Cake and Presents, Part 3

The gin lingered in Andy’s mouth, blue-bright and herbal. He set the glass down as applause ricocheted through the Dance Hall, and as the echoes faded, another ripple moved the crowd: Marissa, immaculate in her crimson dress, stepped up to the table with two presents and a composure that made the moment feel like a boardroom acquisition. The hush followed her.

Marissa set her two gifts on the table with a quiet finality. One, a heavy glass bottle with a perfect red capsule at the neck; the other, a simple white box tied with black twill. She wore her professional calm like it was made for her, and if the presence of a hundred eyes unsettled her, it didn’t show.

Andy saw at once that the bottle was not ordinary wine. It was a 2002 Pomerol, dust-mottled and as rare as a blue rose. He recognized the vineyard and the vintage, both well beyond the reach of casual acquisition. The label was pristine, the cork unworried by time. He could almost taste the generosity and forethought.

He picked it up, weighing it, and looked at Marissa. “You didn’t have to do this.”

Marissa’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, almost a warning. “It’s your birthday. You earned it.” She let that settle, then added, “I hope you’ll open it with me. Some night after all of this. If we make it out.”

He set the wine down gently, resisting the urge to promise anything he couldn’t control. “I’d like that,” he said. “Thank you.”

She nodded, then gestured to the box. Andy untied the twill ribbon, more curious than he’d expected. Inside was a thick, matte-black sleeve, and within that, a vinyl record—unlabeled except for a single, gold-embossed line at the bottom.

He slipped the record out and read the inscription. Marissa had chosen her words carefully: For the man who saw I was more than my resume.

There was an insert sheet in heavy linen paper. A playlist. The composers weren’t a surprise—Ravel, Debussy, Satie—but what caught him was the order. He looked up, brow furrowed.

Marissa’s eyes flicked to the crowd, then back to him. “My mother played these,” she said quietly. “She used to say the first measure of Clair de Lune was better than most entire lifetimes. I can’t play them like she did, but… I wanted you to have them. The way I remember them.”

He blinked. “Is this… your playing?”

She shrugged, but there was pride and vulnerability behind it. “My mother’s. Arabella procured it at the Annex for me.”

Andy ran a finger over the etched grooves, thinking of all the times Marissa had refused to talk about her mother, or about the house she grew up in. There was something sacred in the gesture, a loan of memory that couldn’t be measured.

He looked up. “I can’t wait to hear it.”

Marissa let the compliment land, then slipped back into the audience, her face a mask of composure. The gifts sat heavy in Andy’s hands—both meant for a future, both a kind of promise.

The next ripple through the crowd was softer. Myra approached slowly, her fox ears angled back, tail braced for balance. She carried a flat parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. There was uncertainty in every line of her posture, and the closer she got, the more Andy realized how much she was bracing herself for what came next.

Helped by Sam, she set the package on the table and stepped back, hands clasped.

Andy glanced at her, then began unwrapping. The brown paper peeled away in layers, and as he reached the object inside, he realized it was a sculpture—clay, unglazed, heavy and rough at the edges.

He lifted it free, set it upright, and immediately recognized the shape: an arched footbridge, its posts slightly off, the surface uneven, but unmistakable.

The room went silent. Andy felt his heart stutter.

He traced the crude handrails with a fingertip. It was not a beautiful bridge, but it was a true one. The bridge from Willow Run—where Laura had died. Where everything began.

He looked at Myra, his voice stalled in his throat.

She sensed his silence, his attention, and shrugged, eyes glinting wet. “It’s… not very good,” she said, and there was a tremor in her words. “But I wanted you to have something from home. From before. I figured, even if it’s not perfect, it’s honest.” She tucked her hands behind her back, fingers digging into her opposite arms. “I haven’t worked with clay since college. Turns out it’s hard when you can’t see.”

Andy gripped the bridge with both hands, afraid to set it down. He wanted to say something about the past, or about forgiveness, or about how sometimes the ugliest things survived longest, but the words tangled and broke.

Instead, he just said, “It’s perfect.”

Myra stood with her hands wrung so tight her knuckles were white, tail curled in a question mark around her knees. She opened her mouth to say something else, then closed it, shaking her head minutely as if afraid she’d already overstayed her welcome.

Sam, standing a pace behind, nudged her gently. “There’s a note,” she whispered.

“Oh.” Myra flushed, fox-ears flattening as she fished around in her cardigan. She produced an envelope, a little crumpled at the corners, and held it out with both hands. “I… wrote you something. If you want.”

Andy took the envelope and opened it, careful not to tear the paper. Inside was a single page of notebook stock, lined in faint blue. The words were written in Myra’s hand—a hand that was once neat and looping, now spidery and full of missteps, the lines sometimes colliding or wandering up the margin. The effort behind each word was naked on the page.

He read:

Andy,

I’m sorry if this handwriting is hard to read. I… can’t check it. I hope it’s at least legible.
I don’t really know how to do this. I’ve never been good at saying the right thing, even when I could see people’s faces. Now it feels harder. But I wanted to try, because you’ve been kind to me when you didn’t have to be. **** than I deserve, maybe.
I keep thinking about the past. About what I did. About what I should have said to Laura, and what I should have said to you years ago. I know I can’t fix any of it, but I want you to know that I’m trying to be better than the girl who made that choice. I don’t want the last thing that matters between us to be that lie.
Since I arrived here, you’ve treated me like… like I’m still someone who can be part of things. Even with everything I’ve lost. Even with what I did. I don’t know how to thank you for that.
I’m scared all the time now, more than I let on. Scared of being a burden, scared of being forgotten, scared of being the one everyone has to slow down for. But when you talk to me, I don’t feel like that. You make me feel included. Seen, somehow. Even though I can’t see anything back.
I don’t really know how to say this next part so I’ll just try:
I think I like you. More than I should this early, more than I planned to. I don’t know if that’s okay. I don’t know if it’s wanted. But it’s true. And I’m trying to be brave enough to say it out loud someday. This is the best I can do for now.
Thank you for letting me be here.
Thank you for looking at me without pity in your voice.
Thank you for treating me like a person, not a mistake.
If you ever want to talk, or walk with me, or just sit in the quiet, I’d like that. Very much.
I hope this letter isn’t too much. Or not enough. I never know where the line is.

— Myra

P.S. If any of this came out messy… I’m sorry. I’m still learning to write in the dark.

The room faded out for a second. Andy blinked, willing the words to stay sharp. He looked at Myra, who was pretending very hard not to care what he thought, but her whole body shivered with nerves.

He folded the letter, set it on the base of the clay bridge, and stepped around the table to pull Myra into a hug. She startled, then melted against him—her fox ears pressed flat to his chest, her hands uncertain until they found his back and held on, tight.

“Thank you,” Andy said. “Really. It’s… a lot.”

He felt her laugh, a tiny shudder. Then her whole body flashed with heat as a wash of spectral foxfire rippled down her arms and out the tip of her tail. It burned bright, a soft green that made the ballroom seem moonlit for a heartbeat.

When he let her go, her eyes were wet, but her smile was real. She retreated, tail flicking with residual glow, and Andy sat the bridge and the letter front and center on the table, next to the bottle of wine and the priceless record. The gifts looked strange together, but he felt the meaning behind them in every nerve.

Norah’s stride never wavered. Her shoes—exactly four inches, black patent—landed with a certainty that needed no applause. She wore a fitted black jumpsuit, and every dark curl was pinned in place with architectural precision. The gift, a soft bundle wrapped in ripstop nylon, she carried at her hip like it was an extension of her own body.

She reached the table, set the bundle down, and looked Andy square in the eye. “Happy birthday, Cooper,” she said. “I know you’re not supposed to play favorites, but I get the feeling I’m your favorite project, so I figured I’d return the favor.”

There was a small laugh from the crowd. Norah ignored it, already unfastening the roll of nylon. Inside was a length of climbing rope, carabiners, and a pair of gloves—slim-fit, black leather with the palms reinforced in silver mesh. There was a little steel case next to them, anodized matte blue.

Andy picked up the gloves, testing the fit.

Norah grinned, pride and nerves at war in her face. “I had to guess your size. If they’re too tight, I can swap them out.”

“They’re perfect,” Andy said, pulling them on and flexing. “Where’d you get these?”

“Annex,” Norah replied. “I bugged the local Mildred until she found the right kind. They’re meant for lead climbs, but they’ll work for anything up to a two-pitch. I figured, you’re always trying to pull people up with you, might as well do it with some style.”

There was a beat. Then Norah reached for the blue case, opened it, and fished out a folded note. She hesitated before handing it over, the bravado faltering just a hair.

“This is, uh, the actual gift. The rest is just me showing off.”

Andy took the note, recognizing her handwriting at a glance—sharp, slanting, every letter pressed down with authority. He unfolded it.

Look, I'm not good at this kind of thing, so I'm just going to say it straight.
You didn't have to give me a second chance. After everything—after how I came at you, after I made your life hell because I was too stubborn and angry to see what was right in front of me—you could have written me off. Most people would have.
But you didn't.
You treated me like I mattered. Like my anger was something to understand instead of punish. I've spent most of my life expecting people to use whatever they can against you, and you just... didn't. You were patient when you had no reason to be. You listened when I was being unreasonable. You made space for me even when I didn't deserve it.
I see how you are with all of them. With us. The way you love isn't... it's not what I thought love was. It's not about control or keeping score or making people small so you can feel big. It's generous in a way that doesn't make sense to me, but I'm starting to understand it. You see each of us. Really see us. And you don't ask us to be smaller versions of ourselves to fit into your life.
That's worth saying out loud, even though it makes me want to crawl out of my own skin.
So. Happy birthday. You're a good man, Andy. Better than most. I'm glad I was wrong about you.
Don't let it go to your head.

—Norah

Andy smiled as he read. Then he re-read, and his smile turned into something broader, something that squeezed at the back of his throat. He looked up at Norah, who was already trying to look away, chin tilted up and lips pressed hard.

“Thank you, Norah,” he said. “I’ll treasure it. But I’m definitely telling everyone.”

She rolled her eyes, but her ears went pink. “You do and I’ll have to get you back. With interest.”

He set the gloves and note on the table, just beside the wine and bridge. Norah stepped back, and as she did, she gave his arm a quick, hard squeeze—barely a second, but it was the first time she’d ever initiated contact that wasn’t a punch or a shove. Then she disappeared into the crowd, her steps louder than before.

Emi was next, and it was like someone had cut the tension with a burst of fresh air.

She all but floated to the front, six hands clutching a single, immense book, her cheeks pink and her eyes huge behind their flickering lashes. “Happy birthday, Andy!” she said, breathless. Then, seeing the book might tip her over, she set it down in front of him, fingers splayed for balance.

Andy blinked. “Did you make this?”

Emi nodded, color blooming to the tips of her ears. “It’s… for you. I started it on the first night, but I didn’t know if I’d finish before today.”

The book was the size of a photo album, bound in sea-blue leather. On the cover, she’d painted “A Tale for the Dreamer” in swirling, silver script. Beneath, there was a watercolor of an impossible island: palm trees, clouded sky, foxes peering from behind a sunrise, and—near the center—what was unmistakably a tiny cartoon version of Andy, looking out over the water.

He opened the book. The first page was a hand-drawn map of the island, complete with tiny icons for every room, every favorite spot. The rest of the pages told a story, part-fairytale and part-memoir, illustrated in Emi’s whimsical, barely-contained style. The main character, a fox with a patched tail and a knack for finding trouble, wandered the island meeting other animals—each a thinly veiled version of the women in the harem. There was a rainbow octopus who gave the best hugs, a puma who never spoke but could read hearts, a mint-green cat who played tricks and hid in the garden. The narrative was sweet, sometimes funny, sometimes sharp, but always alive.

Andy started laughing on page three, where the fox tries to throw a birthday party for himself and ends up with a room full of bickering, hyper-competitive animals who each bring the same flavor of cake.

He read aloud, voice warm: “And then the bunny queen said, ‘If you don’t like carrot cake, you can just make your own next time.’ Which the fox thought was fair, but he didn’t want to say it out loud, because the last time he did, he was outvoted anyway.”

The room cracked up. Emi glowed, four of her hands knotting together at her waist while the other two fluttered with delight.

He flipped through the pages, finding more and more details—tiny in-jokes, little visual gags.

On the last page, the fox and all his friends gather for a picnic on the highest hill of the island, under a sky full of impossible stars. The text read: “And in the end, the fox realized he was never really alone, not even when the story felt like it was about him. Because the best stories are the ones where everybody gets to shine, and nobody gets left behind.”

Andy closed the book, fighting off a lump in his throat.

“This is incredible,” he said. “I don’t think anyone’s ever made me something like this.”

Emi smiled so wide her cheeks dimpled. “You’re welcome. I… I’m glad you like it.”

“I love it,” he said. “Who was your favorite to draw?”

Emi thought, then pointed to the puma. “Claire,” she said, without hesitation. “She has the best face for cartoons.”

Andy laughed, and the room joined in, warmth rolling out and through the crowd. He ran his hand over the cover of the book, then set it on the table, propping it open to the last page so everyone could see the picnic.

He looked up and caught Emi’s gaze, and in that second, he saw not just the girl who used to hide at the edges of parties, but the woman she’d become—still shy, still a little unsure, but proud and happy to be seen.

“Thank you,” he said again. “You did amazing.”

She tucked her hands behind her, then joined the others, face still glowing with the joy of it. The book remained on the table, a bright splash of color between the other gifts.

Dinah marched up to the gift table, jaw tight, gaze forward, carrying two packages—one flat, wrapped in brown paper; the other a tiny parcel, ribboned in blue and white. Eden followed with a slow, liquid step, her breasts and blue-black hair a striking contrast to Dinah’s clinical austerity.

Dinah set the first package on the table and spoke before Andy could greet her.

“This is from me,” she said. “But I guess it’s also from you. Or at least, it doesn’t exist without you, so… yeah. Here.” She gestured with her chin for him to open it.

Andy undid the paper. Inside was a black frame, deep-set and heavy, holding a photograph printed on glossy archival stock. The image: night, grainy, the edge of a tide pool in moonlight, Dinah half in silhouette, face pale with pain and rage, leg braced on a towel, and Andy crouched next to her, hands cradling her calf as he cinched a makeshift bandage. The angle hid the gore but made the moment raw and unguarded. Dinah’s lips were twisted, maybe in agony, maybe in fury, but her eyes were fixed on Andy, and in the flash of the camera—somehow, impossibly—her expression was trust.

He stared at the photo for a long time, everything else blurring away. He remembered that night in fragments: the sting of salt, her screams, his own panic held barely at bay. But seeing it now, from the outside, he saw how she’d chosen to remember it: not as a trauma, but as a turning point.

“Who took this?” he asked, voice low.

“Arabella had it.” Dinah shrugged. “You were the first person outside Harper’s harem, on this show, who saw me injured and immediately rushed to help, no questions asked. You didn’t flinch.” She looked away, embarrassed by the admission. “I thought maybe you’d want to remember what that looked like.”

Andy nodded, his throat tight. “Thank you.”

Dinah took the compliment like a punch, arms folding tight across her chest, but she didn’t look away.

The second package was smaller, lighter. “This one’s from Eden,” Dinah said. “She can’t… well. You know.” She slid the parcel toward Andy, who unwrapped it with care.

Inside was a large spiral shell, pale pink and orange. It was wound with a ribbon in a complicated knot, the tail of which trailed off like a signature. The inside of the shell shimmered faintly, as if there were a secret trapped in the spiral.

Andy lifted it, marveling at the delicacy, the way it caught the light.

Dinah explained, “It’s called a mermaid’s call.”

Eden stood behind Dinah, eyes luminous, her face composed but burning with intent. She nodded, then smiled—just a flicker, but it felt huge.

Andy held the shell to his ear. There was a faint sound inside, not quite a tone, not quite a voice, but it made the hairs on his neck stand up. He closed his hand around it, then looked at Eden.

She stepped forward, and before he could speak, she pressed her cheek to his, holding the contact a moment longer than protocol allowed. Her breasts, soft and impossible, molded to his chest. She nuzzled his shoulder, inhaled, then stepped back with a deliberate, elegant bow.

“I’ll see you soon,” Andy said, voice pitched low for her alone.

Eden’s smile widened, and she drifted back, her eyes never leaving his.

Dinah watched the exchange, then gave Andy a brisk, one-armed hug—a collision more than an embrace, but she held on for half a beat, then let go. “Try not to mess up,” she muttered, then turned and walked away, the corners of her mouth twitching up as she went.

Andy set the shell and the photo beside the other gifts, the table now a strange monument to all the lives he’d touched and all the ways they’d changed him. He stood for a moment, letting the feelings catch up, before he saw the final approach.

Arabella—her Host mask in place, but her steps slower, more human—came forward, a single book cradled in her hands. Behind her, Anna stood with arms folded, watching with a peculiar intensity.

Arabella set the book on the table as if laying down a cornerstone.

It was a slim volume—The Prophet, by Khalil Gibran. The cover was deep indigo, the pages crisp, the gold letters embossed but modest. She said nothing as she set it down. Instead, she looked Andy in the eyes, and for a fleeting moment the Host mask dropped, replaced by something raw and searching.

She tapped the book once with a manicured finger. “For you,” she said. “I thought you might need it more than most.”

Andy ran a finger along the spine, feeling the weight of the gesture. He’d read the book once, years ago, but never really absorbed it. Now, seeing it among the other gifts, he had the uncanny sense that it was not a coincidence, but a message. He tried to read Arabella’s expression, but she’d already retreated behind her practiced smile.

Anna, a step behind, lingered as Arabella withdrew. She waited until the moment was quiet, then leaned close and spoke, her voice a hush that brushed his ear.

“Strength isn’t silence,” she murmured. “It’s choosing to keep walking, and doing what you couldn’t before.”

Then she was gone, her perfume lingering, the words settling in like a vow.

Andy held the book, unsure whether to open it or just keep it close. He set it atop the stack, the indigo cover a sharp edge between the riot of other colors and textures.

For a moment, the crowd held its breath. Then, like a current shifting, a new presence cut through the gathered women.

Mildred’s approach parted the room like a knife through glass.

She walked to the center of the circle, straight-backed, shoes silent on the floor. Her uniform—a sheath of ink-black, collar to ankle—seemed even more severe tonight, the golden “Service” badge the only break in the darkness. No tray, no props, no robotic smile.

She stopped in front of Andy and regarded him for a long moment. Her eyes, normally reflective and unreadable, fixed on his with a steadiness that bordered on unnerving.

From a pocket, she produced a crystal vial—no bigger than a pen, stoppered and wound with wire. The glass was perfectly clear, but the liquid inside defied the eye. It pulsed with a bioluminescent glow, colors shifting through a range that barely existed: blue-greens and rose-golds, then stranger things—scents and shivers and memories of dreams. The light inside moved as if it had a heartbeat, or as if it were looking back at whoever watched it.

Mildred held it out between thumb and forefinger, letting the radiance fall across Andy’s hands.

He took it, and the warmth in his palm was instant and alive.

Mildred spoke. Not the syrupy, practiced tone of the hostess, but something deeper, older, as if she were a bell struck only once in a thousand years.

"Thirteen days ago, you asked me how I was.” She blinked, slow. “No one ever asks. Not even the Hosts. But you did.”

Andy couldn’t find his voice. He nodded, which seemed to be enough.

“This is from home,” she said. “When darkness takes you, it will remember the way.”

The room was so quiet, the words seemed to echo back from the glass windows.

Andy wanted to thank her, but she was already gone. She turned, dress fluttering around her shins, and walked from the circle—her steps as silent as before. The crowd seemed to breathe for the first time in a minute.

He looked at the vial in his hand, light shifting in and out of focus, and wondered what kind of place could make a thing so beautiful and so sad.

He realized then that nobody had ever really seen Mildred. Not as anything but a function, a necessity. Now he felt the weight of her gift, the silent plea in her words.

He placed the vial atop the stack of presents, and it glimmered there.

Andy looked around at the ring of faces, the stack of impossible gifts. Every eye in the room was on him—some shining, some wary, some still blinking away the afterimage of Mildred’s light. For once, he didn’t try to hide from the center.

"Quick, while he's stunned," Sam quipped, "Sing!"

A loud, choral version of Happy birthday started out, led first by the harem, with the guests joining in. It was strong and slightly off-key, with some voices rising and falling, others barely heard at all. But it was beautiful, and honest, and Andy smiled and felt embarrassed at the same time. When the song was over, he could only be grateful. He cleared his throat. “I’m not great at these,” he said, and there was a laugh, scattered but genuine.

He gestured at the table, hands awkward at his sides. “I never thought I’d get a second chance. Not at any of this. But you all… you showed up, every day, even when you didn’t have to. Even when it sucked, or hurt, or was just plain weird. You kept me honest. And you made me better.”

He looked at the gifts, all jumbled together. “I guess I always thought you only got one family. The one you started with, or the one you got stuck with. But here, with all of you, we’re building a new one. Piece by piece, even if you have to steal the pieces from other universes.”

There was a ripple of laughter, softer this time.

“I’m grateful. For the cakes, for the stories, for all the times you didn’t let me give up. But mostly I’m grateful that I got to be here—now—when it finally felt like home.” He swallowed, nerves tightening and releasing in the same beat.

“So… thank you. I don’t know if I deserve all of this, but I’m going to try. I promise.”

He looked to Arabella, who just nodded, lips soft and eyes glimmering with approval.

Andy realized there wasn’t anything else to say. So he shrugged, let the smile stay, and held his arms wide.

The crowd closed in on him all at once, women pulling him into a tangle of limbs and laughter. Erin kissed him on the cheek and left a minty smear of cake, Dawn wedged herself onto his lap, Riley gave him a playful noogie, and Emi hugged him with all six arms, nearly lifting him off his seat. Even the guests joined—Harper with a dry, regal handshake; Mary with a gentle squeeze on his shoulder; Skye with a conspiratorial wink that made Andy blush all over again.

The moment built and built, a warmth radiating out from the center, until finally Chloe, glass raised, called, “To Andy! And to the weirdest, best family we could ever have!”

The cheer that went up rattled the chandeliers and set the corgi off barking.

Andy sat back, awash in cake crumbs and hugs and the strange, shimmering sense that he was finally, actually, exactly where he was supposed to be.

The lights in the hall flickered—just for a moment, but enough to catch every eye and every smile. Like a photograph, so that no matter how hard the game would become, this moment would remain immortalized, forever.