Page 74 of Unclench Me Softly

I reach for my tea and realize, belatedly, that it is not tea, it is just hot water with a single raspberry floating in it. I called it “Raspberry Infusion of Grounding.” It is neither grounding nor raspberry.

I write:

Note to self: stop giving the tea spiritual names. It doesn’t make it taste better. Especially if it’s just forest water and panic.

My stomach makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like grief.

I stare at the feather.

The robe is heavy on my shoulders, warm and safe and way too symbolic of being cared for. I am not ready to be cared for. I am a leader. A fraud. A deeply romantic feral woman with boundary issues and a bad history with emotionally intelligent gift-givers.

I eat the rest of the sad bar and try to remember who I was before this week started.

I think I was someone who didn’t blush every time someone handed her tree debris with meaning.

I was someone who had a plan.

A schedule.

An agenda that didn’t involve being spiritually edged by five emotionally wounded men with strong jawlines and inner child trauma.

I pick up the driftwood. Turn it in my hands.

There’s a groove on the back. It could hold something. A key. A ring. A hope I didn’t mean to have.

I stare out the window of the dome.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Which is suspicious.

Which is how I know something is wrong.

Or worse, something is going right.

I step outside to clear my head.

Just a short walk. A little sun. Maybe scream into the woods. Maybe whisper affirmations to a tree about boundaries and how I’m not falling in love with a curated selection of male archetypes hand-delivered by the universe to dismantle me.

The forest air is warm. Pine-sweet. Suspiciously serene.

Too serene.

I follow the path toward the clearing, expecting someone to be climbing a tree or lighting something on fire.

Instead I walk directly into a scene that feels like it was ripped from an extremely sensual ayahuasca brochure.

They’re all there.

Jax. Jonah. Asher. Seb. Miles.

In a circle, shirtless, sitting on cushions they carried from the dome, eyes closed, and breathing in perfect rhythm like they’ve been doing covert breathwork behind my back.

There’s incense burning in the center, a few stones arranged in a little altar formation, and what might actually be a playlist called “Grounding Vibes for Men With Inner Conflict.”

I freeze.

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