Behind the Curtain

After lunch, the hotel drifted into its rarest of moods: the liminal, in-between hum of people elsewhere, doing things that didn’t involve you. The corridors went quiet. The only sound above a whisper was the dull, warbling croon of some distant bird, probably a resort import. It was the sort of quiet that drew Liesa to the Sunroom, her favorite spot for people-watching, or the absence thereof.

Today, the room’s glass walls caught a pale haze of sun and threw it everywhere. The ceiling beams and trailing philodendrons filtered the light down to a buttery wash. Liesa found Marissa on a wicker chaise, both legs stretched out, back to the windows, gaze fixed on some point between two garden trees and infinity. Her posture was so perfectly still it bordered on ironic.

Liesa entered without preamble. “Hey, Marissa,” she said, rolling the “r” in Marissa’s name just a little too much, letting it carry the accent and the joke at the same time.

Marissa’s eyes flicked from the trees to Liesa’s flat belly, and then to her face. She smiled, not the formal therapy smile but the real one, which dimpled both cheeks and made her look about four years younger. “Should I be saying congratulations, or is it still a secret?”

Liesa set a hand on her stomach, surprised by the question. She’d only told a few people, and none in detail. “You know already?”

“I know everything,” Marissa said, a hint of delight peeking through. Then, more softly: “Sam told me. In confidence, but I’m a terrible keeper of happy secrets.”

Liesa sat beside her, a deliberate plop, the kind she used to make friends in elementary school. “Then yes, you can congratulate me. Or us. Is very complicated now.”

Marissa grinned, then, when she noticed Liesa’s hand still braced on her belly, said, “I’m genuinely happy for you, you know. It’s not every day you see a magical baby conceived on purpose.”

Liesa made a face, then mimed pinching herself. “Sometimes I wake up and think it’s a joke. Like I was tricked into being the test balloon for the next weird transformation.”

Marissa’s smile faded to something gentler. “If it is, you’re the happiest test balloon I’ve seen.”

Liesa blushed, unused to compliments she couldn’t flip into a joke. She found the garden outside the window with her eyes, then turned back. “You are good at making people talk, aren’t you?”

“I’m out of practice,” Marissa said. “Most days, I just listen.”

“Then you must be tired of it. Let me talk for once.” Liesa clasped her hands in her lap, as if preparing a formal statement. “I want to know how you are, for real. After your date with Andy.”

The directness made Marissa shift, but not away. She crossed her legs at the ankle and rested her hands on her knees, old posture habits from years of needing to look composed. “Honestly?”

“Honestly,” Liesa said.

Marissa let out a breath that was more laugh than sigh. “It’s harder than I thought it would be, getting rid of the habit. The instinct to explain, to smooth things over. Sometimes I can’t even tell if I want something or if I just want it to be fine for everyone else.” She looked at Liesa’s hand again, then at her own. “But I’m… I’m good, actually. Since the date, and since seeing my family, it feels like something’s unlocked. Like I can say things out loud now without having to check for someone’s reaction first.”

“That’s the first honest answer you ever gave me,” Liesa said, and she meant it.

Marissa laughed, then tucked her hair behind her ear. “It’s strange, isn’t it? To want so badly to help everyone else that you forget you’re a person yourself?”

Liesa snorted. “That is literally eighty percent of the women in this building.”

They let the silence stretch, the kind that wasn’t awkward but full. Liesa felt the pressure behind her teeth to fill it, to say something more, but she let it rest, counting the heartbeat of quiet instead.

Marissa broke the moment with a half-whispered, “My sister’s partner was real. Not just a hookup or a sympathy companion, but a woman she’d been with for months. I never knew about her, never even met her, because I was so focused on helping Sarah, that she couldn’t find the right time to tell me.” She shook her head, the smile now tinted with self-mockery. “Can you imagine being so focused on helping that your own sister hides her whole life from you, just so you won’t worry?”

Liesa thought about her own parents, the way her mother never told Liesa anything until it was finished, already history. “I can, actually. My mother used to tell me she’d had a wonderful day only when it was over, so she couldn’t ruin it by wishing it would stay good. She was always afraid if she named a happy thing out loud, it would vanish.”

Marissa looked at her sideways. “Did it?”

“Sometimes, yes.” Liesa shrugged, then added, “But sometimes, no.”

Marissa nodded. “Mine too.”

There was a long pause, then Marissa said, “I’m not going to do that anymore.” She made a fist, squeezed it once, as if committing herself. “I want to want things, and I want to say it even if it sounds selfish. I want to be happy for you, and for myself, and not have to footnote it with ‘if that’s okay with everyone else.’”

Liesa grinned. “Should I add you to the list of brides? I heard it is getting very competitive.”

Marissa smiled, not the professional one, but with a small, real pride. “I’d like to be in the running, yeah. But not just yet.”

Liesa thought about what had changed in her, since the day she walked into the harem as just another pawn. “For me,” she said, “the trick was to pick it on purpose. To wake up every day and decide I wanted to be here, with these people, with this.” She gestured at the Sunroom, the garden, her belly. “I stopped waiting for it to feel true, and just… pretended. Until it was true.”

Marissa’s eyes widened a little. “That’s almost exactly what I do. I call it ‘priming the day,’ but I never told anyone, because it always sounded too… I don’t know. Too self-help.”

“It is not self-help,” Liesa said, fierce. “It’s how you survive when you have to. You choose what the day will be, and then you fight for it, even if it doesn’t work every time.”

Marissa nodded, then looked at the sunlight streaming over their shoes. She reached out, gently, and took Liesa’s hand in hers, squeezing it, the gesture as much for Marissa as for Liesa.

“I never thought I’d get better in a harem,” Marissa said, “but this is the happiest, and most relaxed, I’ve ever been.”

Liesa squeezed back. “Then we make it a good day. For the baby, for the brides, for everyone.”

They sat in the filtered sunlight, two women who had lived more than most and survived more than either had planned for, and let the afternoon settle on their skin like a quiet promise.

Marissa closed her eyes, letting the warmth of the sun and the company rest on her, and for the first time in ages, didn’t brace for the moment to vanish.

She just let herself have it.

---

The Rec Room in late afternoon always had the look of a place expecting a party but resigned to a nap instead. Sun through the west windows painted bold rectangles on the floor, slicing the foosball table and half-popped beanbags into neat, glowing pieces. The faint tang of chlorine drifted in from the pool area. Nobody had changed the playlist in hours, so the same three songs rotated in a slow, sugary death march. Sam had the room to herself and was working on a jigsaw puzzle of a screaming goat. It was almost finished, but the last few pieces were identical, indistinguishable except for the tilt of the cardboard edge.

Myra came in first, two fox tails brushing the floor behind her. Her hair was tied in a messy braid, and she wore a sleeveless T-shirt from a science museum, the slogan stretched across her chest: “Ask Me About the Afterlife.”

Trailing a half-step behind was Emi, who was not quite walking so much as moving in a gentle swirl: all six arms busy at once, three holding a folding chess set, another balancing two cans of seltzer, one fidgeting with her watch and the last tucked close to her chest. She wore a tie-dyed dress, and looked utterly unbothered by her own circus of activity.

Katherine followed, silent and deliberate. Her head was high, her hair perfectly in place, her expression neutral. Her green eyes fixed on Sam and the puzzle, as if the tableau deserved a silent judgment. She wore nothing, and could not have worn anything if she’d wanted to, but her confidence gave her more dignity than most of the people in the room.

Sam grinned as they entered. “Is this an intervention or a raid?” she asked, feigning a look around for hidden cameras. “Because I’m only surrendering the goat if you’re here to help.”

Myra snorted and sat next to her, legs folding beneath with the kind of unselfconscious grace Sam had always admired. “We’re not here for the goat. We’re here for you,” she said. The tails flicked to either side, telegraphing focus.

Emi set the chess set and seltzer down, then hovered by the arm of the couch, hesitant. “We wanted to check about the party,” she said. “Is everything still on?”

Sam cocked her head. “Bachelor party? Yeah. I mean, it’s Andy. He’d rather be waterboarded with root beer than do a real party, but we’ll make him suffer through at least a little embarrassment.”

Katherine glided closer. She lifted both hands, palms pressed over her heart, held it there a second, then let them fall gracefully to her sides. The message was unmistakable: Thank you. Please.

Myra translated with a small smile. “She wants to make sure it happens. For him.” She nodded at the painting. “It matters.”

Sam registered the group’s tone, the current underneath the words. Not just a pre-party check-in, but something more urgent, an undercurrent of Now or Never. “Am I missing something?” she said, eyes darting between them.

Myra leaned back, searching for a polite way to phrase it and giving up halfway through. “We think the day after the party is going to be the hardest day of his life,” she said. “And we want the party to be as good as possible. For all of us.”

Emi nodded, her arms wrapping herself in a hug. “We want him happy. We want you to be happy, too.”

Sam snorted. “That’s a lot of pressure. What if I botch it? What if it’s the lamest party in harem history?”

Emi smiled, but there was real sadness in it. “It won’t be,” she said, “if you’re there.”

Katherine turned, facing Sam square-on, as if to drive the point home with silent, unwavering attention.

Myra added, “You’re the only one who can make him feel like it’s okay to laugh, even if it’s the last chance he gets.”

Sam looked away, uncomfortable with the focus. “I’ll do what I can,” she said. Then, softer: “I promise.”

Laura arrived as the conversation was winding down. Both her bodies were dressed in a way that read as “I tried, but I can’t be bothered,” which for Laura meant a T-shirt and loose linen pants. She stood in the doorway, arms folded, and watched the group with an unreadable gaze.

Myra, Emi, and Katherine nodded at her, smiling, then exited in a loose, meandering line, tails, arms, and nudity making a parade of oddness that fit perfectly here.

Laura stayed behind, both bodies still and watchful.

Sam waited until the others were out of earshot, then raised an eyebrow. “You need something?” she said, careful not to startle.

Laura moved into the room, almost gingerly. “I’m not interrupting, am I?”

Sam gestured at the chaos on the table. “Only the goat. What’s up?”

Laura perched on the arm of the couch, eyes fixed on Sam’s face. “You’re worried,” she said, in stereo. “Not about the party. About what comes after.”

Sam didn’t deny it. “I am. You know what the wedding day means.”

Laura nodded, not meeting Sam’s eyes. “I’ve been thinking about it all morning. I keep trying to find a way it doesn’t end bad for someone.”

Sam shrugged, the motion broad and honest. “There isn’t. Not if the rules are what they say.”

Laura was silent for a minute, then said, in a soft voice, “I’m not ready. I want to be, but I’m not.”

Sam nodded, then patted the couch cushion beside her. Laura didn’t sit, but she got closer. “You don’t have to be ready,” Sam said. “You just have to let us help.”

Laura’s jaw flexed. “You make it sound like I don’t have a choice.”

Sam’s voice was gentle, but there was iron under it. “You don’t. None of us are going to let you go out alone. Not this time. Debt or no debt.”

Laura’s hands trembled, so slightly it would have been missed by anyone but Sam, who made a career out of seeing what people thought they could hide. “I’m scared,” Laura said. She hated the sound of it, hated that it came out small.

Sam didn’t react, except to slide a puzzle piece into place. “You should be. But it’s not just your weight anymore. You get to share it.”

Laura made a sound, close to a laugh. “You make it sound so easy.”

Sam shook her head. “No. Just possible. You want to promise me something?” She looked up, met both of Laura’s gazes at once. “Promise if it gets too bad, between now and the wedding, you’ll tell someone. Doesn’t have to be me. Just—don’t sit on it until it cracks you open.”

Laura nodded, fiercely. “I promise.”

There was a beat, the space between one breath and the next. Sam’s tone shifted, sly. “Is that why you stayed? You wanted to say it out loud?”

Laura nodded again, but there was more relief than shame this time. “I didn’t want to go into these last few days with it stuck inside my throat. It’s stupid, but—”

“It’s not stupid,” Sam said, and meant it. “Not even a little.”

They sat for a while, watching the sun slide lower and lower on the wall. The world outside the Rec Room faded to a soft hush. For a moment, there was nothing to do but let the good parts rest.

Finally, Laura said, “If she takes me—if Ereshkigal comes for me—I don’t want anyone to get hurt for my sake. Not you. Not Andy. Not anyone.”

Sam didn’t answer right away. Then she said, “You really think any of us will let you go quietly?”

Laura tried to smile, but it didn’t land. “I’d rather you be mad at me than dead.”

Sam’s laugh was low, and a little sad. “That’s the problem. We’re all stubborn. If Ereshkigal takes you, we’re just going to get you back.”

Laura’s voice was soft. “What if it can’t be done?”

Sam said, “Andy’s already done the thing that wasn’t possible, once. The odds don’t scare me anymore.” She locked eyes with Laura, both sets. “And if anyone can figure out the cheat code for death, it’s him.”

Laura looked at the table, at the puzzle, at the goat’s wide, cartoon scream. “I don’t want to leave him a second time.”

Sam’s voice gentled, but lost none of its clarity. “Then don’t. Or, if you have to, make sure it’s not because you’re trying to protect us. Give us a shot.”

Laura let the words land, and found that they did not bruise. They settled somewhere soft. She looked up, the two bodies meeting their own gaze for the first time in hours. “Thank you.”

Sam grinned, and this time it was genuine. “Anytime.”

Laura hesitated, then: “Can I tell you a secret?”

Sam said, “That’s my job,” but she meant yes.

Laura bit her lip. “I think… I think I might be pregnant.”

For a second, there was nothing but the light and the sound of breathing. Sam blinked. Then she laughed, not mocking, just surprised. “Wow. That’s a plot twist.”

Laura’s eyes went wet, but she didn’t look away. “I don’t know if it’s real, but I had to tell someone.”

Sam reached out and took her hand, squeezing it once, hard. “Thank you. You want me to tell Andy?”

Laura shook her head, just a little. “Not yet. After the wedding.”

Sam set down her puzzle piece. “Okay, but—” She hesitated. “You’ve been back a month, Laura. How sure are we talking?”

Laura was quiet for a second. Then: “I’ve been bone-tired all week. Not the kind of tired that goes away. And coffee—” She made a face. “The last few days, even walking past it makes my stomach turn. And I’m—” She touched her collarbone, briefly, a gesture that said the rest without saying it.

Sam watched her, reading the gesture. “Have you talked to Dinah?”

“No.” Laura’s voice was flat. “Not Arabella either.”

“But you still think—”

“I have a medical degree now, Sam.” The words came out quietly, not boastful, almost apologetic. “I didn’t ask for it, but I have it. And I know what I’m describing.” She looked up. “I’m not saying it’s certain. I’m saying I know what it looks like.”

Sam didn’t move for a moment. Then she put the puzzle piece down, flat on the table, and turned to face Laura fully. “Okay,” she said. “Then hear me out.”

Laura’s eyes went cautious. “Sam—”

“No, listen.” Sam’s voice was calm, but it had the texture of something load-bearing. “You came in here scared. You told me you’re scared. And now you’re telling me there might be a baby.” She let that sit for a second. “So I need you to understand something. That changes the math.”

Laura’s throat moved. “It doesn’t change what Ereshkigal—”

“It changes everything,” Sam said, not loud, but final. “Because now it’s not just you deciding how much your life is worth. Now there’s someone else in the equation.” She watched Laura’s face. “You want to protect Andy. You want to protect us. Fine. Then stop treating yourself like a sacrifice that’s already been made.”

Laura looked away.

“Hey.” Sam waited. Laura looked back. “Andy found a way to bring you back once. From nothing. From a river and thirty years and a debt that should have been permanent.” She held both of Laura’s gazes without flinching. “You think he’s going to stand at an altar and then just let her take you? You think any of us will?”

Laura’s voice was barely audible. “I don’t want him to get hurt trying.”

“That’s his choice,” Sam said. “And it’s going to be his choice whether you give it to him or not. The only question is whether you’re fighting beside him or whether he’s fighting for a version of you that already gave up.” She reached out and put her hand over Laura’s, briefly, just once. “Don’t make him do it alone. Not again.”

The room was very quiet. Laura’s jaw worked through several things she didn’t say. Then, slowly, something behind her eyes shifted—not resolved, but no longer sealed shut.

Sam picked her puzzle piece back up. “After the wedding,” she said. “All of it. After the wedding.”

Laura exhaled, long and unsteady. “After the wedding.”

They sat like that, the weight of it between them, neither of them looking away from the table. The goat on the table kept screaming, but inside the Rec Room, all was quiet.

---

There were no posted hours for the pool, but everyone respected the code: mornings for laps and dawn-people, late afternoons for the naked, high-volume, or mildly feral. Mid-afternoons were quiet. The water had stilled to a soft blue sheet, broken only by an occasional wind that sent ripples all the way to the tile. Emily arrived in flip-flops and nothing else, her hair in a loose braid that trailed down her back, ends still damp from a shower. She carried a towel, sunglasses, and, for no apparent reason, a battered paperback with half the cover missing.

Riley was already there, perched on the edge of the shallow end with her feet in the water, a squat plastic cup beside her and a notebook balanced on her knees. The glare off the pool turned her hair from red-black to something like copper. She watched Emily approach, blinking against the light.

“Hey,” Riley said. Her voice was even, but she closed the notebook with a snap, as if she’d just been caught working a confession.

“Hi,” Emily answered, a little too bright. She sat two meters away, towel under her, and took a second to get comfortable before turning back to Riley. “Pool’s empty,” she said, as if announcing a miracle.

Riley smirked. “It’s never empty for long. Word gets out.” She gestured with her chin. “You in for a swim or just showing off the new sunburn?”

Emily blushed, but only a little. “I was hoping for a float. If that’s okay.”

“Float away,” Riley said, then lapsed into silence. There was a pulse of something between them—not sexual, exactly, but charged. The memory of yesterday hung in the air, a ghost neither wanted to acknowledge first.

Emily slipped into the water, gasping at the initial chill. She dog-paddled out to the deep end, then spun around and just… drifted, toes barely breaking the surface.

After a minute, Riley called out, “You seem less… enthusiastic today.”

Emily shrugged, the motion bobbing her shoulders above the water. “Yeah. I noticed that, too.”

Riley watched her, then decided to just ask. “So what was that, yesterday? Some kind of magical compulsion, or…?”

Emily didn’t look away. “Both,” she said, deadpan. “You want the technical answer or the fun one?”

Riley shrugged, so Emily continued. “It was you,” Emily said, “but only because you dreamed of me the night before.” She glanced at the sky, then back to Riley. “It’s gone, now. Someone else, probably. I don’t get to know until it happens. It’ll happen again, sooner or later.”

Riley absorbed that in silence, tracing her thumb over the rim of her plastic cup. “Doesn’t that… suck?”

Emily considered it. “Sometimes, yeah. Sometimes it’s fun. I don’t have a choice, so I just try to make the best of it.” She smiled, small. “But it’s not personal. Not in the way it probably felt.”

Riley laughed, a quick burst, then sobered. “I mean, it was pretty personal.”

Emily nodded, treading water to stay in place. “I’m sorry if it was weird. I can try to keep my distance, if you want.”

Riley’s hand paused on her cup, fingers drumming. “It wasn’t weird,” she said. “Just—different. I don’t get a lot of practice with surprises anymore.”

Emily nodded, still treading water, then drifted toward the edge, arms out. She caught the metal ladder, hair slicked back from her face, and for the first time Riley noticed that the hair seemed to rearrange itself on the surface, keeping her covered even as the water plastered it to her chest and hips. A neat trick, Riley thought, and clocked the effort it must take not to be permanently on display.

“So,” Riley said, “if the dream-thing moved on, are you just back to normal? Or does it, like, keep a score somewhere?”

Emily grinned. “It’s gone, honest. I checked. If it’s not you, it’s someone else, and today I don’t even feel the urge to tackle you into the pool.” She made a show of planting her feet, as if to prove she wouldn’t.

Riley stared at the water for a second, then said, “I kind of wish it was that easy for me.” She didn’t explain, but Emily nodded, like she understood anyway.

They were quiet, listening to the wind ripple across the surface, for a few minutes. Then Riley cleared her throat. “You mind if I ask something?”

Emily shrugged, easy. “Go for it.”

Riley’s eyes tracked the lines of blue across the bottom of the pool. “Yesterday. Did you want it, or was it just—” She made a vague gesture, not finishing the sentence.

Emily considered, then said, “Both.” She tucked a wet strand of hair behind her ear. “I liked it, but I didn’t exactly plan it. If that’s what you’re asking.”

Riley snorted. “If I’d known that was on the menu, I’d have booked the pool for longer.”

Emily’s laugh was bright. “Is that regret?”

“No.” Riley’s mouth flickered, like she was trying on a smile and not sure if it fit. “Just curiosity. Chloe and I have fun together, but exclusivity has never been on the table, given the circumstances.”

Emily was quiet a moment, then said, “You want the real story? I’m happy to tell you.”

Riley nodded, but did not move.

Emily folded her arms on the pool edge, propped her chin on her wrist. “In my last season, the Host—Leah—she wanted me to be… well, not just a toy, but sort of the toy. Free use, twenty-four-seven, anybody wants it, they get it. Like, the poster girl for ‘always available.’ She did everything to push me that way.”

Riley looked at Emily, eyes sharper than usual. “You didn’t want it?”

Emily shook her head. “No. And I was too scared to say no, but after a while, it started to feel like my entire life was just responding to whatever anyone wanted. Like I stopped being a person, and started being… well, a side effect.” She looked away, out at the blinding white tiles.

“So what changed?” Riley asked, but her tone was gentler.

Emily shrugged. “Andy, Arabella, the harem. You all made it feel like there was more to it. Like I could say no if I wanted. So when I finally got the chance to pick, I chose something different. I said no to the next step, but I couldn’t undo everything that already happened.”

Riley chewed this over. “So the dream thing is permanent, but you’re not getting worse.”

Emily smiled. “Exactly. No more free use transformations. But also, I can’t upgrade the transformations from last season. So this is just… me. For good.”

There was a long pause, during which Riley finished her drink and considered the label, like maybe it had answers in the condensation. “Does it bother you?” she said, voice low. “Knowing you can’t go back?”

Emily floated for a second, then said, “Sometimes. But it also means I know exactly who I am, and why. Not everyone gets that.” She gave Riley a sidelong glance. “You ever feel that way?”

Riley’s mouth twisted into something like a smile. “Never. Every day’s a new fucking performance review.” She set the cup down, careful. “So if it wasn’t the compulsion, yesterday—would you have said yes?”

Emily matched her gaze, direct. “Yes. I like you, Riley. And I trust you. But I still love Andy, and that’s not changing. I’m marrying him, even if I have a weird open-circuit for other people sometimes.”

Riley’s cheeks flushed—not with embarrassment, but with a flicker of something Emily couldn’t quite name. “That’s the real answer, huh?”

Emily nodded. “That’s the real answer. It would be fun to explore. But if there’s a lot more, it would need to be with Andy in the room. That’s kind of a rule for me.”

Riley blinked, then let her eyes close, soaking up the sun. “He’d get off on that.”

Emily laughed. “He really, really would.”

Riley was quiet for a minute, then sat forward, bare legs stretching out long and lean along the pool deck. She dangled her feet in the water, then said, “You know I always know where he is? Like, to the inch.”

Emily nodded. “Yeah. Does that mean you always know where I am, too?”

“Not always,” Riley said. “But with you, it’s more like a memory. A leftover sense. I could find you if I wanted, but it’s not as precise. Yet.”

Emily looked at her. “You’re not mad, are you? About yesterday?”

Riley laughed, short and sharp. “Not even a little. I liked it, too. Just needed to know what it was.”

Emily smiled, and the sun caught in her eyes, pale blue and easy. “That’s the thing about being a toy, I guess. You spend enough time as someone’s favorite, and you start to hope they’ll play with you again.”

Riley snorted, then scooted a little closer along the tile. “I can’t promise I’ll ever be the same dreamer twice, but if it happens again—”

Emily cut her off, hand on the edge. “You’d say yes?”

Riley nodded, still not looking at her. “I’d say yes.”

Emily grinned. “Cool.”

They let the silence grow, the only sound the soft slosh of water and the distant scream of a toddler from somewhere down the corridor—echoing, absurd, and far enough away to be safe.

After a while, Riley said, “Are you going to float all day, or do you want company?”

Emily arched an eyebrow. “Company sounds nice.”

Riley stood, shucked her T-shirt, and dove in, arms slicing through the water. When she surfaced, she was inches away from Emily, close enough that Emily could smell the sunscreen and salt, and the honest heat of Riley’s skin. For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Riley splashed Emily, and the chase was on, both of them laughing.

They circled the pool for a while, neither of them chasing too hard, never quite touching, but always within arm’s reach. When they finally tired out, they hung together at the ladder, both hands on the rail, breathless and happy.

Riley looked at Emily, then at the sky, then back at Emily. “You know what I think?”

Emily shook her head, treading water.

Riley said, “I think you were always a real girl. The rest of it just took a while to catch up.”

Emily snorted, but it was the best compliment she’d gotten in a while. They climbed out and stretched on the warm tile, side by side, letting the sun dry them off. The topic drifted away, no need to circle it again.

---

Marissa had commandeered the piano from The 88 Club, coaxing Bach, then Gershwin, then a sequence of minor-key scales that didn’t sound like anything at all. She played with the lid up, soft pedal half down, eyes rarely leaving her own hands. Her dress for the afternoon was a deep maroon wrap, knotted over one shoulder with enough cleavage exposed to meet her transformation’s requirements, and then some. When she exhaled, the sound of it landed as a gentle hum in the gaps between the notes, mixing with the light from the windows and the distant thunder of the ocean.

Riley slipped in unnoticed, as was her habit. She wore cutoff shorts and a faded T-shirt, her hair still damp from the pool, and took the seat at the far wall, as if scouting a threat or just wanting to be closer to the door in case she needed to leave. She said nothing, not even when Marissa shifted to an old jazz standard and let her voice bleed into the music, humming low and lazy under her breath.

Riley stayed. She didn’t always; most times, she made a fast scan of a room and then vanished to the gardens or her own solitude. But this afternoon, there was something grounding in the way Marissa played—fingers light, posture perfect, but never for show. After a while, Marissa finished the song and looked up, blue eyes catching Riley’s in the reflection off the window glass.

“You don’t usually stop when you see me,” Marissa said. Her tone was soft, but it tugged at something under the skin. Even now, even with so much changed, Marissa’s voice worked its quiet magic—making every word land with a weight it didn’t have in print.

Riley shrugged. “You’re good,” she said. “Didn’t want to interrupt.”

Marissa smiled, then patted the piano bench beside her. “You wouldn’t. Sit?” It wasn’t a question, just a kind of offer that didn’t require a yes.

Riley stood, crossed the room, and settled next to Marissa, careful not to touch. “You always practice when no one’s around?”

“I play to remember things,” Marissa said, then laughed. “That makes it sound more dramatic than it is. Mostly, I just like the way it feels.” She flexed her hands, like a cat showing off claws. “I like creating music.”

Riley made a face of understanding. “Yeah,” she said. She paused, as if expecting the thought to have somewhere to go. “It gets loud, doesn’t it? Inside.”

Marissa’s gaze stayed on her hands, but the edge of her voice said she was listening closely. “For you, or for everyone?”

“Both,” Riley said. She ran a thumb over the joint in her wrist, as if checking that the tendons were still connected. “But mostly me. Always has been.”

Marissa started a slow arpeggio, fingers tripping along the keys. “You ever want to talk about it?”

Riley’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “That’s your line,” she said.

Marissa let herself smile, but it was careful. “I guess it is.”

For a while, neither spoke. The room filled with the slow, shimmering wash of chords, bright then shadowed, every change in mood telegraphed by the shift in Marissa’s wrists. After a while, she let the notes fade and looked up again.

“I’m okay,” Marissa said, voice so soft that Riley had to lean in to hear. “If you’re wondering.”

Riley didn’t answer right away. She studied the lines of Marissa’s face, how different they looked now that she wasn’t smoothing her expressions for someone else’s benefit. “You sure?” Riley said.

Marissa nodded, once. “Today is good. Tomorrow is an unknown. But for the first time, I’m eager to see what it hides.” She blinked, then turned, as if she was asking the same in return. “How about you?”

Riley’s mouth worked, then she shrugged. “It’s weird days. Weird weeks. Sometimes I feel like I’m just… waiting for the other shoe. Or whatever comes after shoes.”

Marissa laughed, and the sound rippled through Riley, the tiniest twinge of warmth. “Can I ask you something?” Marissa said.

Riley nodded, and Marissa’s eyes flicked down to Riley’s hands. “You’re carrying something. Not literal, but—” She made a gesture, as if drawing the shape of a weight. “Want to say what it is?”

Riley hesitated, then reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, creased and refolded so many times it had a near-permanent V at the seam. She held it out to Marissa, who took it with the care of someone handling a relic.

“It’s a note,” Riley said, “from a weird Mildred. Myra got it a few days ago, just before she and I talked about how I only had twenty-three hours with my kid before he was gone. I don’t know why, but it’s been bothering me.”

Marissa unfolded the note. In neat handwriting, it read: I promise you will have more hours next time.

She ran a finger over the letters, slow, as if the ink might smudge. Then she looked up at Riley, something hard and sharp in her eyes. “Can I keep this for a second?” she asked.

Riley nodded, and Marissa turned the paper, examining the script. For a moment, she was silent, then said, almost to herself, “I know this handwriting.”

Riley sat up, tension rising. “Whose is it?”

Marissa took a breath. “I saw it every week for three years. On intake forms, homework logs, appointment reminders.” She glanced at Riley, then back at the page. “It’s Andy’s. This is how he wrote when he was my patient.”

Riley absorbed that, then snatched the note, eyes flicking between the lines as if they’d rearrange themselves into a different answer. “That’s not possible. How would he even know about the hours thing? The only people who were there were me and Myra, and she got this before I even mentioned the fucking hours.”

Marissa shook her head. “I don’t know. But it’s his. I’d bet my license on it.” She folded the note again, her hands shaking just a little. “You said Mildred gave it to Myra?”

“Yeah. Myra said it was a weird Mildred. Like, warm. She just… handed her the note and left.”

Marissa rolled the word “warm” around for a second, like it might yield a code if she pressed just the right syllable. “I’ve never met a warm Mildred,” she said. “Are you sure it was her?”

Riley shrugged, the movement all in her eyebrows. “Myra said so. She could tell by the voice and the eyes. It was Mildred, but with all the freaky drained-out energy replaced by, like, a kindergarten teacher on too much serotonin.” She gestured at the piano, not quite sure where to set her hands, and then tucked the note away, flat in her palm.

“Could be a prank,” Riley said, half to herself. “A really fucking elaborate prank, but it’s not like the universe is above those.”

Marissa played a soft chord and let it hang. “Andy never talked about this, or… memory glitches? With you?”

Riley shook her head. “Why would he?” She looked at the ceiling, the way people do when the answer is supposed to be obvious. “I don’t get it. Why would he promise me that? And what would ‘more hours’ even mean?”

Marissa watched Riley for a beat, then said, “I don’t think it’s about you. Or at least, not only you.” She flexed her fingers, slow and precise, and went still again. “Andy always had this problem, even before the contest. He’d want to save everyone, but he didn’t always know how. Sometimes he’d write little notes to himself, reminders. Most of the time, they were for him. But sometimes, he’d write to the person he wanted to fix.”

Riley took that in. “So you think this is just him? Trying to fix the past?”

“I don’t know,” Marissa said, quietly. “I’ve seen a lot of compulsions, but none that reach through a Mildred and make her nice just for a message.” She glanced at the keys. “Maybe that’s what he wished for. Or maybe it’s just the universe’s way of messing with you, right when you’re getting close to okay.”

Riley drummed her fingers on the bench. “Maybe it’s nothing.” Then: “Or maybe it’s a warning. If I’m going to have ‘more hours,’ does that mean I’m about to lose the ones I have now?” The joke wasn’t really a joke, but she laughed anyway.

Marissa didn’t. “I think if Andy meant it as a warning, he’d have used more words. Or at least more drama.”

Riley considered, then snorted. “You don’t know him as well as you think,” she said, not unkindly.

Marissa’s eyes sparkled for a second. “Maybe not,” she admitted. “But I know the hand that wrote this note was trying to keep a promise.”

Riley stared at the folded paper in her hand. “Do you think it’s really his?” she said, softer now. “Could Mildred fake it?”

Marissa answered instantly: “No.” She reached out, hesitated, then let her hand hover over Riley’s. “It’s his. That man can’t hide anything in handwriting. Every letter is its own confession.”

Riley nodded, then folded the note again, even tighter. “What do I do with it?”

Marissa shrugged. “Whatever you want. Burn it, keep it, throw it in the ocean. Or—” she trailed off, just a beat. “Ask him what it means. If you think he can answer.”

Riley’s laugh was all edge. “I’ll ask. He’s never lied to me, so he’ll probably just get real awkward and look at his shoes until I go away. But I’ll ask.”

The two sat there, Riley watching her own hands, Marissa watching the closed note with a longing that felt borrowed, like she missed something she never got to have. The afternoon sun dropped another notch, and the room turned the color of an old book.

Marissa didn’t play, didn’t move. The piano’s last chord still vibrated in the air, barely audible. Riley finally pocketed the note, slow, and looked out the window.

“I’m gonna find out,” she said, not looking at Marissa. “Before this whole thing ends. I don’t care if it’s stupid, or if I regret it. I want to know.”

Marissa nodded, once, the gesture as careful as anything she’d ever played. “I think you will,” she said.

Riley stood, rolled her shoulders, and stretched her arms over her head.