Before Erin's Arrival

The Banquet Hall was never so quiet as it was in the hour before sunset. The buffet, a minor miracle of logistics, was kept hot and immaculate by invisible hands. Today, platters of roast chicken, stacks of naan, a whole wheel of brie—some contestant must have craved French—arrayed the central table. The other women had filled in by ones and twos, but Erin was the only one not sitting with a group.

She’d chosen a corner table, a two-top near the window, her plate untouched except for a small mountain of peas she’d begun stacking by color. Her expression was not so much angry as pre-exhausted, like she’d already imagined every possible confrontation and chosen, in advance, not to participate. The sleeves of her shirt were rolled up so high they nearly disappeared, and she tapped her fork against the rim of the plate with military precision.

It didn’t take long for Sam to notice. She’d drifted into the room a few minutes after everyone else, after a brief meeting with Andy for her obligatory hug, and she had claimed a seat with the others—Dawn, Emi, Claire, Liesa, Norah, and Marissa, who were all in varying stages of debriefing the day. But the longer she watched Erin, the more she recognized the telltale signs of what she privately called pre-emotional deflection: the darting glances at the exit, the clenched jaw, the way Erin kept her back to the room, eyes fixed on the horizon as if a helicopter might drop in to rescue her any second. And then she remembered this was Erin’s night with Andy.

Sam waited until she caught Emi’s eye, gave her a wink, then grabbed her own plate and crossed the room. Erin, sensing the movement, didn’t look up until Sam was almost on top of her.

“Room for one more?” Sam asked, not waiting for an answer. She slid into the seat across from Erin, who looked at her with the suspicious appraisal of a cop at a traffic stop.

“Sure,” Erin said. “Just let me know if I’m in your light.”

Sam chuckled. “Relax. I’m not here to interrogate you.”

Erin arched a brow, not buying it. “Right. So what’s this, then? A charity meal?”

“Hardly.” Sam speared a carrot with her fork, chewed thoughtfully. “Look, I get that you want to be alone. I do. But you’re radiating ‘fuck off’ energy so hard that it’s making my teeth vibrate from over there.”

Erin’s mouth twitched, the smallest ghost of a smile. “Maybe I just have a naturally strong presence.”

Sam leaned in. “Or maybe you’re about to do something monumentally dumb, and you don’t want anyone to stop you.”

Erin set her fork down, hard. “Don’t you have anyone else to diagnose? I’m sure Norah’s drama could use an audience.”

Sam shrugged. “Norah’s drama is more predictable. Yours is interesting.” She paused, considered. “Also, you’re my friend, Erin. Or you were. So if you’re about to detonate, maybe let me get clear first.”

Erin crossed her arms, but it was defensive, not hostile. “I don’t remember signing up for group therapy with you, Collins.”

Sam grinned. “Nobody does. That’s why it works.”

For a few moments, they just sat, the only sound the faint clink of Sam’s fork and the distant clatter of someone (probably Emi) trying to pour tea with six hands and getting at least two caught in her cardigan. The silence stretched, then snapped as Erin finally exhaled.

“Claire sent you, didn’t she?” Erin said, not quite accusing.

Sam’s eyes widened, amused. “You think Claire sent me as, what, an emotional surrogate? She can barely look anyone in the eye, Erin.”

“Not true,” Erin said. “Maybe when we met, yes. But she’s better now. Since the change.” There was a strange note of pride in her voice.

Sam nodded. “Okay, sure. But still, I’m not here because she asked me. I’m here because I’ve known you since college, and I know the signs. You’re angry, but you’re also scared shitless. You don’t have to say it out loud, but you can at least not make me work for it.”

Erin looked out at the garden, jaw flexing. “I just… I hate feeling helpless, Sam. I hate that Arabella did this to me, and I hate that Andrew gets to decide if I ever feel normal again.”

Sam let the words hang, then replied, “You got a raw deal, no question.” She spoke with genuine sympathy, but didn’t sugarcoat it. “But here’s the thing: we’re all stuck with some version of this. And even if Andy finds a way to fix things—and I mean, really fix them—it might not be tomorrow. So you have a choice: keep resenting Andy, or Arabella, or the gods of reality TV, or figure out how to live with it, at least for now.”

Erin scowled, but Sam could see she was listening. “It’s not that easy.”

“I know,” Sam said, soft. “But maybe it’s not supposed to be. Andy cares about all of us. Even Norah, for some reason, though God knows she’s made it clear she’d rather die than say thank you. And you? He’s been worried about you since the second this started.” Sam hesitated, then went on: “He doesn’t want to control you, Erin. He just wants you to be okay.”

Erin’s eyes flicked up, sharp. “Why are you telling me this?”

Sam shrugged. “Because sometimes it’s good to hear it from someone who’s not him. Or Arabella, or whoever else is running this circus.”

Erin’s lips pressed together, hard. “You think I should just talk to him? About what happened? About—” She broke off, face darkening.

“I think you should do whatever you want,” Sam said. “But I also think if you don’t, you’ll keep feeling worse. And that’s not a good look on you.”

A faint smile, then: “I used to like you better when you just made fun of my boots.”

Sam grinned, triumphant. “Your boots still suck, for the record.”

Erin let out a real laugh, short and rough, but real. Then she glanced down at her plate, suddenly sheepish. “It’s my night,” she said quietly. “With him.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

Erin looked at her, uncertain. “Is it… is that why you’re here?”

Sam shook her head. “No, Erin. I’m here because I want you to be happy. Or at least not miserable. And because, despite your best efforts, you’re still my friend. So… if you want to bail, bail. If you want to talk, talk. If you want to go up there and make him pay for every second of awkwardness, I will personally hold your coat. And punch you after.”

Erin snorted, wiped a hand over her face. “God, you haven’t changed.”

“Neither have you,” Sam said. “And that’s a good thing.”

They sat for a minute, silence comfortable now. Erin rolled a pea between her fingers, then popped it in her mouth, chewing slowly.

“Wish me luck?” she said, voice very small.

Sam raised her glass. “Luck, and then some.”

Erin nodded, stood, and walked out of the hall. Her stride was determined, but Sam saw the way her hands shook just a little as she pushed through the doors.

When the echo of Erin’s footsteps faded, Sam sat back and let herself relax for the first time all day. She watched the shadows lengthen across the tablecloth, felt the slow, golden creep of dusk.

She didn’t see Liesa approach until the Belgian woman sat down across from her, pulling her chair so close their knees nearly touched.

“You like her,” Liesa said, voice gentle.

Sam blinked. “Erin? No, not like that. She’s into guys, remember?”

Liesa smiled, a soft, sly thing. “That does not mean you cannot like her now.”

Sam shook her head. “She was my friend. We had each other’s backs. That doesn’t go away for me, just because everything else does.” She gestured at the room, the hotel, the whole mad system they were caught in. “I don’t like seeing her hurt.”

Liesa studied her, then nodded. “You are good,” she said, as if it were a simple fact. “The best girl here, I think.”

Sam barked a surprised laugh. “Please. I’m not even playing the game. I have no interest in Andy.”

Liesa reached out, took Sam’s hand. “Is not about that,” she said, squeezing gently. “Is about how you care for the people around you. I wish I could do that.”

Sam squeezed back. “You do, Liesa. You just don’t see it.”

Liesa looked at the hand, as if surprised by her own boldness, then let it go and leaned back in her chair. “You should tell Erin. That you are rooting for her.”

“I think she already knows,” Sam said, smiling.

Liesa nodded, then stood. “Still. Sometimes is good to hear.”

Sam watched her go, feeling the warmth linger in her palm. For a while, she just sat, listening to the quiet, the faint hum of the ceiling fans, the distant laughter from the kitchen where someone (Emi, probably) was trying to juggle eggs.

She thought about Andy, and Erin, and Liesa, and all the years that had come between. She thought about the way nothing here was what it seemed, and how maybe, sometimes, that was the only way to get to the truth.

When she finally stood, she felt lighter than before. She carried her empty plate to the buffet, rinsed it, and set it down for the invisible staff.

As she walked back to her room, Sam caught herself humming. The sound echoed in the corridor, and for the first time in a long time, she let it fill the space.

In the Master’s Suite, as the afternoon drifted toward evening, Andy did what he always did when the world refused to make sense: he sat at the desk and started a list.

He’d found a pad of hotel stationery, cream-colored and heavy, and a fountain pen that wrote in a blue so deep it was nearly black. The room was quiet except for the faint hiss of the air system and, far away, the low drone of ocean waves. He had moved Katherine’s painting near the desk, per her request. Now that she knew he was willing to unhook her and move her around, she was trying to take advantage of it as much as she could. Her eyes tracked him as he tapped the pen against the paper, searching for an entry point.

He wrote out the names in a neat column:

— Sam

— Claire

— Emi

— Marissa

— Dawn

— Liesa

— Norah

— Erin

He paused, then added:

— Katherine

He frowned at the list. Under each name, he jotted the first things that came to mind: their current transformation, the way they’d handled it, the details he’d gleaned from conversation or observation. For Sam: "Needs hugs like oxygen. Exudes brightness but feels left out." For Emi: "Six arms, more coordinated than she thinks. Afraid to burden anyone. Dreamer. Hides behind politeness." For Claire: "Can’t speak, but never needed to. Reads people better than anyone. Lonely in a crowd. Smells like blossoms."

He got a few lines in before the exercise felt cheap. The notes were shallow, little more than a series of labels. He wanted to dig deeper, but every time he tried, the words evaporated. It was like trying to do psychoanalysis through a keyhole.

He looked up, met Katherine’s gaze. In the painting, she stood with her legs slightly spread, hands clasped in her lap. But her eyes were fixed on him, unwavering, expectant.

Andy set the pen down. “Am I missing something?” he asked.

Katherine blinked, then raised her right hand and mimed writing in the air. With her left, she tapped her chest, then gestured out toward the rest of the room.

Andy watched, puzzling it out. “You want me to look at what’s underneath,” he said. “What’s driving all this.” He didn’t phrase it as a question.

Katherine nodded, slow, and then made an exaggerated gesture of pulling a mask off her face.

Andy smiled. “All right. Let’s try again.”

He turned the page and started a new list. This time, he skipped the surface stuff. For each woman, he tried to name the fear that lived at their center. He had to be objective, no matter how raw his words might be. This exercise wouldn't be served by his being too kind to fully understand the workings of The HH.

Emi: terror of being forgotten, erased. She’d always been soft-spoken, the third wheel in every group. She wanted to be noticed, but for who she was, not what had happened to her.

Dawn: the dread that her only worth was in helping, serving, making herself useful. The hotel’s compulsion to serve had hit her like a tuning fork.

Claire: she’s always been afraid of getting it wrong. She never wanted to embarrass herself, to misread a moment. The silence is a blessing.

Erin: abandonment, plain and simple. The terror that if she ever let herself need someone, she’d be left with nothing. Arabella’s transformation had welded this to her body. The fear she now must depend on me.

Sam: for all the bravado, she’d never felt like she belonged anywhere for long. She fears being the last one standing in every game of musical chairs.

Marissa: loss of control. She’d spent a lifetime mastering herself, and now she has lost her professional armor.

Norah: terror of being wrong. Her identity was built on being the smartest, the best, the one who could anticipate every move.

Liesa: fear of being unmoored, belonging nowhere.

Katherine: the fear of being invisible. Trapped in paint, unable to speak, **** for connection but always one step removed from it. Watching life go on, but never able to join.

Andy read through the new list, then looked up at Katherine again. In the painting, her expression had changed: her eyes shone, lips parted as if in pride. She lifted her hands and made a slow, deliberate clapping motion.

Andy barked a laugh. “Thanks, Katherine.”

He stared at the paper for a long time, letting the weight of it settle. If nothing else, the magic of the hotel—the transformations, the compulsions, the absurdity—had cracked all of them open, exposed the soft underbellies they’d worked so hard to protect. Not for the first time, Andy wondered if Arabella’s game wasn’t about punishment or humiliation, but about forcing everyone to confront what hurt the most.

He wondered what was left for himself.

He scribbled a line at the bottom of the list, a joke half-remembered from somewhere: If you stare long enough at a group therapy session, eventually the group stares back.

The clock said it was nearly seven. The sun had dropped behind the volcano, casting the whole resort in orange and purple. Andy stood, stretched, then went to the kitchen to get dinner started. He remembered Erin had once said her favorite meal was “anything with salmon,” so he set to work: seasoning the fillet, prepping a little salad, pouring two glasses of water.

He worked quietly, glancing up every so often at the painting. Katherine had shifted again, her arms wide, an invitation or a benediction—he couldn’t tell. But he felt better, for the first time in days. Like maybe if he kept writing, kept talking, kept trying, it would be enough.

When the food was plated and the table set, Andy went to the living room and waited. He caught his reflection in the window, the city boy in borrowed luxury, and didn’t hate what he saw.

A few minutes later, the elevator chime sounded. Andy straightened his shirt, wiped his hands on his jeans, and braced himself for what was next.