Choosing to Be Glad

For all that it advertised itself as a luxury oasis, the pool was usually empty by early afternoon: just the deck chairs, a drift of yellow towels, and the gentle purr of the pump. On days like this, the light off the water was so bright it felt like you could taste it. If you believed in color therapy, which neither Emily nor Dawn did, you might say the blue alone was enough to reset a person’s mood for a week.

Emily liked the pool. She liked how big it was, how nobody cared about her nudity here (not that anyone cared anywhere else, not anymore), and how the tile never got so hot it burned your feet. Most of all, she liked the view from the lounger: a sun-bleached spread of open water, and beyond it, the jungle that pressed right up against the resort boundary, all tangled with birds of paradise and hibiscus the size of her head.

She lay on her side, one knee cocked, head pillowed on a rolled towel, her hair spilling over the edge and trailing down almost to the deck. The fact that her hair, by some magical or psychological logic, never failed to arrange itself so as to conceal what needed concealing had stopped being weird months ago. Now, she just counted herself lucky she didn’t have to fuss with a swimsuit that would ride up or get transparent or do any of the things she’d seen on TV reality shows. A girl could get used to this.

Dawn, for her part, was half-in the pool with her arms hooked over the rim, the top half of her body framed by the water like a floating sculpture. She had a talent for holding herself exactly at the border between above and below, shoulders just exposed, ears erect and alert. Her hair slicked back from her face and dripped steadily into the turquoise.

They’d been talking for twenty minutes about nothing: local birds, who made the best cold brew, the latest round of weirdness in the kitchen. The conversation lapsed into a soft silence, punctuated by the quiet plash of Dawn’s feet paddling under the surface.

It was Emily who broke the lull. “Hey,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to thank you for something, but I kept forgetting.”

Dawn lifted her chin out of the crook of her elbow, looked over, and waited. It was a look that could be described as “ears forward, ready to receive,” the kind of attention that made you feel like the only person in the world.

Emily swallowed. “It’s not a big thing. Just—” She hesitated, feeling the heat rise in her face, which, considering the amount of skin she had exposed to the sun, was an accomplishment. “I remember the Fourth Round, back when I couldn’t decide who I wanted to be. For Andy, for me. There were days I thought maybe I was a girlfriend, maybe I was a sex toy, maybe I was both, and that if I said either out loud everyone would think I was broken.” She drew her bare toes up along the lounger, curled them, released.

Dawn blinked, a slow, gentle blink. “You were never broken,” she said, matter-of-fact.

Emily almost laughed. “See, it’s easy when you say it. But I didn’t know how to ask for help. And you never tried to fix it. You just…” She searched for the right words, found none, settled for, “You invited me over during your night with Andy, and let me talk about anything, even the weird stuff. And you never made it sound like I was doing something wrong. So, thank you. For that.”

Dawn’s smile was huge and instant. “You’re welcome,” she said, ears doing a little dance. Then, because compliments made her awkward: “Honestly, I wasn’t doing anything special. I just liked talking to you.”

Emily nodded. “I know. That’s what made it better.”

For a moment, there was a comfort in just existing, in the knowledge that someone could understand and still stick around. Emily felt a looseness, an opening, like the first breeze through a room you’d been afraid to air out.

Dawn kicked off from the wall and drifted into the middle of the pool, then turned a slow, lazy lap on her back. When she returned to the edge, she pushed up so her arms flexed and her chest crested the water, which, considering her J-cups, was a nontrivial feat. “You figured it out, though,” she said, panting only a little. “You look happy now. Like, really happy.”

Emily nodded. “I am.” She caught her reflection in the blue: hair billowed, skin smooth and perfect, every inch of her shaped by the transformations, and yet she looked more herself than ever. “Turns out it’s both,” she said, grinning. “I can be what he wants, and what I want, at the same time. One nested into the other. Didn’t know that was allowed.”

Dawn beamed. “Of course it’s allowed. That’s the whole point. You’re getting married in a week! You won, you know?” She seemed so delighted by this fact that Emily felt the urge to check whether she was missing something. “You get to be the one who decides what that means.”

Emily rolled onto her back, arms up, fingers laced behind her head. “I know. I still have a hard time believing it’s real, sometimes.”

Dawn watched her for a second, then smiled with a tenderness that made Emily’s heart ache. “I’m glad. You were so lost at the beginning, I wasn’t sure you’d ever find it.”

Emily swallowed. “I wasn’t sure, either.”

Dawn nodded, then levered herself out of the pool in a single, splashless movement that made her cottontail do a little quiver. She settled on the edge, feet still in, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. “You know what’s wild?” she said, gesturing toward the garden beyond the pool. “Look at us now.”

Emily looked. The imperative struck like a rubber band: “Look at us now.” Her transformation didn’t wait for parsing. Her head swiveled, focus locking on the implied referent—Dawn on the pool rim, bunny-eared and tanned, droplets beading on her skin; Emily on the lounger, naked but at ease, the two of them alone in a world built for their happiness. The pleasure hit like a warm wave, a blush starting between her thighs and spreading outward. It was supposed to be a compliment, just an idle observation, but the transformation seized on the command and routed it straight to her nervous system.

Emily forced herself to exhale, slow and even. She was used to this, or so she told herself. Dawn, oblivious, watched the shifting clouds overhead, ears twitching in rhythm with the breeze.

They sat in companionable quiet. Emily flexed her toes, then pressed her feet flat on the lounger, knees raised. The sun on her thighs was like a second skin, every hair on her body alive with sensation. She risked a sideways glance at Dawn, which made the heat worse, so she focused on the water instead.

Dawn, not noticing, started to hum a tune—something half-remembered from childhood, the melody looping in gentle, rising arcs. She plucked a frangipani blossom from the deck and spun it between thumb and forefinger, then tossed it onto the pool surface, where it circled lazily toward Emily.

“Wait, wait—” Dawn said, sitting up. “Is that a new flower?” She pointed, arm extended, finger aimed at a burst of red that Emily hadn’t seen before.

Emily’s suggestibility spiked. The “wait, wait” froze her on the spot. She felt a jolt, low in her belly, and the flush became a sweep of warmth that she had to breathe through. She said, “I think it is,” with a voice that wasn’t entirely her own.

Dawn leaned in for a better look, squinting. “No, stop—I think it’s been there all along.”

“Stop,” and Emily’s muscles responded. The arousal stacked, two imperatives running in parallel, her mind trying to process the rising tide of heat without letting it show on her face.

Dawn kept talking, something about pollinators, but Emily heard none of it. She was too busy inventorying the sensation: the tingling along her spine, the clench and release of her thighs, the way her breath got shallow when she tried to keep it slow. She made a fist in the lounger’s towel, hoping it would ground her.

Dawn turned back and finally noticed Emily’s expression, which was more of a forced smile than a real one. “You okay?” she asked, soft.

Emily nodded, then said, “Yeah. It’s just… you’re hitting all my triggers today.”

Dawn’s mouth formed a perfect “o,” then she clapped both hands to her cheeks, ears flattening in horror. “Oh my god, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—what did I say?”

Emily struggled to remember, which wasn’t easy when her blood felt like it had been replaced with champagne. “Look at us now, wait, stop,” she counted, fingers ticking off the triggers. “It’s fine, I’m used to it. But sometimes it just… stacks. I should probably go, before I embarrass myself.”

Dawn was mortified. “No, I’m the one who should go! I didn’t even realize—I mean, usually it’s Riley who gets tripped up, not me. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Emily grinned, a little wild. “I promise. It’s just, I, uh, need a minute or I’ll lose my mind.”

Dawn nodded, ears still at half-mast. “I’ll see you at dinner?”

“Yeah,” Emily said. She collected her towel, shook her hair loose so it fell in the right places, and made her exit with as much dignity as a naked, aroused girl could muster.

Dawn watched her go, then replayed the last five minutes of conversation. The moment she understood, her face went so pink it nearly matched the hibiscus. She slumped forward, ears drooping, and muttered, to no one in particular, “Oh no.”

She slid back into the pool, let herself float, and resolved not to say anything even remotely imperative until the wedding.

---

Liesa worked the sunroom like a pilot in a glass-walled cockpit, every surface covered in party planning detritus. She’d brought three different notebooks—one for logistics, one for vendor contacts, one for contingency plans—and a set of spreadsheet printouts annotated in her own hybrid of Dutch, English, and the kind of pictograms only real project managers understand. The light in the room, filtered through the canopy outside, made every pen mark seem sharper, more deliberate.

It was her third hour there, and she’d made it through the entire bachelorette checklist: pool cabana, private karaoke lounge, House of Still Waters, Dance Hall, space in the inner gardens, backup location in case of rain, and—because she knew her audience—a line item called “Emergency Escape Protocol” for if the party turned into a drama spiral. The only thing she hadn’t planned for was what she’d say to the group, if the topic turned to her.

Sam entered with the soundless ease of someone who had worked a million crowded coffee shops. She wore jeans, the faded kind that only got softer with every wash, and a Blue Bean T-shirt with a logo so distressed it looked like an artifact. She spotted Liesa, hesitated at the threshold, then walked straight to the table and sat, one chair over, her body canted at an angle that said, “Not crowding, just here.”

Sam eyed the planning materials, then Liesa’s face, then the planning materials again. She didn’t touch the notebooks, but she didn’t need to. She knew what they were.

“You want help with any of this, or are you just flexing?” she asked, voice soft enough to not carry but strong enough to mean it.

Liesa smiled, a real one. “You can help if you want, but I think I am nearly done.”

Sam nodded, thumb drumming the edge of the table. She watched Liesa move a sticky note, then pick up a highlighter and color-code a line on a spreadsheet. The movement was sensual, not because Liesa wanted it to be, but because her transformation had made it default. Even the act of reaching for the pen was a display.

Sam said, “Can I ask you something?”

Liesa’s hand paused above the paper. “Of course.”

Sam took a breath, then said, “Does it bug you? Planning everyone else’s party, the dinners, the games, the stuff, when you know you won’t get one yourself?”

Liesa blinked, once, as if Sam had switched from an English question to one in German. “You mean, do I mind?”

“Yeah. Andy, Laura, Erin, the others… they get a night. You get spreadsheets.” Sam’s tone was careful—neutral, but not disinterested.

Liesa thought about it, really thought. She set the highlighter down, capped it with a little click, and put both hands flat on the table, palms cool on the glass. “No,” she said, and then, “Is… better, right now, to do something useful than to be celebrated. That’s not false modesty. I like being the one who runs things. If I had to—” She stopped, searching for the word. “If I had to stand up and have the attention on me, I would maybe die.”

Sam’s smile was crooked. “Fair.”

Liesa looked away, out at the garden. “I am also not the right kind of person for a party like that.”

Sam shifted in her chair, bringing herself closer to Liesa’s line of sight. “I’m not, either.”

Liesa looked at her, surprised.

Sam shrugged, open-palmed. “If I had to throw myself a party, I’d know where all the surprises were. I’d be running it from the inside, like, stacking the games so nobody gets hurt or embarrassed, making sure there’s a safe word for the drinking contest. The whole point is, you get to not know what’s coming, and I’d ruin that. Plus, I’d find it embarrassing.”

Liesa nodded, smiled. “You are not wrong. I think you would find it embarrassing.”

They sat with this for a minute. It wasn’t awkward. It was almost like the rest of the world had hit pause.

Sam was the one to break it. “How are you really, though? I mean—” She gestured at the rest of the table. “With the wedding, and the baby, and everything else? The stuff we don’t say at dinner.”

Liesa inhaled through her nose, slow. “I am good.” She picked up the highlighter, then put it down again. “I keep busy, because if I don’t, I worry about the parts I can’t control. Like what happens at the end, or if the baby is going to be healthy. But every time I get scared, I think about what comes after. I have been scared before, and I decided it is better to be glad anyway. So that is what I am doing.”

Sam nodded, eyes steady on Liesa’s. “I think that’s the best answer anyone’s given me all week.”

Liesa smiled, the lines at the corner of her eyes softening. “Can I tell you something?” she asked, voice low.

“Always,” said Sam, and meant it.

Liesa leaned in, just a little. “Sometimes I put my hand on my stomach and try to feel her moving. She isn’t yet, I think, but I pretend. Because if I can pretend it, maybe it will be real soon. Maybe I will believe it.”

Sam smiled, no joke this time. “It will be.”

Liesa blinked fast, once. “Thank you.”

They let the air fill up. The garden outside was gold in the late light, the air warm even through the glass. For a while, the only sound was the click and scratch of Liesa’s pen as she drew little hearts on the edge of the vendor list.

Eventually, Liesa slid the spreadsheet toward Sam, along with a highlighter. “Would you like to pick the color for the boat?” she asked.

Sam took the highlighter, considered, and picked the brightest yellow. “I think this one,” she said, then drew a big, loopy sun around it. “It should be the color of fun.”

Liesa laughed, and it was the sound of someone finally letting out a breath they didn’t know they’d been holding.

They stayed at the table until the glass went dark outside and the only light was the lamp above their heads, pooling over the neat stacks of paper and the colored marks. When they were finished, they sat for a while longer, not talking, just two women in the kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled.

Liesa said, “We can make this the best party. For them, and for us.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. For all of us.”

Neither of them moved to leave.

---

Norah entered the kitchen at three, on the dot, looking for tea. She found Riley instead, standing at the prep island with her sleeves rolled up, glowering at a bag of arborio rice as if it owed her money.

Norah’s first impulse was to turn around and find a different place to hydrate, but something in Riley’s posture—elbows locked, hair tied back with a pencil, the glint of determination in her mismatched eyes—made it impossible to look away.

She waited for Riley to make the first move. She always did.

Riley tapped the bag once with her knuckle, then looked over. “Hey,” she said, “do you know how to make risotto?”

Norah blinked. “Do you?”

Riley shrugged. “Not yet. But I’m committed.”

Norah lifted her own eyebrow, then went to the kettle and filled it, letting the silence set the rules of engagement. She didn’t turn her back fully to Riley, but she didn’t need to watch, either. She could sense, from the rhythm of Riley’s movements—the way she measured rice in her cupped palm, the slap of the knife on the cutting board—that this was a contest already, even if they hadn’t agreed on the terms.

She finished the kettle, set it to boil, and turned. “Risotto is hard,” she said, watching Riley peel a shallot with the speed and recklessness of someone stripping a wire. “Most people fuck it up.”

Riley grinned. “I plan to fuck it up in a completely original way.” She set the shallot aside and began to chop it, not fine, not even, but with a kind of joyful abandon that made Norah’s eye twitch.

Norah sighed and reached for her own ingredients: a box of stock from the fridge, a perfect yellow onion, and a bottle of white wine that someone had opened and then forgotten. She brought them to the counter and set them down across from Riley, making her intent clear.

Riley glanced at the onion. “Gonna use that?”

Norah said, “I am. It’s how I was taught.”

Riley shrugged. “We’ll see which one is better, then.”

Norah unwrapped the onion and began to dice it, slow and deliberate, every cut the same width as the last. “You want a rematch?”

Riley’s eyes narrowed. “Is this a rematch?”

“Every time you enter the kitchen,” Norah said, “it’s a rematch.” She slid the onions into a small bowl and wiped the board with a practiced hand.

Riley snorted, then threw her shallots into a sauté pan with a clatter. “You’re on,” she said, and cranked the burner with a flourish.

They found the stock between them, agreed silently that it needed to be heated, and then—after a brief debate about the right temperature (Riley: “Just get it hot enough to not kill the rice.” Norah: “If it’s not simmering, you’re wasting your time.”)—let the broth do its thing. There were two pans on the stove: one good, one merely adequate. Norah, by virtue of standing closer, claimed the good pan. Riley said nothing, but the set of her jaw made it clear she’d noticed.

They worked in parallel: same rice, same wine, same starting ratio of stock. What diverged was everything else.

Riley’s shallots went in rough, barely browned before she dumped the rice on top. She toasted the grains for exactly ten seconds, then added a waterfall of stock, no gradual incorporation, just all at once. Norah watched this, but didn’t comment.

Norah’s onions were sautéed until translucent, rice added with an extra swirl of olive oil, and only then did she start ladling in the stock. She waited for the hiss, the gentle release of starch, the way the rice thickened the liquid before she added the next round.

Riley added garlic, two cloves, crushed with the side of the knife and thrown in with zero ceremony. Norah did not add garlic. Riley looked at her, daring her to comment, but Norah only shook her head, micro-smiling.

Norah said, “You’re supposed to use a wooden spoon.”

Riley used a silicone spatula, bright red, and held it up like a sword. “I like this one.”

They cooked, side by side: no wasted motion, minimal words, but enough edge that the room felt ten degrees warmer than when they started. After a while, Riley cut her finger on the third onion she decided to add—a sudden, clean slice. She ran it under the tap, wrapped it in a paper towel, and kept going.

Norah said, “You planning to bleed into the risotto?”

Riley said, “It adds character.” She unwrapped the finger and went back to stirring.

Both pans hissed as they absorbed the next ladle of stock. Riley added a bay leaf she found in the back of a drawer. Norah did not use the bay leaf.

They reached the wine stage at the same time. Both bottles uncorked with a pop, both splashed into the pans in a measure that was almost identical. Norah raised an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t measure.”

“I measured by sight,” Riley said, “but it happens to be the right amount.”

They cooked. Norah counted her stirs, Riley didn’t. When Riley left her pan to taste Norah’s with a stolen spoon, Norah pretended not to notice, but she did. Riley said, “It’s good,” then put the spoon back.

Norah, after a pause, picked up a new spoon.

Riley’s risotto went looser than it should, but the color was perfect, and the smell was, weirdly, extraordinary. Norah’s risotto was textbook, the kind of thing you’d see in a magazine, every grain swollen just so, the starch creating a creamy, perfect base.

They finished at almost the same time. Norah stirred in a handful of parmesan, and a knob of butter, then let the pan rest. Riley threw in butter, then more cheese than strictly necessary, and tossed her bay leaf. Then she tasted, made a face, and added a dash of salt and a little more wine for good measure.

Norah plated hers first, in a shallow dish, and cleaned the rim with a napkin. Riley heaped hers in a bowl, steam rising in thick columns.

They each took a spoon of the other’s, neither making eye contact.

Riley tasted Norah’s first. She nodded, silent, then took a second taste. “It’s really good,” she said, as if surprised.

Norah tasted Riley’s. She put down the spoon, then picked it up again and tasted a second time, slowly. She said, “You should not have used the bay leaf, but it’s better than I thought it would be.”

They stood in silence, judging each other, then, together, began to transfer their creations to larger serving bowls. Norah labeled hers with a neat, centered card: “Risotto alla Norah.” Riley’s was labeled “Riley’s Best” in a sharp, left-leaning scrawl.

They cleaned the counters, washed their hands, and, without consulting, both picked up their dishes and walked to the Banquet Hall.

---

The Banquet Hall had a hum to it that only happened on big nights. Eleven women at the long table, Mildreds in dark waistcoats gliding at the margins, someone in the kitchen prepping the buffet with the clatter and urgency of a holiday dinner service. It wasn’t even clear who had called for the gathering—Dawn said it was Claire, Emily had told three people it was Liesa, and Emi was convinced it was her own idea—but nobody questioned it. They all just showed up, sat at their places, and waited for whatever was supposed to happen next.

Chloe was nervous. Not nervous the way she got before parent-teacher night, or when she had to parallel park in front of a crowd, but nervous in a way that made her vision halo at the edges and her hands cold. She sat at the table with her fingers curled tight around a water glass, watching the surface tremble, and reminded herself that this was the plan. She and Liesa had agreed: there would never be a “good time,” so they had to make one.

Across the table, Liesa caught her eye and gave a microscopic nod. She looked calm, but Chloe knew the signs: the perfect posture, the slow exhale, the way she kept smoothing the tablecloth with her right hand. It was the same look Chloe had seen when Liesa stood up to deliver her first lecture in college, the only girl in a sea of boys, and somehow made them all listen.

Dawn was on Chloe’s right, already working on a bread roll, ears bobbing with each bite. “You want one?” she asked, nudging the basket. “It’s still warm.”

Chloe shook her head, not trusting her voice. Next to Dawn, Emi sat with a glass of sparkling water and her sketchbook, which she only ever used when she was trying not to fidget. On Chloe’s left was Claire, who wore her best “nothing is happening” face and was writing on her notepad with a measured, deliberate hand.

At the far end, Liesa had the honor seat, but it was clear she would rather be anywhere else. Riley and Norah’s chairs were empty. Myra sat next to Liesa, already picking at her salad, while Laura—well, both bodies—sat perfectly still, hands in her lap, watching Chloe with an intensity that made Chloe want to look away and never look back.

Liesa poured herself water, then set the glass down and stood. At first, nobody noticed. Then the table fell quiet, and all eyes were on her.

She cleared her throat, a sound so rare that Chloe saw four people jump at once. “Chloe and I have something to say,” she began. “We agreed to do it together, so it does not get too confusing.”

Chloe felt her pulse in her jaw. She stood, slowly, and matched Liesa’s stance as best she could.

Liesa said, “It might be best if we say it at the same time.” She looked at Chloe. “Are you ready?”

Chloe nodded, barely.

They said it together, the way they’d practiced. Chloe’s voice quivered; Liesa’s was clear as a bell.

Chloe said, “I’m pregnant with Andy’s son.”

Liesa said, “I’m pregnant with Sam’s daughter.”

For a second, the room was completely, utterly silent. Then three things happened at once.

A glass went over somewhere to the left—Emi’s, though she caught it before it shattered. Erin, who had been halfway through a bite of carrot, put both hands flat on the table and, looking at Liesa, said, “Are you fucking kidding me?” loud enough for the kitchen staff to hear. Sam, who had been hiding at the back of the room, let out a whoop that bounced off the windows and made the Mildreds in the corner jump.

And then the table dissolved into chaos.

Dawn shrieked, then launched herself across the table and hugged Chloe so hard that Chloe nearly went over backward. Claire stood, rushed around to join the hug, and for a split second, Chloe thought maybe it would all collapse into a pile of limbs and ears. On the other side, Myra reached for Liesa’s hand, squeezed it once, then let go, as if that was all that was needed.

Liesa beamed, and the joy on her face was so real that Chloe couldn’t look at her without tearing up. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and tried to breathe.

Riley and Norah came in right after, each carrying a large dish, and stopped cold at the sight of the group. Riley raised an eyebrow. “Is this a cult thing?” she asked, deadpan. “Or did I miss good news?”

Dawn broke away from Chloe, ears at full mast. “Chloe and Liesa are both pregnant! It’s official!”

Riley looked from Chloe to Liesa, then to the food in her hands. She smiled, a little crooked. “Well, that calls for a celebration,” she said, pretending she hadn't known about Chloe. “And also, risotto. We made two. You get to vote.”

Norah followed, face perfectly blank, and set her own risotto on the table next to Riley’s. She said, “Both are edible. You may decide which is best.”

The group quieted, suddenly focused. Dawn said, “Wait, is it safe?” She eyed the bowls, and then Riley. “You two nearly set the kitchen on fire last time.”

Riley gave her best innocent look. “Risotto is not curry, Dawn. There’s no danger. Unless you’re afraid of garlic.”

Katherine, who had been watching from the head of the table, gave Riley a look that could only be described as skeptical, then nodded at her bowl.

Emi brightened, grabbing a spoon with three hands at once. “We get to taste-test?” she asked, already leaning in.

Liesa, who had not paid attention, took one look at the risottos, and said, “Who made these?”

“Riley and Norah,” Dawn said. “It’s a rematch.”

Liesa sat anyway, which Chloe thought was brave.

Emily, who remembered the original contest, picked up a spoon and tried both, back to back, with the confidence of someone who had no taste buds after the first event. She gave a sheepish grin, and gave the win to Norah.

Erin, still processing the pregnancy news, reached for Riley’s risotto first, took a bite, then didn’t put the spoon down for the next four bites. “Holy shit,” she said, around a mouthful. “It’s actually good.”

Dawn tried Riley’s, then Norah’s. Her ears didn’t go back, which she noted aloud. “That’s a good sign,” she said, grinning at both chefs, and picking Norah.

Sam, beaming at the end of the table, tasted both and said nothing, but nudged Riley’s dish slightly closer to her plate. Emi went back and forth for thirty seconds, then pointed at Riley’s. “Sorry, Norah,” she said, but looked genuinely sorry.

Katherine tried each once, then pointed at Riley’s without expression.

Claire tried both, then asked Norah a precise question about the mantecatura, which made Norah smile with half her mouth.

Myra tried Norah’s, nodded once, and then didn’t pick up Riley’s spoon.

Chloe, finally able to relax, tried both with her eyes closed. She reached for Norah’s a second time.

Liesa finished her portion of Norah’s and didn’t even look at Riley’s after the first taste, which Chloe knew meant she’d already decided.

Laura tried both, slowly, then pointed at Riley's.

That was five for Riley, five for Norah.

Riley was watching the count. “So we’re tied?” She noticed Sam in the back and gestured imperiously. Sam sighed, picked up a fork and tried both risottos with the inscrutable expression of a Delphic oracle. She chewed, swallowed, and impassively assigned the round to Norah.

Emi, who had been working through both bowls with methodical focus, set down her spoon. She looked at Norah’s. She looked at Riley’s. Then she looked at Norah’s again, picked it up, and finished it.

Norah had the victory.

Riley looked at the result, then at Norah, who didn’t gloat, and then at Emi, who looked faintly apologetic. The not-gloating was worse than gloating would have been. Riley picked up her own spoon, took a long, standing bite from her own bowl, and said, “You are all wrong, but okay.”

The table broke into laughter, louder than before.

For a while, it was just women eating, passing dishes, talking over each other, and laughing so hard it hurt. After dessert—cheesecake and fresh strawberries, no competition—people started to linger, not ready to leave.

As the sun went down and the Hall filled with dusk, Chloe found herself next to Liesa at the buffet. The air was warm, the laughter still echoing, and for once, Chloe didn’t feel nervous about what came next. She leaned in, shoulder to shoulder, and said, “You did it.”

Liesa smiled, then, after a moment, said, “We did.”