Chapter 46 Ivy
The humidity smothers me the moment I step off the plane. My hair, already rebelling against the twenty-two-hour journey, immediately transforms into something that would make Medusa proud. Welcome to Bali, where my attempts at looking put-together dissolve faster than my setting spray.
My suitcase chooses this exact moment to give up on life, its wheel catching on absolutely nothing before snapping off with dramatic flair. Perfect. Nothing says spiritual awakening quite like dragging forty pounds of baggage across Denpasar International Airport.
"You've got this," I mutter, yanking my now-tripod luggage past border control while my sundress attempts to become one with my sweaty thighs. "You're here for healing. For growth. For—oh sugar cookies, is that a customs form stuck to my leg?"
The arrivals hall buzzes with that chaos unique to tropical airports—a symphony of ceiling fans, excited reunions, and what sounds suspiciously like someone's pet chicken. I scan the crowd, searching for my parents' familiar faces among the sea of tour guides and families.
And there they are.
Dad's holding a sign that reads, WELCOME HOME, PIXIE, in his characteristic rainbow doodles, and Mom's beside him in a flowing emerald dress, her dark hair streaked with a touch of gray and twisted into her signature bohemian braid.
The moment I see them, something inside me breaks open.
We FaceTime almost weekly, but seeing them in person after months apart—
"Dad! Mom!" My voice cracks as I practically run into their arms, tears spilling faster than I can hold back. The exhaustion, the heartache, everything I've been holding together dissolves.
"My girl!" Dad murmurs, wrapping me in a hug that smells of sandalwood and home.
Mom joins our huddle, her hand finding my hair the way she did when I was little. "We've got you, baby. We've got you."
"I missed you so much," I manage between sniffles, not caring that we're causing a scene right there in the arrivals hall. "I know we talk all the time, but—"
"It's not the same," Mom finishes, wiping my tears with her thumbs. Her eyes are wet too.
The drive to their retreat winds through streets pulsing with color, sound, and movement.
An overwhelming contrast to the quiet calm of small-town in New England.
Scooters weave between cars with death-defying grace, while roadside stands overflow with fruits I can't name.
The air's warm but not stifling. September in Bali brings clearer skies and gentler heat.
"Wait until you see what we've done with the place," Mom says from the front seat, turning to beam at me. "We only had the basic structures when we moved in January, but now—"
"The meditation pavilion is finally finished," Dad cuts in excitedly. "And the gardens! You're going to love the herb spiral we planted. Very feng shui meets permaculture."
"Speaking of which," Mom adds, "there's a sound healing workshop tonight if you're up for it. Might help with the jet lag."
"Maybe tomorrow?" I try to sound enthusiastic. "Right now, I think I need—"
"Sleep," they say in unison, and Mom reaches back to squeeze my hand.
The retreat sprawls across terraced hills, stone pathways winding between meditation spaces and guest rooms. Prayer flags dance in the afternoon breeze while wind chimes sing from the distance.
Mom leads me past a blooming frangipani tree to my room, her willowy frame moving with that grace she's always had as she points out everything.
They've been here less than a year and already transformed the place into something that screams Jasper and Sage Hart.
My room is simple but beautiful—polished teak floors, white walls, and floor-length windows that open to let in the breeze.
A hand-woven bedspread in shades of indigo covers the bed, and Dad's already placed crystals on every surface, exactly like he used to do at home.
The en-suite bathroom gleams with natural stone, and someone's left fresh flowers by the sink.
"Two weeks will fly by," Mom says, arranging my toiletries with the same care she used to pack my school lunches. Her familiar perfume—cardamom and something uniquely her—fills the space. "Though your father's already plotting ways to make you stay longer before you fly back home."
Home.
A few months ago, that word was something else entirely. Meant midnight movie nights, and a certain dimpled smile I'm trying to forget.
"Rest, Pixie." Mom touches my cheek, and I see the worry in her sapphire eyes. "We'll bring dinner later."
I shower, letting the cool water wash away travel grime, then collapse onto the bed. Through the open windows, I hear chanting mixing with birdsong I don't recognize. A gecko watches from the wall, its presence oddly comforting.
Sleep pulls me under before I can spiral further, and I dream of blue eyes and broken promises, and the way some loves crack you open just to prove how strong you already are.
The morning arrives with a cacophony of jungle sounds that definitely aren't in any meditation app. I squint at my phone—five thirty a.m.
"Rise and shine, Pixie!" Dad's enthusiasm is genuine but gentler than usual.
He steps into the room and plants a soft kiss on my forehead, then immediately moves to adjust the ceiling fan without me saying a word about the humidity. Caleb used to do that with the car vents when I'd get carsick.
I pull on yoga pants and a soft maxi dress, then head to the meditation pavilion, where Mom's arranging her morning tea ceremony. The view stretches across rice terraces to misty mountains, golden light spilling over everything.
Mom sits cross-legged on a cushion, crystal necklaces swaying as she arranges various cups and bowls around her like she's preparing for some kind of cosmic tea party.
"Perfect timing," she says without opening her eyes. "The energy's especially potent at sunrise."
I settle onto the cushion across from her. "Is that tea, or some kind of ceremonial offering?"
"Both." She smiles, pouring a cup. "One of Grams' blends, though she always says I make it too strong. Something about spiritual growth not needing to taste of tree bark."
The liquid hits my tongue—bitter and raw. "I see her point."
My customers at The Enchanted Quill would probably revolt if I served something this intensely herbal. They prefer their spiritual awakening to taste of vanilla and honey, not . . . whatever this is.
"You're deflecting." She pours herself a cup. "Want to talk about why you're really here?"
"Can't a girl just visit her parents?"
"Of course. But that's not the only reason you're here."
My hands tighten around the cup. "I needed space."
"From Caleb? Or from yourself?"
"Mom—"
"For what it's worth, I think you did the right thing. You were protecting yourself."
"Was I? Or was I just being too much?" The words tumble out, all the thoughts I've been wrestling with. "I mean, I'm the one who pushed. Asked for more. Wanted him to actually talk about feelings instead of—"
"Stop." Mom's voice is firm. "Asking for what you need isn't pushing."
"I'm trying to remember who I was before him. And I blocked him because . . ."
"Because?"
"Because I was afraid if he called, I'd answer. If he came back, I'd pretend none of it happened."
"That's not weakness, Ivy. That's being human." Mom reaches across the space between us, her fingers finding mine. "Healing isn't linear. It's more like . . ."
"Please don't say it's like a spiral."
"I was going to say it's like learning to dance.
" Her eyes crinkle. "Sometimes you step forward, sometimes back.
But you're still moving. Love isn't about making yourself smaller so someone else can feel big enough.
It's about growing together. Or sometimes .
. ." She squeezes my hand. "Growing apart. "
"I miss him," I admit quietly. "But I think I need to focus on me for a while. Get back to who I was before all this mess."
Back home, I know Amelia and Vinnie are probably overfeeding Salem out of guilt, while Daphne's turned my duck care into some kind of color-coded schedule.
They've all been perfect—taking care of my world without question, and never once mentioning his name after I begged them not to.
The unspoken agreement hangs between us: Caleb Miller is a forbidden topic, and they respect that boundary even when I can see the worry in their eyes.
"Then that's where we start." She reaches for a crystal bowl. "With remembering who you are without him."