"We'll be here," Mom promises. "We're always here."
After we hang up, I pull out my laptop, Salem repositioning himself across my thighs. The flight prices make me wince. August is peak tourist season, and apparently everyone wants to escape to Bali right now. But September? September is half the price, which means I can actually afford to go.
Six weeks. It's farther away than I'd like, but it gives me time to tie up all the loose ends that seem impossible right now.
I click purchase, the confirmation email landing in my inbox like a promise I'm finally ready to keep.
The humidity smothers methe 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, butnow—"
"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.
