Erin's Night

Andy had barely descended the sleek flight of floating stairs when the elevator chimed again, a perfect, sterile note that carried straight to the base of his spine. He checked his reflection in the glass partition—just long enough to see that his collar was skewed—and tried to straighten it without looking like he’d just done so.

He propped himself at the edge of the kitchen counter, heart hammering, as the elevator chimed its arrival. Erin didn’t linger. The doors slid open and she stepped into the foyer with the old brisk, contained efficiency he remembered from Chicago—shoulders squared, head high, every line of her posture telegraphing: I am here for one purpose and it is not to entertain you.

Still, until five days ago, he never thought he’d see her again.

She wore a thin-knit, high-collared sweater in dark green, black jeans, and sneakers so fresh the soles squeaked on the tile. Her hair was still the same auburn, pulled back so tight it seemed like a dare. Andy wondered, fleetingly, if she still braided it for bed the way she used to, then felt immediately stupid for wondering.

For a moment, she just stood there, arms at her sides, chest rising and falling in a deliberate rhythm. Andy waited, unsure if he should greet her or let her acclimate. But it wasn’t the sight of him that made her pause—it was the smell. Her eyes shifted, just a fraction, as the aroma reached her: the scent of salmon, a drift of lemon, roasted garlic, and the delicate tang of dill. Andy saw her emotions as they flickered over her face, despite her attempts to maintain a neutral expression—first surprise, then irritation, then something harder to name.

He watched her inhale, once, twice, fighting not to acknowledge it. Her nose wrinkled with involuntary nostalgia. She hated that it caught her off guard.

“Hi, Erin,” Andy said, keeping his voice low and steady.

She gave a short nod, then let her eyes flick to the dining nook. The table was set for two, with candles already lit and sweating rivulets down the sides. On each plate: perfect triangles of cedar-plank salmon, a tiny heap of roasted asparagus, and a side of lemon risotto so fluffy it looked engineered. For a second, she looked like she might laugh. Instead, she said, “Going for the hard sell tonight?”

Andy shook his head. “Just figured you’d appreciate a real meal. No pressure.” He gestured at the table, inviting her to sit. His hands were trembling just a little, so he tucked them behind his back. Unlike most of the other women in the hotel, he had lived with Erin, however briefly. Having her here, now, reminded him of those evenings when it had been just the two of them at the dining table, laughing and talking about their future after having just finished college.

She hesitated, scanning the room like she expected a hidden camera crew to leap from the shadows. Then she walked over and sat, back perfectly straight, hands folded in her lap.

Andy poured water for both of them. The silence was a living thing, sprawling from the table to the fireplace, then up the stairs and back again. When he finally joined her, she stared at him—calm, but with a flicker of suspicion that made him want to squirm. She was always the best at this: making you feel like a guest in your own home.

He reached for his fork, decided against it. “You don’t have to do this,” he said, softly. “If you want to eat and go, or I can go in the other room to eat—”

She cut him off. “I’m not running away, Andrew. That’s your move.”

He flinched, not because it hurt (it did), but because it was so perfectly Erin: the conversational knife slid in with just enough **** to bleed, but not enough to kill. He nodded. “Fair.”

She picked up her fork and speared a bite of asparagus. Chewed. Swallowed. “I’m surprised you remembered,” she said, not looking at him. “About the salmon.”

He let himself smile, just a little. “I never forgot. You always said it was the only thing you missed about home.”

Her jaw worked, a muscle flexing along her cheek. “I said that once, in passing, after an all-nighter in grad school.” She looked at him now, not angry but almost… resigned. “You remember every detail except the parts that matter.”

He wanted to argue, but she was already back to her plate, methodically dissecting the fish, flaking it along the grain the way she always had. Andy tried to eat, but each mouthful turned to paste.

For a while, all that filled the air was the sound of cutlery and the faint sizzle of candlewax burning.

He cleared his throat, tried for small talk. “How’s work been? Still at Green River?”

She chewed, then nodded. “They promoted me. I run the urban renewal team now.”

“That’s great,” Andy said. He almost asked, “Are you happy?” but stopped himself. That wasn’t a safe question, not tonight.

Instead he said, “You always said you’d run things someday. I’m not surprised.”

She smiled, quick and involuntary, then killed it. “I only said that to annoy you,” she said. “You never believed in normal jobs. You were always chasing the next project.”

Andy braced himself for the old argument. “That’s not—” But then he stopped. “Okay, yeah. Maybe. I was afraid if I stopped moving, I’d have to think about everything I’d messed up.”

Her eyes flashed, but she looked away. “You didn’t mess up. You just… checked out. You always do.”

He wanted to deny it, to remind her that she’d been the one to end things. But she was right. He’d left first, in the ways that counted.

The meal was nearly finished before either of them touched the risotto. Andy tried it, found it needed more salt, and debated mentioning it, but thought better of it.

“Why did you agree to this?” he asked, after a long silence. Perhaps it wasn’t a safe question, considering the rules, but he had almost expected her to bail. And a part of him hoped she’d say that she hadn’t because she had wanted to see him, just the two of them.

Erin dabbed at her lips with the napkin, then looked him in the eye. “Arabella said I had to.” The name hung between them, a curse. “She said if I didn’t, there’d be punishments. I’m not here to make things worse for you, Andrew.” Her voice softened, almost imperceptibly. “I just want to get through this without giving her a show.”

He felt his throat tighten. “You don’t owe me anything. Not after how I—”

She shook her head, sharp. “Don’t do that. Don’t make this about pity, or old wounds. I’m here because I want closure. Nothing else.”

He let the words settle. “Okay,” he said, quietly.

They sat in silence until the candles burned low, the pools of wax lapping at their bases. Andy took a long drink of water, then set the glass down so gently it barely made a sound.

It was Erin who finally broke the stalemate, her tone so dry he almost missed the bitterness. “You going to ask about it?” she said. “Or are we going to pretend I’m not the punchline of this whole thing?”

He blinked. “The transformation?” He couldn’t hide the note of dread in his voice.

She smirked, but it was brittle. “The transformation. The elephant in the room, as it were.” She held his gaze, daring him to look away.

He didn’t. “If you want to talk about it, I’m listening.”

She considered for a moment, then set her fork down with a decisive clink. “I hate it,” she said. “It’s a joke. Arabella’s little experiment in humiliation.” Her fingers drummed the table, each tap a metronome of contained rage. “Everyone else got some kind of fucked-up superpower, or a compulsion that at least makes sense. Me? I can’t even come unless you’re watching. It’s not a kink, Andrew, it’s a leash. And I hate it.”

Andy opened his mouth, found nothing useful there, and closed it again.

Erin leaned back, arms crossed now, the shield reforming. “You want to know the worst part?” she said, voice flat. “I can’t even get mad at you. Not really. It’s not like you asked for it. But I hate that my body isn’t mine, not anymore. I thought I was done with this shit when I stopped dating you, but apparently, I’m right back where I started.”

Andy swallowed, wishing he had words that would matter. “I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it.

She looked at him, searching for something—anger, maybe, or guilt—but all she saw was a man so consumed by his own regret he couldn’t even defend himself.

“God, Andrew,” she said, softer now, “why are you always like this?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

She stared at the flickering candle between them, then reached out and pinched the wick between her fingers, snuffing it out. The room darkened, shadows lengthening on the walls.

When she spoke again, her voice was stripped down, all pretense gone. “Let’s just get through tonight. Then you can go back to being the guy who’s too nice to hurt anybody, but too scared to ever actually show up.”

Andy winced. “If that’s what you want.”

“It’s what I need,” she said. Then, softer, “Thanks for dinner.”

She stood, chair scraping, and left her plate where it was.

He watched her go, the air she left behind so heavy he could barely move. The single candle guttered, then died.

He sat in the darkness for a while, unsure which one of them had won, but fearing they both had lost.

The Suite had a way of going hollow after a fight—like the walls themselves absorbed the tension and hummed with it for hours after. Andy cleared the plates with care, rinsed the salmon-slick cutlery under water so cold it stung. He set the dishes aside, hands shaking, and stood motionless in the dark kitchen, listening for the sound of the elevator. There was none. Which meant Erin hadn’t left.

He found her in the living room, perched on the far end of the couch. She’d dragged a throw pillow into her lap and was squeezing it, slow and regular, like a stress ball. Her posture was upright, but her gaze wandered the room, searching for an escape route in the air ducts or through the flat-screen TV.

“Hey,” Andy said softly.

She didn’t turn, but her hands stilled. “Hey.”

He walked to the opposite side of the couch, keeping the marble coffee table between them. “You want a drink? There’s wine, or—” He stopped. “Or not, if that’s weird.”

She shrugged, one shoulder. “Wine’s fine.” She eyed him as he poured it, cautious, waiting for a misstep.

Andy handed her the glass and sat on the edge of a chair, not quite facing her. He took a careful sip, then waited.

Erin drank in silence. The only sound was the HVAC, pushing recirculated air through ducts and across their skin.

Finally, she said, “I’m not used to being like this.” Her tone was flat, but the way she stared at her wineglass made it clear she was talking about more than the transformation. “I thought I was done letting people get inside my head.”

Andy wanted to comfort her, but his throat closed up.

She went on: “I used to envy that about you. The way you kept everything locked down. No leaks. No tells.” She looked at him over the rim of her glass. “I thought if I could just figure out how to be like that, I’d be fine.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “Trust me, it’s not a good way to live. I always wished I could be more open. Like you.”

She huffed, a thin sound. “That’s the trick. Nobody’s ever happy with what they get.”

A long silence, each of them tracing the lines in their own palms. Erin’s hands moved restlessly over the throw pillow, picking at threads, pulling them loose, then wrapping them around her fingers until they cut off the circulation. She seemed determined to unravel it, fiber by fiber.

Andy watched, wishing he had something useful to say. Instead, he just asked: “What happened? After we split?”

She chewed on the inside of her cheek, considering. “I got promoted. Saw a therapist. Tried online dating for a while.” She shot him a look, half amusement, half pain. “Turns out, I’m bad at it. Even worse than you predicted.”

He smiled, faint. “I never predicted you’d be bad at it.”

“You implied,” she said, but there was a softening in her tone.

Andy leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I didn’t mean for any of it to go like that. The breakup. All of it.”

Erin’s mouth twisted. “Nobody ever does.”

Another silence. She kept winding the thread around her finger, tighter, until it blanched. “You want to know why I really hated you, after?” she asked, so sudden Andy nearly spilled his wine. She didn’t wait for a reply. “Because I knew it was my fucking fault. There was something fundamentally broken in me, and if you, of all people, couldn’t love me enough to stick around—”

She stopped, the air freezing.

Andy’s voice came out a whisper. “It wasn’t your fault.”

She looked at him, eyes bright, unshed tears held back by sheer **** of will. “That’s what everyone says, but nobody means it.”

He shook his head, firm. “I mean it. I was the one who shut down, not you. I was dealing with… stuff, and I couldn’t let anyone in. I still can’t. Sixteen years after it happened, and I still can’t even talk about it. I thought I was protecting you, but really I was just protecting myself from having to feel anything at all.”

She exhaled, a long slow release that seemed to drain her shoulders. “I never believed you’d admit that,” she said, voice trembling. “Not in a million years.”

Andy tried to smile, but the muscles wouldn’t cooperate. “These last few days, I’ve realized a few things. Among them, many of the mistakes I made because I cannot let go of the past. I didn’t want to hurt you. I just didn’t know how to be a real person, back then. Still don’t, I think.”

Erin stared at the wine, then took a long swallow, almost a gulp. “You’re different now,” she said, not quite a question.

He considered. “I don’t know. Maybe. With what’s happened this last week, I think I just got better at pretending.”

She set the glass on the table, then balled both fists in her lap. “I’ve spent six years replaying every minute of the breakup, wondering what I did wrong. Every time I started to move on, I’d hear your voice in my head, telling me it was fine, that I was better off. But it never felt true. Not really.”

Andy’s chest ached. “I never blamed you.”

Erin shot him a look, **** for confirmation. “Then why couldn’t you just say that, Andy? Even once?”

He faltered. “Because I thought if I did, you’d feel sorry for me. I couldn’t stand being pitied. Not by you.”

She absorbed this, her features caught in an uncertain war between relief and disbelief. “So it was all you. I was just collateral.”

He nodded, slow. “I’m sorry.”

She looked down at her hands, now resting on her knees. “I needed to hear that,” she said. “I needed to know it wasn’t just me.”

Andy wanted to reach for her, but held back. Instead, he said, “You were the bravest person I knew. Still are. You walked into every hard thing head-on, no matter how much it sucked. I wish I could’ve been more like that.”

She laughed, bitter and small. “I always thought you were the brave one. You did things I couldn’t even dream of. Started a company. Traveled. Took risks.”

He shook his head. “I was running. That’s all.”

They sat in the hush, the only light now from the candles guttering low. Shadows moved across the walls in ragged patterns.

Erin finally wiped her eyes, the motion abrupt. “You ever think about what would’ve happened if we’d stuck it out?”

Andy hesitated. “I do, sometimes. But I also think… we might have ended up resenting each other. I wasn’t ready. You deserved someone who was.”

She barked a laugh. “And yet, here we are, both of us, still alone and in a hotel designed to humiliate us for our failures.” The words were meant as a joke, but there was a crack in the humor.

Andy **** a smile. “Is it bad to say that without this place, we probably would have never cleared the air?”

Erin looked at him, and for the first time that night, the guard was down. “I’m tired, Andy,” she said. “I’m so fucking tired.”

He nodded. “Me too.”

A silence, this one gentler.

She leaned back, letting her head rest on the sofa cushion. “I don’t want to go to bed,” she said, “but I also don’t want to keep talking.”

Andy understood. “You want to just sit here? We don’t have to say anything.”

She nodded, eyes closed now.

They stayed that way for a long time, the slow tick of the wall clock marking out the minutes. Erin’s breath grew steady, slower, and Andy realized she’d fallen asleep upright, arms still wrapped around the throw pillow. The bravest person he knew, finally at rest.

Andy stood, moving careful as a burglar, and scooped her up. She weighed nothing, almost, just the memory of muscle and will. He remembered this, too. She would often fall asleep on the couch, watching TV, and he’d carry her to bed, like tonight. He carried her to the four-poster bed and set her down gently, pulling the covers up. He left a wide berth, then lay down on the far edge, hands folded on his chest, and stared at the ceiling until sleep found him, too.

He woke to sunlight slicing the Suite into rectangles, sharp-edged and unmerciful. For a few seconds, Andy clung to the confusion of half-sleep—the impression of warmth beside him, the faint scent of lemon and salt, the hollow ache behind his eyes.

Then he realized Erin was gone. The bed was cold where she’d been, the comforter barely ruffled. Andy rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, and let the silence do its work.

He wondered if she’d left as early as sunrise, or if she’d waited for a little while before vanishing. Either way, he couldn’t blame her. He’d said his piece; maybe she needed time to figure out what to do with it.

He sat up, glanced at the clock. It read 08:04. Outside the Suite’s windows, the world was already awake: gulls wheeling over the ocean, turquoise waves lapping the long white shores, tropical birds singing their variegated songs beneath his windows.

Andy padded to the kitchen, still in last night’s clothes, and started the coffee. The carafe hissed and spat, filling the room with the memory of ordinary mornings. He poured a mug, then stood at the window, watching for any sign of Erin on the grounds below.

There was nothing.

He took a slow sip, letting the heat settle in his chest. He thought about what they’d said to each other, the way old wounds could break open and bleed, and how sometimes that was the only way to start healing… but sometimes they would scab over, as if nothing had happened, instead.

He didn’t know if he’d see her again before the next challenge. He hoped he would. But for now, he just let himself be grateful for the night they’d salvaged from the wreckage.

The rest of the morning unfolded in small, deliberate motions. Andy showered, changed, and tidied the Suite, gathering Erin’s empty glass and setting it gently in the sink. He made another round of coffee and sat at the kitchen island, fingers drumming an idle rhythm against the marble.

Every so often, he looked toward the elevator, half-expecting her to reappear, to demand another round of conversation or to just sit beside him in silence. But she didn’t.

Instead, he found himself thinking about what came next.