Anchors and Echoes, Part 2

The Dance Hall could have staged a shuttle launch, judging by the decibel level and barely controlled chaos. Sam stood at the center of it all, clipboard held like a scepter, the queen of logistics in her natural element. She wore cargo shorts, a nerdy tee, and a fanny pack loaded with colored markers and was perfectly, blissfully, in charge. Every so often she’d check something off her list with a thick blue Sharpie, then shout instructions over the musical collision of Liesa’s Belgian pop and Erin’s Norah-provided playlists.

“Riley, Norah—test run again, please!” Sam called, pointing her pen like a laser. “This time don’t aim for the mirrors, or Andy will have seven years’ bad luck and we’ll all pay for it.”

“Copy, Boss!” Riley barked back, saluting with the half-assembled strobe light. She handed it off to Norah, who wore four-inch heels, giant boobs and a smirk. Norah took three graceful strides to the Hall’s far end, then spun, cupped her hands, and hollered, “ONE-TWO, CHECK, ONE-TWO!” Her voice came back crisp, not an echo, but a clean overlay.

“Perfect!” Riley called, and the two high-fived across the dance floor, Riley’s black-red mane swinging in a whip arc behind her. She’d worn it loose all day, hair reaching nearly to her knees, as if daring anyone to tangle with her. Norah, meanwhile, managed to look both professional and predatory, her heels clicking like gunshots, her new L-cup chest encased in a tailored blouse that threatened structural collapse at any moment.

Sam ticked another box and surveyed the floor.

Emi and Dawn, the unofficial Entertainment Committee, were locked in a battle of choreography near the Hall’s windowed terrace. Emi wore her six arms like a magician’s flourish—one pair looping Dawn’s wrists, another pair clapping to the beat, the last holding a phone with a TikTok video on loop. Dawn, hopelessly outmatched, gamely tried to copy the steps, but each time Emi spun her, Dawn lost count and dissolved into laughter.

“I’m never going to get this!” Dawn cried, doubled over. “My center of gravity is not built for this.”

Emi beamed, all six hands in the air. “It’s a party, not a performance. Nobody cares if you miss the step. Besides, the more chaos, the more authentic.”

Dawn straightened, chest heaving, and wiped tears from her cheeks. “You sound like a teacher at a Montessori school.”

“Thank you,” Emi said, clearly taking it as high praise.

At the far end, Claire sat at a folding table covered in spools of ribbon and what looked like the entire nautical section of a craft store. She worked in total silence, her tongue poked between her teeth as she tied intricate knots in the ends of blue-and-gold bunting. A small notebook lay open beside her, every page filled with neat, looping diagrams and notes like “Figure-Eight Anchor: Best for stability,” or “Add bell here, if possible.” Her tail flicked with each new success.

Every so often, someone would drift by and try to chat her up—Erin, mostly, who, even naked as a mint-green Venus, managed to loiter with purpose. Erin would squat next to Claire and point at the knots, asking questions and nodding as Claire showed her the trick with a satisfied smile.

Erin’s task was to use her knowledge of Andy’s musical tastes to select playlists from the ones Norah had approved, but she’d set up shop on the floor, cross-legged, surrounded by Norah’s curated notes and a stack of backup thumb drives. Each time a new song came up, Erin would listen, cock her head, then make a face—either approval (a low whistle and nod) or disgust (a raspberry and a two-handed thumbs-down). If the song passed muster, it went onto the party queue.

Emily, meanwhile, was painting the “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ANDY!” banner with the dedication of a Vatican muralist. Nude except for high-tops, she straddled the plastic dropcloth, hair draping in gold and pink sheets over every critical bit, and dabbed at the giant sign with a two-inch brush. She looked up as Riley passed, and grinned. “Want to help?”

“Are you kidding?” Riley answered, then snatched the smallest brush and immediately drew a pair of cartoon boobs on the capital Y. “Gotta stay on theme.”

Emily giggled, then, with an evil gleam, painted a matching bulge on the D. “If it’s a party, everyone gets a package.”

“Language,” Sam deadpanned, but didn’t look up from her list.

Emily flashed her a smile, cheeks pink with both mischief and the quicksilver thrill of being seen.

Sam clapped her hands. “Okay, team, huddle up! Five minutes for checks and then we break for lunch. And if anyone gets paint on the new runner, I will make you scrub it with your tongue.”

Erin rolled her eyes. “You wish.”

“Don’t threaten her with a good time,” Norah called from across the room, earning a cackle from Riley and a fist-pump from Emi.

The women converged in the center of the Hall, crowding around Sam. Even Liesa, ever-drifting, found herself a place and hooked an arm around Dawn’s shoulders. The air smelled of sugar, sea breeze, and a faint undercurrent of sweat and sharpie.

Sam surveyed the lot. “Let’s be honest: we’re doing good. You’re all terrifyingly competent when you’re not trying to seduce the birthday boy. Even Claire—who has tied no fewer than forty-three bowlines since breakfast—could run a regatta with this much bunting.” She held up the clipboard. “We’re ahead of schedule, which means you all get a break and I get to gloat to Andy later. Anyone have last-minute disasters or emergencies?”

Dawn, still winded from dance practice, said, “Are we really doing the group dance, or is that just Emi’s fever dream?”

Emi, not to be denied, said, “Absolutely, yes. I choreographed six arms for a reason. And we’re all in, right?”

She scanned the group for support. Liesa gave a dramatic hair toss and said, “I have never danced in public, but I will sacrifice myself for the cause.”

Claire, scribbling in her notebook, held up a page: ALL HANDS ON DECK.

Emily, still streaked with blue paint, nodded. “I’m in. But only if we can do the wave at the end.”

Erin made a face, but relented. “Fine. For Andy.”

Sam, seeing the debate tipping in Emi’s favor, shrugged. “If it’s a disaster, it’ll be a memorable disaster. That’s all he cares about, anyway.”

Chloe, glancing up from the glassware, asked, “What’s our dress code for the dance?”

Riley snorted. “Half of us are naked, and the rest are in clothes. I think we’re good.”

Erin, chest out, said, “Naked is the new black.”

Norah rolled her eyes, but there was no edge to it. “Fine, but can someone glue the runner down before the show? Otherwise, Liesa’s going to twirl it straight into Andy’s lap.”

Liesa grinned, eyes devil-bright. “Only if he is lucky.”

The girls dissolved into laughter, the sound ricocheting off the arched ceiling and swirling around them in a cyclone of lightness.

It was Emily who, between giggles, pointed at Sam’s clipboard and said, “When’s our next Pathfinder session? Are we squeezing one in before the party?”

Sam, deadly serious, considered. “There’s no way I can prep a dungeon run and a birthday bash at the same time, unless you want to fight paper monsters and get attacked by a random cake elemental.”

Emi’s eyes lit up. “That sounds amazing! Can we do that? Please?”

The rest of the group chimed in, most of them with “yes, please,” a few with “god, no,” and at least one “if we can drink while we play, I’m in.”

Sam, smiling for the first time that day without a trace of stress, said, “Alright, one-shot dungeon crawl after the party. First boss: the Cake Elemental.”

A cheer went up, loud and unfiltered.

Riley, always the skeptic, cut through the noise. “Is he going to want to dance? Like, actually?”

Sam shrugged. “If not, we’ll drag him onto the floor. It’s tradition.”

Liesa, suddenly bashful, murmured, “He used to dance with me, back at the Café. He’s not terrible. Just awkward.”

Erin grinned. “He’s improved. A little.”

Liesa patted her on the arm. “You must teach me the secret.”

Sam looked around, letting the moment settle. She didn’t say anything, but for a second, nobody moved, the hush golden and complete. It lasted only a heartbeat, but it was enough.

Then Erin broke the spell by flicking a wadded napkin at Norah, who batted it aside and fired back with a rubber band. In seconds, the Hall devolved into a low-grade war, bunting flying, table runners used as whips, and a barrage of paint-dipped Q-tips from Emily’s arsenal.

Even Claire, not to be outdone, lobbed a knot at Emi’s head, landing it with a satisfying thunk.

It was Riley who called truce, hands raised. “Save it for the party, girls. Save it for the main event.”

The laughter faded, and the harem scattered, each to her own last-minute project.

Sam watched them go, and for a moment, she let herself believe everything was exactly as it should be.

At the edge of the Dance Hall’s noise, the world was softer—just not any simpler. Myra braced her fingers against the knotted edge of Chloe’s cardigan, letting the static of Chloe’s worry ripple through her like a tuning fork. Every inch of her body buzzed with the echo of other people’s feelings: the spike of Riley’s triumph as she nailed a punchline; the warm, low drone of Emily’s contentment as she painted; the contagious, viral joy of Emi’s six-handed choreography; the sly undertone of Norah’s competitiveness, never off-duty, even in a party setup. All of it washed together, a current so strong it threatened to sweep Myra away if she didn’t keep her head above water.

Chloe guided her with surprising steadiness through the storm of sound and movement. Their hands were joined, Chloe’s grip gentle but never loose enough to let Myra drift or collide with a fast-moving cart of folding chairs. And Myra’s Kitsune Step transformation automatically took care of minor mishaps, ensuring she wouldn’t step on something dangerous, or bump her shin into a low table. Every so often, Chloe would murmur a soft warning—“Step up here,” or “Careful, wet paint on the left”—but mostly she led in silence, letting the rhythm of the Hall guide them.

They had made it as far as the hallway, past the giant streamer arch and into the relative hush of the vestibule, when Myra’s foot caught on something that slid nearly onto her foot before she could move—a stray roll of table runner, maybe—and she pitched forward. Chloe caught her with both hands, stopping the fall with a neat, practiced movement. For a second, Myra’s face pressed against the crook of Chloe’s shoulder. The smell of lemon and talcum, the tickle of Chloe’s long hair, the fierce heat of shame.

Myra let out a shaky laugh. “Sorry. It’s like walking through a hurricane in here.”

Chloe, hands still holding her by the biceps, just said, “You’re doing fine.” She righted Myra, then stood close, almost a shield.

“It’s easier like this,” Myra whispered, her voice a private admission. She meant being led, but also maybe meant being close—where the emotional noise was sharp, but at least it had a source.

Chloe didn’t answer, not in words. But she didn’t let go.

After a while, Myra spoke again. “I wanted to say something. Before I lose my nerve.” She paused, searching for words. “I’m sorry. For middle school. For using you the way I did.”

Chloe’s grip on her sleeve didn’t change, but there was a small shiver, a sympathetic resonance, like a harp string plucked somewhere out of sight.

Myra pressed on. “I wasn’t a good person back then. Laura’s ****—” She swallowed. “It made me realize who I’d been. I’ve spent every day since trying to be better, even if I couldn’t… I don’t know. Even if I could never apologize for real.”

Chloe’s voice, when it came, was steady as glass. “We were all thirteen. Nobody’s a good person at thirteen.” She didn’t say it as comfort. Just fact.

Myra shook her head. “I used you, Chloe. I was cruel, and then I let you take the blame. And after Laura…” Her throat closed, for a moment, but she **** it open. “After Laura, I never let myself have friends again. Not real ones.”

Chloe squeezed her hand, so faintly it could have been a twitch.

“I get it if you can’t forgive me,” Myra finished, voice thready. “But if you wanted, maybe we could try to be friends again. Or at least… not enemies.”

There was a long, long pause, filled only by the far-off shriek of Riley and Norah cursing at a malfunctioning speaker, and the high, hysterical giggle of Emi as she led Dawn in a six-armed Macarena.

Chloe’s silence felt like the world holding its breath.

Finally, Chloe said, “I’ve thought about it a lot, actually.” She let go of Myra’s sleeve, only to take her hand instead, both hands now knotted at the wrist. “What you did—it wasn’t okay. But it’s not the only thing about you. You became a doctor. You gave everything for your patients. You tried to make it up to the whole world.” Her grip tightened. “That’s more than most people would do.”

Myra felt the words hit, solid and heavy.

Chloe went on, “You said you weren’t a good person. But you are now, Myra. Even if you can’t see it.” A tiny, rueful smile. “Literally, I guess.”

Myra managed a dry laugh. “Maybe that’s karma. Maybe I deserve—”

“No,” Chloe said, fierce all at once. “That’s not how it works. If it was, none of us would be here.” She hesitated, then continued, softer. “Laura wasn’t my close friend, but for reasons I still don’t understand, she always tried to make me smile. It was as if it was her project to make me feel more confident in my skin. And I miss her every day, especially now, especially after seeing Andy again, and Riley, and you. Sometimes I think I see her. I even hear her voice in my head, sometimes, telling me not to be such a doormat.” She smiled, crooked. “But if Laura could see you now, I think she’d want you to be happy. She was jealous and a lot stubborn, but she was kind, Myra. She was always kind. At least to me.”

The words settled in the space between them, as light as dust motes, as heavy as anchors.

“I won’t pretend it never happened,” Chloe said. “And I won’t pretend it doesn’t hurt, sometimes, when I remember. But I’m not going to punish you for it. That’s not what Laura would want. Or what I want.”

She let out a small, self-deprecating laugh. “You were a shitty friend. But you’re not a shitty person anymore. So yes, I’ll try again.”

Myra’s vision was darkness, but something in her chest went bright for the first time in years.

She squeezed Chloe’s hand back, grateful, and let herself believe, for just a moment, that maybe she could belong to something again. Maybe she already did.

They stood there, holding hands, letting the sound of the party swirl around them like distant surf.

After a while, Chloe said, “You want to help me frost the cupcakes? I can’t ever get the swirls even.”

Myra grinned, the expression almost foreign on her face, but not unwelcome. “If you guide my hand, I’ll do my best.”

Chloe smiled, soft and secret. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

Andy and Marissa stepped out of the conservatory and into the Main Lobby, the click of her heels echoing on the marble as if announcing their return. The Hall looked different in the early evening light—emptier, as if the whole place was holding its breath. Andy wondered where all the other women were; he had never seen the Hotel as empty as it had seemed, these last few days.

Marissa squeezed his hand before letting go. “I’ll go get changed. And see if Myra’s ready.”

He nodded, watched her walk off toward the guest rooms with the calm, deliberate stride she always used when she was nervous. He wanted to call her back, say something—thank you, maybe—but she disappeared around a corner before he could work up the nerve.

He turned, then, meaning to head for the Suite, and almost ran straight into Riley.

She wore combat boots, torn black jeans, and a faded gray t-shirt that said “ABSOLUTELY NOT.” It was so on brand with her, that Andy thought he had imagined it for a moment. Her hair, wild and black-red and shining, fell straight down her back, nearly brushing her calves, twitching as if preparing to tie her up at any moment. She stood like she’d been waiting for him to round that exact corner, arms folded, eyes flat and unreadable.

“Hey,” she said, voice soft but edged. “Can we talk?”

It wasn’t a request, exactly, but it wasn’t a threat either.

He said, “Sure,” and let her steer him off the main drag, past a row of potted ferns and into a side corridor that overlooked the resort gardens. The air was cooler here, the lights dimmed; nobody else in sight.

Riley didn’t bother with preamble. “Chloe says I should try to forgive her,” she said, not clarifying who. “Says it’s been long enough, that sixteen years of regret is punishment enough. But every time I look at her, I see that day on the bridge. I see Laura in the water, like you showed me in the Cabana. And I think, why does Myra get to have a life when Laura doesn’t?”

Andy stared at the far window, letting the words settle. He heard the anger, but underneath it, there was exhaustion—a kind of bone-deep ache he recognized from his own worst nights.

“I used to think that too,” he said. “First day, I couldn’t look at her. Not without wanting to scream.”

Riley’s jaw flexed. “But you got over it.”

He shook his head. “No. But I stopped pretending it would bring Laura back. Or make me feel better.”

She turned on him, then, eyes blazing. “So what, we just let her off the hook? Pretend it never happened?”

“No,” Andy said, gentle but firm. “I’m not saying we forget it. I’m saying… maybe we stop holding her in place. Maybe we let her move forward. Because she’s already stuck. Has been for years.”

Riley’s hands curled into fists. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not,” he said. “It’s not even close.”

Riley looked away, biting at her bottom lip. “You know what I hate? I hate that Chloe is right. That Myra’s spent every day since making herself useful to people who’ll never even know what she did.” She exhaled hard. “And I hate that it doesn’t make me less angry.”

Andy leaned against the wall, feeling the cold stone seep through his shirt. “You’re allowed to be angry,” he said, low. “You lost her too.”

Riley’s laugh was small, bitter. “Yeah. But not the way you did.”

They stood in silence, watching the slow pulse of colored lights from the pool outside. Andy wanted to reach out, but he knew better. Riley did not like comfort, not unless she’d earned it, or taken it by ****.

Finally, she said, “Why are you so calm about it? After all this?”

He searched for the answer. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe because… Maybe because I’ve realized, after you and Chloe, that Laura would have wanted us to stop hurting each other. She would have been mad—at Myra, at me, at Chloe, maybe at herself. And it would have hurt her. But she would’ve wanted everyone to be okay, in the end, once she understood how much we all suffered. Even Myra.”

Riley chewed on that, turning it over like a puzzle piece.

“You know,” she said, “sometimes I think I still see her. When I’m alone, or after a nightmare. It’s never her face, just… the feeling.” She shrugged, awkward. “She’d probably laugh at us, fighting like this.”

Andy smiled, sad and small. “She always did like a good fight.”

Riley nodded, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “You remember the time she got detention for punching that asshole in math class?”

He did. “She made a list of the top ten things she would rather do than apologize.”

“Number one was eat the principal’s tie,” Riley said, and for the first time, she smiled.

Andy grinned fondly, remembering. “Number two was cleaning all the blackboards with a toothbrush.” He felt the familiar tears in his eyes at the memory. “She was always half a step away from a prank, too.”

Riley’s smile widened, but Andy could see her eyes glistening, too. “That one time that she toilet papered Mrs. Simmons’s car? She raided all the toilets in the school to get enough paper, then found out it still wasn’t enough, so she wrote ‘be back later’ on a piece of paper she stuck on the car’s rear.”

Andy laughed, remembering. “She drew a butt on it, too. They never figured out it was her. How many kids got detention for that, though?”

Riley chuckled. “Not enough, obviously.” She sighed. “I miss her, Andy. She was jealous and stubborn and could drive you up the wall sometimes, but she was mischievous and kind and loyal to a fault.”

“She loved deeply,” Andy said, and before he even knew it, he was holding Riley in a hug. Not romantic, just the hug of two friends who remember someone dear to both of them. “She had a big heart. And she had a way of making every room brighter when she walked in. She drew the attention of the room, as small as she was.”

They both went quiet again, but it wasn’t as sharp as before. Riley sniffled.

She broke the hush. “I’m not saying I forgive her. Or that I want to be her friend.” Andy nodded, letting her own the space. “But maybe…” she said, and stopped, searching for the words. “Maybe I can stop making it worse.”

He nodded, slow. “That’s all anyone can do.”

She glanced sideways at him, studying his face with the old, intense Riley focus. “You’re a better person than me, Andy.”

He shook his head. “Not even close.”

She snorted, but it wasn’t mean. “Guess we’ll see who Laura haunts first.”

He laughed, quietly. “It’ll be me. She still owes me for the time I broke her science trophy.”

Riley smirked. “She’ll probably just hide your shoes.”

They stood a while longer, the silence easier now. Eventually, Riley straightened, brushing invisible dust off her shirt. “You know, I’m glad it was you she loved. You would have made a passable boyfriend for her.”

Andy looked down. “I would have tried to be more than that.”

She started to go, then paused, her back to him. “She loved you too, Andy, you know. She wouldn’t have been so hurt, otherwise.”

He blinked, surprised, then nodded. “I know.” But she died believing I had hurt her. And I never got to apologize.

Riley left without another word, boots clacking a steady retreat. Andy walked the long hall back toward the elevator, his footsteps echoing in the empty space. Something about the way the conversations with Marissa and Riley had gone—the raw honesty, the sharp edges worn just a little smoother—left him both tired and, somehow, lighter.

The corridor felt wider than usual, as if the place itself had let out a sigh and settled into a more forgiving shape. He passed the last window and caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the darkened glass: older, yes, but less haunted than he’d looked in weeks.

At the elevator, he paused, just long enough to feel the absence of any ghosts pressing at his back. The doors opened with a soft chime. Andy stepped inside, just let the doors close behind him, and waited for the lift to carry him up.