Conversations

It took Andy another thirty minutes to find the gym again. It had definitely been easier, the previous day, when he was looking for Sam. By the time he got there, the place was empty except for an array of squat racks and a single, sad treadmill that looked like it was built to withstand hurricanes and user error. He jogged in place, put his body through the motions, but his head wouldn’t let the conversation with Norah go. The whole time he ran, he replayed the moments from their hallway standoff, the sense that whatever control he had was fraying at the edges, that each woman was a live wire running through the walls of his life. And he was the unlucky electrician expected to keep the lights on.

He hit the showers after an hour, not because he was tired, but because he was hungry. He wanted to visit the Banquet Hall, for once, rather than eat in his Suite again.

When he arrived, he found Sam and Liesa already deep in conversation at the back table, a sunbeam spotlighting them like a still from a coffeehouse indie film. Liesa was in jeans and a loose blouse, hair pulled into a messy braid, her hands expressive as she tried to explain something in halting English. Sam, in typical fashion, wore a faded superhero T-shirt and jeans, her blue curls bunched into a bandana. She was grinning, teeth white against her tan, and every so often, she’d punctuate the conversation with a laugh that made Liesa blush.

Marissa arrived a few minutes later. She swept in with a professional composure that would have worked on the floor of a hospital, her pale yellow dress crisp and wrinkle-free, her nipples - as always - poking through the fabric. Andy realized this was the first time he ever saw her in a dress. He also realized a dresss did things to her chest that were quite interesting.

Marissa greeted the other two women with a warm but not overly familiar smile, then slid into the chair opposite Sam, folding her hands neatly on the table.

Andy hovered near the buffet, unsure if he was expected to grab food or wait for some cue. The question was answered when Marissa spotted him and waved him over. “Andy. Good to see you.”

“Hey,” he said, forcing casual. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all,” said Sam. She stood and hugged him. “Sorry,” she whispered, “obligatory hug of the day.” Then she gave him an up-and-down, and pointed at his shirt, wrinkling her nose. “You look like a man who’s been wrestling with some existential dread. Or maybe just the gym.”

He shrugged. “A bit of both.” He took a seat next to Liesa, who smiled at him with a mixture of nerves and delight.

“Please, help yourself,” Marissa said. “It’s all the same as yesterday, but the pineapple’s better.”

He piled some food onto a plate, then returned, still feeling like the odd man out at a sorority lunch.

Liesa leaned in, her voice soft but urgent. “Marissa was telling us how, even though she cannot be our therapist, she will help us if we want to talk. I do not understand—does this mean we can ask her questions? Even… private ones?”

Marissa nodded, a strand of hair escaping her bun. “It means exactly that, Liesa. I can’t formally treat you, but I’m happy to listen. Or give advice, if you want it.” She looked at Andy, not unkindly. “That goes for you, too.”

Andy nodded. “I appreciate it, though I think most of the girls probably need more help than I do.”

Sam snorted. “Don’t sell yourself short, Andy. This place is a mental health funhouse. I bet by week two, we’ll all be fighting over therapy appointments like it’s Black Friday at a Walmart.”

Marissa gave her a patient smile. “Actually, I’d disagree. From what I’ve seen, most of you are adapting quite well. The stressors are significant, but the group’s resilience is impressive. Even Norah, who seems the least happy to be here, is doing better than I would have predicted.”

Liesa brightened. “She was not happy with you in the hallway, Dawn said.”

Andy choked on his pineapple, and Sam cackled. “Damn, Liesa. Savage.”

Liesa colored. “Sorry. Was it rude?”

He waved her off. “Not at all. I like your honesty.”

Marissa steered the conversation back, her tone gentle but insistent. “It’s okay to be angry, or scared, or overwhelmed. This situation is designed to provoke strong reactions. But rough edges—like Norah’s, or Erin’s—don’t form out of nowhere. Usually, they’re the result of long-term pain. Or trauma.”

Sam went quiet, and Liesa looked down at her hands.

Marissa glanced at Andy. “You know, when someone’s entire self-image is violated—in Erin’s case, having her pleasure conditioned by your presence; in Norah’s, the way her body’s been altered so abruptly—it’s not just a prank or a joke. It’s a **** vulnerability. It’s an attack on the core of who they are.” She paused, letting the point land. “Even if it doesn’t seem as dramatic as what happened to Emi or Claire, it hurts. And it matters.”

Andy nodded. “You’re right. I’ve been thinking about it all day. I just don’t know what to do.”

Sam reached over, giving his wrist a squeeze. “You do what you always do. You listen, and you try not to make it worse.” She smiled, a little softer. “That’s your superpower, Andy. You always try to fix things, even if it’s impossible.”

He almost made a joke about it, but stopped. Instead, he looked at Marissa. “Thanks for saying that. It helps, weirdly.”

Marissa nodded, satisfied. “Sometimes just knowing you’re not alone makes all the difference.”

Liesa chimed in, her words careful. “When I feel very sad, I walk. In Antwerp, I walk along the Scheldt, and it makes me feel like I can leave the pain behind, just for a while.” She looked at the others. “Maybe we can walk together, sometime?”

Sam raised a fist. “Team Sad Bitches. We’ll make T-shirts.”

Liesa giggled, and even Marissa cracked a smile. Andy felt the tension in his chest loosen, just a little.

The door to the Banquet Hall banged open, and Andy instinctively braced himself. But it was only the silent threat of Claire, who glided in with her notebook clutched tight to her chest. She paused at the door, spotted Andy, and gave a tiny, shy wave.

Sam grinned. “Well, well, well. Look who just jumped to the top of the leaderboard overnight.”

Andy glared. “You check the scoreboard every morning?”

Sam gave him a faux-shocked look. “What, like you don’t? It’s right there in the main lobby, in forty-eight-point Comic Sans.”

Liesa looked at Andy, delighted. “You and Claire had a good night?”

He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. “It was fine. We talked. Played Mario Kart.”

Sam gave him a knowing smile. “That’s not what the scoreboard said.”

Even Marissa snorted. “In his defense, the VP system is arbitrary and probably designed to embarrass.”

At this, Liesa and Sam lost it, cackling. Claire looked from face to face, utterly confused, and then, realizing the joke, blushed bright red and buried her face in her notebook.

Andy shook his head. “You’re all monsters.”

Marissa smirked. “We’re just adapting to the environment.”

Dawn appeared in the doorway, carrying a tray with four glasses of iced tea and a pitcher. She glided over, smile bright but controlled, and set the tray in the center of the table. “I thought you might want something cold. It’s hot today.”

Sam nudged Liesa. “See? Team Sad Bitches already has a support staff.”

Dawn looked at Andy. “I was just showing Claire the gardens. She’s got a thing for orchids.”

Claire gave a thumb’s up, then scribbled:

They smell like vanilla! And the pink ones look like little monkeys.

She flashed the page at everyone, then tucked it away with a pleased air.

Andy grinned, then looked at the table. “Do you mind if I steal Claire for a bit? I promised I’d help her find the library.”

Sam made a face. “Ew. Nerds.”

Marissa stood, smoothing her dress. “We should all go for a walk after lunch. Liesa has a theory it’ll improve group morale.”

Liesa nodded, then looked at Andy. “If you want, you can come too. But only if you don’t make the walk sadder.”

He saluted her. “I’ll do my best.”

He stood and offered Claire his arm. She took it, then waved to the table.

As they left, he heard Marissa say, “It really is like a family here. Dysfunctional, but a family. Odd, after just three days. But shared traumas do accelerate the bonding process.”

Dawn refilled the tea glasses, then looked around the table. “Maybe there's something in the air. But it’s not so bad, is it?”

Sam nodded. “Nah. Could be worse. At least Andy’s not a total creep.”

Liesa smiled, watching Andy and Claire disappear down the corridor. “He’s a good man. I think we are lucky, for that.”

Marissa agreed, sipping her tea. “There are worse fates, certainly.”

They sat together, letting the silence pool around them, each feeling the comfort of company in the weirdest, brightest hotel they’d ever known.

The bathroom was a cave of white tile and chrome, spotless as a crime scene. Erin sat on the lid of the toilet, elbows on her knees, staring at the wall. Her fingers trembled, not from cold, but from the way her body hummed with electricity that never quite made contact.

She’d tried everything. Water first: slow, then hard, then cold. Fingers, then the towel, then the damn electric toothbrush that she’d found hidden at the back of the drawer. She’d tried closing her eyes, thinking of every dirty thing she’d ever let slip in a bedroom, of the time she’d hooked up with that married couple in Milwaukee, of the guy who’d gone down on her for thirty minutes and left her so spent she’d cried from the pleasure of it. Nothing. Not even a twitch.

The transformation had promised only that her pleasure would be “possible only when in sight of the Master.” The memory of Arabella’s smirk when she’d said it was seared into Erin’s brain.

Erin ground her teeth. The urge to come was like an itch under her skin, deep and unreachable. It didn’t even hurt, not exactly. It was just… vacant. She could still get aroused—her nipples were hard as glass, her clit throbbed with want—but the moment she neared anything close to release, it was as if the plug had been pulled, and she was left alone in the dark.

She jabbed at herself again, furious, determined. She pictured Andy’s stupid face, that mix of pity and confusion, the way he’d always looked at her like he was waiting for her to break apart in front of him. He probably thought she’d give in, ask for his help. The compulsion, after all, was undoubtly designed to bring her to heel, to make her crawl. But she would rather gnaw off her own hand than let him see her that way.

Her anger got her closer than anything else, but even then, the last step was missing. She pressed harder, breath coming fast. But the empty space between arousal and finish line just kept getting wider.

She slammed her fist on the counter, let out a bark of laughter that turned instantly into a sob. “Fuck you,” she whispered, not sure if she meant Andy, or Arabella, or herself.

Tears dripped onto her thighs. She hated how much she needed this, how much it felt like losing a part of herself. She’d spent years building walls, brick by brick, so that no one could ever get close enough to hurt her again. Now, with one snap of a Host’s fingers, she was right back in middle school, powerless and furious and hating every molecule of her own body.

She wiped her face on her wrist, sniffed, and **** herself to breathe slow and deep. This was temporary. Everything was temporary. She would find a way to fix it. If nothing else, she’d find a way to endure.

She heard voices in the hallway, laughter and the scrape of a chair, and her first thought was relief that Sam wasn’t in earshot to hear her. The last thing she needed was a pep talk about radical acceptance or some dumb shit like that.

Erin stood, washed her hands, and looked in the mirror. Her face was blotched, eyes wild. She took a long, steady look at herself, then drew up her lips in a snarl.

“Not today,” she said, then turned off the light and shut the door behind her.

By late afternoon, the hotel had taken on the hush of a library after hours. The endless hallways seemed deserted, the perpetual hum of the climate control more noticeable in the absence of guests. Andy returned to the Master’s Suite with the kind of exhaustion that could only be generated by doing nothing all day but thinking.

The first thing he did was check the painting. Katherine was back in her usual spot above the fireplace, hair cascading down her shoulders, face composed in an expression of calm inquiry. He’d carried her back from the observatory deck that morning, before heading out with Claire, and she had returned to the exact posture she’d held before: dignified, bare, but proud.

He nodded a greeting to her as he crossed to the kitchenette and poured himself a glass of water. He took a long, slow drink, then stared at the empty living room, at the way the shadows played over the stone and velvet, at the absence of any sound except the tick of the antique mantel clock.

“I wish you could talk,” Andy said, voice echoing off the high ceiling.

Katherine responded with a slight tilt of her head, a shift in her painted weight, as if she were listening.

He sat on the sofa, set his water on the table, and let his arms drape over his knees. “I’m worried about Emi,” he confessed. “Her transformation—” He stopped, hands clenching. “I don’t even know how to describe it. I saw her yesterday. She put on a brave face, but she looked… scared.”

He looked at the painting, hoping for comfort, and found it in the gentle way her eyes seemed to soften, the faint suggestion of a smile. It reminded him that even now, even trapped, Katherine was more alive than most of the people he’d met on the outside.

“She was always so gentle,” Andy said, softer now. “Never wanted to stand out, never liked attention. And now she can’t help it. I keep thinking about how I would handle it, if it were me, and the truth is, I wouldn’t.” He shrugged. “I’d probably break.”

He rested his head in his hands, staring at the rug. “I don’t know what Arabella wants from us. Sometimes it seems like she’s trying to help, but then she goes and does something like this. I get that we’re supposed to change, or adapt, or whatever, but I wish—” He stopped again, caught by the sudden lump in his throat.

When he looked up, Katherine’s pose had shifted. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, hands open in invitation, the lines of her body echoing his own. It was so subtle he might have missed it, but it made him smile.

“Thanks,” he said, and meant it.

He stood, walked over to the fireplace, and set his glass on the mantel beside her frame. For a moment, he considered touching the glass, but stopped himself. It seemed wrong, somehow—too intimate, too ****.

Instead, he just looked at her. “You know,” he said, “sometimes I wonder if you’re the only one here who really understands what’s going on. Maybe even more than me.”

Katherine’s eyes met his, steady and patient.

“I have to get ready,” Andy said, straightening. “It’s Emi’s night. If she even shows up.”

He turned to go, but not before glancing back at Katherine’s painting one last time. “I’ll bring you up to the deck again soon,” he promised. “Maybe you can watch the sun set.”

He thought he saw the hint of a nod, a flash of warmth in her face.

That night, as the sun sagged against the rim of the volcano, Andy carried Katherine’s painting up the stairs to the observatory. The sky was a bruised watercolor: indigos, bruises, lemon creamsicle bleeding through. He’d learned how to cradle the frame so as not to smudge the glass or knock the edges. By the time he reached the top, his arms were trembling, but the ache was good—something real, earned, a reminder that not everything here was a dream.

The observatory deck was empty. Just the steady hush of the wind and the slap of the ocean in the far distance. Andy set the painting on one of the recliners, propping it up so Katherine faced the sunset. The pose was different than last night—she stood at the edge of the painted meadow, hair spilling over her shoulder, breasts bare but somehow dignified. She looked right at him, and in the low light, her eyes glinted with humor and a hint of expectation.

He settled into the recliner next to hers, rolling his head back and exhaling hard. “You get the best seat in the house,” he said.

Katherine shifted, crossing her arms under her chest, cocking her head in a way that said: Yeah, right.

He exhaled, breath fogging in the cold. “I wanted to tell you about last night,” he said. “I—” He hesitated, then pressed on. “I slept with Claire. Well, not slept slept, but… you know.” He looked away, embarrassed by the need to confess. “It was good. Really good. But after she left this morning, I kept waiting to feel like it was okay. Like I wasn’t just erasing Laura. But all I felt was this ache. Like I’d let her down.”

Katherine watched him with impossible patience. She reached toward him, palm up, then mimed a heart beating in her chest.

Andy barked a soft laugh. “You think I’m being stupid?”

She nodded, with an affectionate eye-roll, then opened both arms wide.

He considered, then nodded. “You’re right. I just… I keep expecting there to be a limit. That at some point, I have to choose between the past and the future.”

Katherine smirked, then lifted three fingers, one after another, then pointed to Andy, then mimed a hug, then a kiss, then spread her hands wide again.

He got it. “You think I’ll sleep with all of them before this is over.”

She shrugged, then gave a painted wink.

He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “I don’t even know if I’m capable of that. I’ve never been… that guy.”

Katherine nodded, then drew a tiny heart with her fingers, then tapped her own chest.

He was quiet a moment. “I suppose. But I never got over Laura. And now I wonder if I ever will.”

She leaned forward, as far as the frame would allow, and placed her hand over her heart. Then, slow and careful, she touched her lips, then pointed at Andy.

He felt the heat behind his eyes, the urge to say something that would make the feeling go away. Instead, he reached out and placed his hand on the top edge of the frame, just above Katherine’s shoulder. He couldn’t touch her, not really, but she pressed her palm to the glass in perfect alignment with his.

“Thanks for listening,” he said.

She beamed, eyes shining in the starlight.

They watched the sky together for a long time, the sounds of the night folding around them. Eventually, Andy broke the silence.

“Katherine, can I ask you something?”

She nodded.

“Is it hard? Not just being… you know, trapped. But being alone? All the time?”

She thought for a moment, then made a motion—hands together, then apart, then together again—like pulling taffy. He understood: it stretched, and stretched, and sometimes it felt endless.

He let the sadness bloom in his chest. “I wish I could help you. I wish there was a way to get you out.”

She smiled, then pointed at Andy, and made a flapping motion with one hand.

“You like having someone to talk to?”

She nodded, emphatic.

He sat back, looking at the stars. “You know, when this is all over, I’m going to talk to Arabella. Maybe there’s a way to bring you back with us.”

Katherine’s eyes widened. She pressed her hand to her mouth, stunned.

“I can’t promise anything,” he said. “But I can try.”

She nodded, then covered her face with both hands. When she looked up again, her eyes were wet with painted tears, shining on her cheeks.

He stayed there with her, in silence.

He was so lost in the quiet that he almost didn’t hear the elevator chime from the hallway below, the gentle buzz of the panel announcing the arrival of a guest.

Andy stood, stretched the cold from his joints, then leaned in close to the painting.

“Thank you, Katherine,” he said. “For listening.”

She smiled, radiant, and waved at him as he left to meet his old friend.