Page 6 of Roaming Holiday

Everything he’s done for us, he did because I reminded him.

Once the driver takes my luggage and I thank him, I unbraid my hair to distract myself from thoughts of the past. I’m no longer a child and I don’t have to look after anyone. I’m here in Maldana—a stunning country.

My gaze sticks to the outside as we’re driven through the condensed roads surrounding the airport. Palm trees line the streets and mountains curve against the horizon. The signs along the highway have more pictures than words, and the views are unremarkably beautiful. The trees and fields are run-of-the-mill by European standards, but I appreciate that I’m not in America. I lean my head on the window and try not to fall asleep. My eyes droop and exhaustion creeps in until the car jerks and my head thumps against the window.

“I avoid roadkill,” the driver says, his English broken and accent thick. “Sorry.”

I suppress a groan and rub the sore spot on my forehead. A few minutes later, the trees turn into buildings and the pavement turns into cobblestones. We pass under a sign that reads Kosita. I roll my window down for fresh air, only to get smacked in the face by the stench of cigarettes. I grimace and roll it back up. When approaching a roundabout, I perk at the statue in the center.

“Oh—Maia!” I blurt.

“What’d I do?” my sister asks.

I chuckle. “No, the statue. I did some reading on the culture, and that’s the Maldanian goddess of love. Her name is Maia.”

There’s very little I know about the history and culture of the country—a downfall of this trip being sprung on me while I was stressed over graduation, my ending internship, and my ending relationship.

My sister scoots closer to lean out the window. “Oooh, I’m named after a goddess?”

“Wanna know what’s weird? There’s a goddess called Antonia, too. Goddess of fertility or something.”

“So—my first name is Maia. Your middle name is Antonia. Both of whom are goddesses in Maldanian lore?”

“Yup.”

She looks at Dad seated in front of us. “Was our birth mom from here or something?”

My chest tightens at the blunt question. Even Dad tenses. Our birth mother has always been a taboo topic. I don’t remember her. To me, my mother is a blurry figure buried deep in my memories and a dark cloud that has haunted my father for two decades. My sister and I have always been scared to bring her up; we didn’t want to make him angry or sad. Then I got too busy taking care of him and Maia to be curious.

Dad doesn’t answer as awkward silence fills the expensive car. Ruby reaches over and takes his hand. Maia and I glance at one another, brows pulled.

“Ask him that tomorrow,” Ruby says. “He can give you an answer then.”

“What’s the—?” Maia cuts herself off, both of us too tired from the flight to argue. I want to laugh at such an ambiguous reply. It’s been twenty years.

At the hotel, I freeze in the lobby, my jaw slack. This is much too charming and expensive to be ours—and my sister and I have our own room. The receptionists greet us with mimosas and tora di pomke—slices of Maldanian-style apple pie. Its crust is flaky like a croissant and the inside is warm apple. I suppress a moan at the divine flavor.

“Welcome to your home away from home,” Ruby says, pushing open my bedroom door with her butt as she cradles a plate of dessert.

My eyes widen at the spacious room. “I…”

“Here, eat.” She pushes a whole tora di pomke into my mouth, knowing I want to argue her and Dad’s decisions. My words are muffled and filled with soft apples I can’t help devouring. While Maia’s balcony faces the front to overlook the city, mine faces the back to overlook the hills leading to the ocean—a perk of the country’s capital sitting on the coast. I stand on my balcony and let my concerns about costs slip away.

It’s Dad’s choice, and I don’t have to clean up his messes anymore.

After a hot shower, I put on a halter top covered with blue flowers and pair it with white linen pants. Thankfully my period ended the other day.

“Neen!” Maia calls.

“It’s open!”

My sister enters the bathroom as I gather my curls into a loose ponytail. Through the oval mirror lined with gilded designs, I notice her hair is wet and in a ballerina bun.

“You washed your hair?”

She grunts. “I had to. It was so knotty.”

I tsk. “That’s why you gotta braid it for flights.”

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