’s my turn to look like I want to walk into the forest and emotionally disintegrate.
We reach his dome. The inside is half-prepared, candles scattered, bed fluffed, crystals arranged in what I hope reads as sacred geometry and not just a weird pile.
Asher steps inside and breathes. Then turns back to me. “I think I was meant to come here.”
I open my mouth to say something, anything, but I don’t get the chance.
Because from the clearing behind us comes the sound of an axe hitting wood.
Followed by a voice:
“Hey, Bliss,” Jax calls, smug and somehow topless again, “You give all the guests that kind of welcome, or just the ones who look like they cry after sex?”
Asher freezes.
I freeze.
Jax smirks.
I exhale through my nose and say, “Welcome to the Hollow.”
As soon as I escape Asher’s dome, and Jax’s smugly shirtless stare, I pull out my phone and power-walk toward the makeshift meditation deck like I’m heading into spiritual battle.
I open the GREMLIN COVEN 4EVER thread and unleash my thumbs with the righteous fury of a woman who did not sign up to be spiritually ravaged by tech bro vulnerability.
ME:
new guest arrived
early
again
why can’t emotionally damaged men ever be on time
CALLIE:
omg which one
pls tell me it’s the billionaire with the fragile little soul
i need this
ME:
yes
asher
aka: sentient guilt spiral
aka: anxiety in joggers
aka: a man who apologized to the air for arriving
CALLIE:
is he hot tho? i feel like he’s hot
like “i built a wellness app and cried when it failed” hot
ME:
he is
it’s a problem
he’s all “i haven’t touched a woman since the algorithm betrayed me” vibes
but then he says things like
“you look like someone who holds a lot”
and i blacked out for a second
CALLIE:
girl
he sees you
emotionally
which is honestly more dangerous than being choked
ME:
stop
my boobs perked up like we’re bonding mammals
i was not prepared
i have a ceremony to lead in 2 hours and my third eye is googling “accidental soulmate syndrome”
CALLIE:
i’m screaming
also
you do realize you’ve now got a rage monster and a soul whisperer under one roof
you’re literally living in a fanfic
and you’re the problem
ME:
i hate that you’re right
but also
i think i’m in love with both of them
and i haven’t even started the group breathwork yet
CALLIE:
you’re gonna die in linen and i’m gonna frame your texts as scripture
ME:
send snacks
and emotional boundaries
There comes a moment in every cult leader’s life when she has to fake a spiritual experience to reassert dominance over two early-arriving hot men who are ruining the vibe with their unpredictable masculinity.
For me, that moment is now.
I gather Jax and Asher in Dome One, which still smells faintly of lavender, panic, and Febreze. I’ve lit three candles, placed two amethyst towers in the center of the room, and arranged the meditation cushions in a triangle. That’s sacred geometry, probably.
They sit on opposite sides, looking as opposite as humanly possible.
Jax: shirt still missing, arms crossed, looking like he’s about to punch the aura off someone.
Asher: sitting politely with his spine too straight, already sweating, clearly wondering if it’s rude to ask for Wi-Fi.
I settle cross-legged between them and take a deep breath, hands in my lap like I’m not improvising a ritual in real time.
“Welcome to our Sacred Alignment Opening Circle,” I say smoothly. “This session is designed to prepare your energy field for the journey ahead by reconnecting you to the structure of intentionality and surrender.”
Jax raises an eyebrow. “What?”
I smile sweetly. “I’m saying: You both showed up early and messed up my schedule, so now we’re meditating about it.”
Asher opens his mouth, possibly to apologize again.
I hold up a hand. “Shhh. Your energy is already sorry.”
Jax snorts. “This is punishment, isn’t it?”
“This,” I say, lighting a stick of incense like I’m warding off man-sweat, “Is realignment. You are being gently guided back into the sacred rhythm of flow. Together.”
I close my eyes and pretend I have any idea what I’m doing.
“Let us begin,” I intone. “I invite you to breathe in through the nose… and out through the mouth. Let go of control. Let go of your calendar. Let go of your need to assert dominance through spontaneous arrivals and shirtless wood-based posturing.”
There’s a pause.
Jax mutters, “This is about me, huh?”
I open one eye. “I said let go.”
Asher is breathing so earnestly I’m afraid he might hyperventilate. His hands are resting on his knees like he Googled “how to be open to spiritual guidance” on the drive here.
“Good,” I say, eyes closed again. “Now, visualize your ego as a tightly clenched fist. Picture it slowly… unclenching. Each finger, releasing. Relaxing. Melting into the moss of your inner self.”
“What if my inner self’s got thorns?” Jax asks.
“That’s why we unclench,” I say through a smile.
A long, awkward silence follows. I can feel them resisting the experience in two wildly different ways. Jax with his arms still crossed, jaw tight; Asher sitting so still he might actually ascend.
I reach into my basket of random spiritual crap and pull out two stones. One is a rose quartz palm stone. The other is a river rock I may or may not have stolen from the koi pond.
I hand them out like sacred homework.
“Now,” I say calmly, “Pass these stones between you. With intention. And eye contact.”
Asher blinks. “Wait, like, to each other?”
“Yes. You’re exchanging grounded energy. Think of it as the beginning of a bond,” I say.
Jax smirks. “You’re making us rock bond.”
I smile serenely. “Do you want to start over with the trauma bucket?”
They both shut up and awkwardly pass the rocks.
It’s the most uncomfortable, hilarious thing I’ve ever seen.
I almost feel bad. Almost.
“Very good,” I murmur. “You are now both slightly more aligned. Slightly. We’ll get there.”
I rise gracefully, if one can rise gracefully in a robe that’s stuck to one thigh with humidity, and clasp my hands together.
“That concludes our spontaneous masculine energy synchronization. Please hydrate, journal your insights, and stay on schedule moving forward, or I will be forced to introduce Breathwork of Consequence.”
Jax mutters something under his breath. Asher bows his head like we just finished a TED Talk. I walk away before either of them can ask a single question.