Hub of the Wheel, Part 1

Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.

VP and BP Standings
Erin - 79 VP - 800 BP - 1 Achiev
Claire - 63 VP - 7100 BP - 2 Achievs
Marissa - 56 VP - 4200 BP - 1 Achiev
Liesa - 54 VP - 2900 BP - 2 Achievs
Norah - 48 VP - 3050 BP - 2 Achievs
Emin - 44 VP - 1750 BP - 1 Achiev
Dawn - 43 VP - 4500 BP - 1 Achiev
Sam - 31 VP - 4550 BP - 2 Achievs
Chloe - 12 VP - 2975 BP - 1 Achiev
Riley - 6 VP - 4300 BP

Andy came awake in stages. First, the clink of plates in the kitchen. Then the tap-tap-tap of Chloe’s foot on the tile, syncopated with her nervous humming. When he opened his eyes, the Suite was already awash in sunlight—sheets rumpled beside him, Chloe gone, the scent of coffee and something sweet hovering in the air. For a second, he thought last night’s thaw had been a dream, some neural echo conjured by exhaustion and guilt. But the warmth lingering on his pillow, the faint indentation where Chloe’s head had rested, said otherwise.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes. The clock read 7:26. He’d slept less than four hours.

He found Chloe at the island, staring intently at the toaster as if trying to will it into working faster. Her hair was a tumble of gold and brown, frizzed at the ends, the wildness of it making her look younger than he’d ever seen her. She wore a pale blue dress, sleeveless, the neckline pulled modestly high, though the fit could do nothing to contain the generous curves bestowed by her most recent transformation. It didn’t even try. She’d ditched her shoes and socks, toes curling in the sunlight, and her hands were clasped tight in front of her as she waited, visibly rehearsing something in her head.

Andy cleared his throat as gently as he could. Chloe startled, nearly tipping her plate. She recovered with a grimace, then offered a small, cautious smile.

“Good morning,” she said, voice unsteady. “I didn’t think you’d be up yet.”

He moved closer, keeping his posture casual. “Couldn’t sleep. Too many carbs at dinner.” It was a dumb joke, but Chloe seemed to relax, just a fraction.

“I made toast,” she said, gesturing at the array of toppings she’d lined up—honey, almond butter, jam, a small pot of something that looked suspiciously like Nutella. “And coffee. I hope that’s okay.”

Andy poured himself a cup, then joined her at the island. He didn’t try to fill the silence, just buttered his toast and waited. Chloe’s eyes darted everywhere but his face: to the window, the wall, the rim of her mug.

After a minute, she said, “Thanks for being kind to me last night.” The words were careful, as if weighed and tested before use. Andy’s heart ached, that she would feel it necessary to thank him for something like that. “I don’t usually—” She stopped, seemed to consider all the things she didn’t usually do, then shook her head. “Never mind. I’m glad I did.”

He nodded, taking a slow bite. “Me too.”

The quiet stretched. Chloe fidgeted with her napkin, then said, “It’s strange. I thought I’d feel better, after last night. Like everything would be fixed if we just got it out in the open.” She glanced at him, then away. “But I still feel like I’m waiting for something bad to happen.”

Andy sipped his coffee, giving her space to finish.

“I guess I thought there’d be a… reset button,” Chloe said, voice barely above the hum of the fridge. “But it’s just… morning.” She glanced at him, a wry twist to her mouth. “Is that dumb?”

“Not at all,” Andy said. “Sometimes the hard part is what comes after.”

Chloe smiled, small and grateful. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “I mean—here, in the Suite. I think if I had to face today alone, I’d just stay under the covers and never come out.”

He grinned. “I’ve tried that. The other women always find a way to drag you out eventually.”

Chloe barked a laugh, the tension leaking from her shoulders. “Of course they do.”

They ate in companionable silence for a bit, the only sound the soft scrape of cutlery and the distant caw of a bird outside the window. When Chloe finished her second slice, she set down her fork with deliberate care.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

Andy set down his cup, nodded.

“Last night, I thought maybe…” She trailed off, fidgeted, then tried again. “You don’t regret that nothing happened, right? Between us, I mean.”

Andy blinked, caught off guard. “Of course not,” he said, honest. “Why would I?”

She stared at the countertop, cheeks coloring. “I thought maybe you wanted to, but you didn’t because you felt sorry for me. Or because it was the wrong moment. Or because you don’t actually…”

He reached over, covered her hand with his. “Chloe. If I’d pushed you for more, it would’ve been for the wrong reasons. Last night, you needed to be heard, not—” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “Not touched. Not even held, really. You just needed to exist without being punished for it.”

Chloe blinked at him, surprise written all over her face. “That’s… weirdly reassuring,” she said. “Thank you.”

He squeezed her hand, then let go. “Anytime.”

They sat for a minute, the warmth of the contact still lingering.

Chloe pulled her knees up, hugged them to her chest. “I keep thinking about Laura,” she said, voice softer now. “I used to wonder, all the time, what it would be like if she’d lived. If we’d grown up, moved on, stayed friends.” She sniffed, smiled. “I bet she would’ve been the smart one. The successful one. I’d still be teaching kindergarten, and she’d be a Nobel scientist or something, and I’d see her on the news and think, ‘I was friends with her once.’”

Andy didn’t say anything. He just listened.

Chloe continued, “I always thought she was the only person who saw the real me. The good parts. But maybe that’s not true.” She met his eyes, and this time she didn’t flinch away. “Maybe it’s not too late to be someone else. Someone better.”

Andy held her gaze. “You don’t have to change anything, Chloe. You already are.”

She smiled, eyes glistening. “Thanks,” she whispered.

He stood, stretched. “Big day today,” he said, mostly to fill the space.

Chloe grinned, then covered her face with her hands. “Stop. I’ll get all hot again.”

He laughed, and she joined in, the sound shaking off the last vestige of gloom.

They finished breakfast in a kind of gentle truce, not quite ready to face the day, but no longer dreading it.

After the dishes were cleared, Chloe lingered by the window, arms folded tight around her middle.

“Are you going to see her?” she asked, not looking at him.

Andy didn’t need to ask who. “I have to,” he said. “She won’t come to me, and I can’t let her go into the next challenge alone.”

Chloe nodded, picking at a loose thread on her dress. “She’s hurting,” she said, and the way she said it made Andy’s chest go tight.

“I know,” he said. “But I can’t fix it for her.”

Chloe shrugged. “Sometimes just being there is enough.”

He smiled, touched by her faith. “This is why everyone says you’re a good person,” he said.

At once, Chloe’s cheeks went beet red. She opened her mouth, but before she could answer, her nipples became so hard, they could be visibly seen beneath her dress. Andy did a double-take, then tried very hard not to look.

Chloe made a strangled noise, slapped both hands over her breasts, and crouched behind the island.

“Are you kidding me?” she yelped. “Not even a warning?!”

Andy turned away, eyes on the floor. “Sorry, I—wasn’t thinking. I’ll stay in here until you—”

“No, it’s fine,” Chloe said, but her voice was thick with embarrassment. “I just—I’ll go take a cold shower.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “I’m really sorry.”

She clutched a towel to her chest, looking both mortified and, beneath it, a little amused. “It’s not your fault. Well, it kind of is, but I don’t blame you.”

Andy ducked toward the hall. “Let me know if you need anything. Otherwise, I’ll see you at lunch?”

Chloe nodded, then ducked back down, scampering to the elevator. She glanced back, then said, “You’re a good person, too, you know.”

Before he could respond, the elevator dinged and she vanished inside. Andy watched the doors slide shut, the light on the panel flickering. He turned to the window, watching the sun burn the last of the morning haze off the sea. It was going to be a strange day. He hoped he was ready for it.

The resort, at eight in the morning, felt like a monastery. Nobody spoke unless they had to; even the birds kept their songs in minor key. Andy walked the flagstone paths and felt the hush settle on his shoulders, a kind of reverence in the air, as if every living thing was waiting for the next bad thing to happen. Last night’s confession had bled all the color out of the place. There was no laughter, not even the normal clink of plates from the main hall. Even the pool was empty, water glassy as a polished mirror.

He found Riley by the lagoon, just as Chloe had said. She wore a black tank and faded jeans, the kind of outfit that looked thrown on in a rush, not for comfort or effect. Her boots were untied. Her hair—half tamed by a green scrunchie—had already slipped loose, tangling down her back. She walked a tight circuit along the sand, always returning to the same stretch of shore, arms folded high and tight across her chest as if she were freezing or bracing for impact.

Andy watched her from a distance, gave her a few loops to work out whatever she needed to say. When it was clear she’d never run out of nervous energy, he stepped down to the sand and waited until she closed the distance herself.

Riley stopped about six feet away, arms still crossed, body language daring him to start something. She didn’t look at him, just at the water, at the way the morning light made the ripples glow silver.

“I’m not here to fight,” Andy said, quiet but clear.

Riley’s jaw flexed, but she kept her eyes on the water. “That’d be a first.”

He let it go. “I’ve tried to give you space,” he said, “but I’m done waiting. I need you to listen, Riley. Just this once.”

She scoffed, but it was almost mechanical, a tic rather than a real objection. She was tired, he realized, tired in a way that went down to the bone.

He took a step closer, closing the gap. “You don’t have to like me. Hell, you can hate me. But you don’t get to write the whole story alone.” He let that hang. “We’re both in it.”

For a moment, Riley stood silent, every muscle in her body tensed. Then she exhaled, a sound more like defeat than anger, and dropped her arms to her sides.

“Fine,” she said, turning to look him in the face. “Say what you need to say.”

Andy nodded, not smiling, and jerked his head toward the path. “Come with me,” he said.

She hesitated, then fell in behind him.

They walked side by side, silent as siblings in a car ride, neither speaking as they followed the winding path away from the lagoon. The world narrowed to the shuffle of feet on sand, the hot resin scent of the sun on the palms, the pulse of memory beating just under the skin.

He led her to the far edge of the resort, past the Main Hall and into the lawn, to where the cabana stood—small, white-washed, almost invisible against the brightness. The door was closed, but he typed something on his smartwatch, and suddenly the door was ajar, a curl of blue smoke rising from the single candle that always burned on the candelabra inside.

Riley stopped at the threshold, looking back at Andy as if checking for a trap. He waited, let her make the choice. After a long second, she stepped inside.

He followed.

The memory cabana was exactly as he remembered from his last visit there, with Chloe: two benches, a floor candelabra, and the faint, persistent trace of something not quite incense, not quite air. The blue flame on the candle flickered but never guttered, burning with a strange gravity that pulled the eye.

Andy sat. Riley paced once around the inside perimeter, then dropped into the farthest chair, knees drawn up, boots scraping the mat.

She met his gaze, finally. “What’s so important you couldn’t just tell me?” The sarcasm was back, but weaker now, stretched thin.

Andy didn’t answer right away. He looked at the candle, the curl of smoke.

“We’re going to do something I should’ve done a long time ago,” he said. He took a deep breath. “And we’re doing it together.”

Riley snorted, but she didn’t move to leave. She watched him, wary but curious, as Andy stood and reached toward the candle, letting his fingers pass through the smoke. The past was coming, and she could feel it, too. Neither of them spoke. The only sound was the hush of the outside breeze and the distant, persistent murmur of water against the lagoon shore.

Andy steeled himself, then explained: “The candle—smoke, whatever—is a memory player. You think of something, and it shows it. Only what you remember, though. Nothing outside your own perspective. And no lies.”

Riley nodded, once. She’d heard the rumors, probably, but it sounded like she believed him. Or wanted to.

He breathed in, then out. “There’s something you need to see,” he said, and before he could second-guess himself, he reached forward and passed his hand through the blue flame.

The world shivered.

At first, the cabana itself seemed to fold up and away, the gauzy curtains and white walls dissolving into a dusk-lit cement corridor. Riley’s chair, Andy’s chair, everything vanished, replaced by the high-pitched echo of middle school voices bouncing off the back wall of the gym.

The scene was so real Andy could smell the dust and floor polish. It was November, the year everything went wrong.

Young Andy stood behind the school gym, clutching the straps of his backpack so hard the skin on his knuckles had gone white. He wore his best shirt, one his mother had ironed that morning, and his hair was combed in a neat part—something his mother insisted on for “big days.” He was talking to himself, practicing the speech. Behind the gym was where you went when you didn’t want to be seen. Behind the gym was where you told the girl you liked her, or that you didn’t, or that you weren’t ready for anything more than a shared lemon slushy at the Dairy Freeze.

This version of Andy was almost unrecognizable: younger, smaller, skin untroubled by regret. He paced back and forth, mouthing lines he could barely string together. “Chloe, you’re really nice, and I think you’re smart, but…” He grimaced, started over. “It’s not you, it’s just… I’m not ready to—” He rolled his eyes at his own reflection in the gym window, then gave up, plopping onto the curb.

From the left came the sound of footsteps—quick, determined. Chloe appeared, younger too, her hair cut short and spiky, her face open and expectant. She bounced a little as she walked, a nervous energy vibrating off her in waves.

“Hey,” young Andy said, voice breaking on the single syllable.

Chloe smiled, then hesitated. “You wanted to talk?”

He nodded, then forgot every word he’d practiced. She stood in front of him, waiting, her smile wobbling at the edges.

It was Riley who broke the silence in the present cabana. “This isn’t how you told it,” she said, eyes flicking from the scene to Andy’s real face. “You said she jumped you, just—”

“Watch,” Andy said.

Andy took a deep, shaky breath. "So, um... I heard something from Nina. That you like me? Like, not just as friends?" His voice cracked on the word "friends," and he cleared his throat. "You're really cool, Chloe, but I don't... I don't feel that way about you."

Chloe’s body moved before her brain could stop it. One moment, she was standing there, frozen in humiliation, and the next, she was pressing her lips against his, as if this one **** act could rewrite his feelings. Riley gaped. Three thundering heartbeats passed before young Chloe pulled away, mortified equally by her boldness and the stunned look on his face.

“I really like you,” she blurted, the words tumbling out in a single, unbroken stream. “Ihavealwayslikedyou. Movies? We could go? Or anything really—”

Young Chloe’s voice cracked; every nerve in her body screamed for her to run, to disappear into the floor or combust on the spot. But she stayed. If only for the second or two it took for Andy to collect himself.

His eyes were wide, startled, but not angry. There was kindness there, the sort that made her want to cry—because she knew, in that instant, what the answer was going to be.

He took a step back, hands rising as if to steady a wild animal. “Wait, I—what?” His face was a storm of confusion and sympathy, mouth open, searching for the right words.

Chloe’s cheeks went so hot she was sure the gym lights would explode. She tried to muster a smile, to play it off as a joke, but her face refused to cooperate. Instead, she stood there, blinking, mortified and raw, until Andy spoke again.

“I just wanted to talk,” he said, softer now, his eyes still a little wild. “I heard from someone that you were going to ask me out tomorrow, in front of everyone?” He ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up even worse. He looked at her, then down at his shoes, then back at her, anxious, earnest. “I just—” He paused, as if the rest of the sentence was too heavy to lift. “I just didn’t want you to get hurt. You’re really nice, Chloe. Truly. But I… I like someone else. I thought if I told you in private, it wouldn’t be as difficult.”

She wanted to laugh, or scream, or die, but mostly she wanted to disappear. A movement flickered in her peripheral vision—someone watching? Her stomach clenched. The fluorescent lights buzzed like angry wasps. Her lips still tingled where they'd touched his.

Young Andy reached out, awkward. "You're really cool, though," he added, voice cracking. "Anyone would be lucky to go out with you. I just… I have feelings for someone already. I'm sorry."

The first hot tear spilled before she could stop it. Then another. And another.

"Oh God," she choked out, backing away, nearly tripping over her own feet. Her chest heaved with a ragged inhale. She turned and ran, sneakers squeaking against the waxed floor, vision blurring as she fled. Behind her, she heard Andy call her name, but she was already gone, sprinting around the corner.

Andy suddenly felt a hand clawing at his arm. He turned, and Riley pointed at the shadow just behind the dumpster, at the girl who watched the whole thing and then ran.

“Did you see that?” Riley whispered, hoarse.

Andy squinted. It was a shape, tall for a seventh grader, maybe a year older, hair in a tight ponytail. It wasn’t Laura. It couldn’t be.

Riley made a frustrated noise. “She was there,” she insisted. “She must have told someone. That’s how—”

The scene vanished. Just a curl of smoke, then the room was back, the white-washed walls and the blue candle. Andy’s hands were shaking.

He let the memory settle, then turned to Riley. “I never remembered that.”

Riley absorbed it, arms crossed, her body vibrating with a different kind of energy now—anger, yes, but also confusion. “She saw you, and she told everyone you cheated on Laura.”

Andy nodded, slow. “But it wasn’t what happened.”

Riley scowled, not at him, but at the world. “Doesn’t matter. Nobody cared what really happened.” She looked down, then at the candle. “You got another one?”

Andy nodded. The weight in his chest threatened to undo him, and every instinct told him to run, but he gritted his teeth and **** himself to stay. The smoke of the blue candle danced in the cabana’s air, taunting him. He would give anything not to do this, but he had to. He had avoided it for far too long. “Yeah,” he said softly. “But it’s not any easier.”

He passed his hand through the smoke.

The cabana faded. In its place: a wooden bridge, slick with rain, the water below churning brown and dangerous.

Andy’s memory was fractured here—he’d worked hard to keep the edges blurred, but now the Cabana **** it into painful clarity.

He was running through the forest, to the bridge, arms folded against the November drizzle, still replaying Laura's strange phone call. "Meet me at our place. Four o'clock." Then silence. He was early, heart light with the thought of seeing her.

Andy remembered the light, first and always: the leaden gray of the clouds hanging low over the world, as if the forest itself were weeping, and what little light filtered through made the trees and the bridge look unral. His sneakers slapped against wet pavement as he jogged the last hundred yards, rehearsing the words in his mind. The rumors about Chloe, the way everyone in school had been snickering all week—Laura would want the truth from him. She always said she'd trust his word over anything. He would tell her everything. He would do it right.

He spotted her silhouette at the center of the footbridge, a slim dark shape against the gray sky. Short for her age, Laura stood with her back to him, hands gripping the railing, staring down at the churning water below. Her too-thin coat hung loose around her shoulders, her hair plastered to her neck by the drizzle. She must have been waiting a while.

"Laura," he called, zipping his windbreaker to his chin as he approached.

She didn't turn. Her shoulders tensed at the sound of his voice, but she kept her eyes fixed on the water's restless surface. This was the same bridge where they used to throw pebbles, the same bridge where she'd first held his hand without asking.

When he reached her, he stopped, close enough to see her breath clouding in the cold air. Even from the side, he could tell her eyes were red. She must have been crying the whole time she waited.

He stood beside her, shivering not just from the cold, and waited for her to speak.

After a while, Laura spoke, but her voice was sandpaper, raw from crying or rage or both. “Did you enjoy it?” she said.

He blinked. “What?”

“Did you enjoy kissing her?” Still looking straight ahead, she might have been talking to the river, or her own reflection. “Did you tell her you loved her? Or did you save that part for me?”

Andy felt a familiar panic rising. “No, that’s not—I didn’t—”

She whipped around to face him, eyes red and wild, mouth trembling with something that might have been grief but landed as contempt. “I said, did you enjoy it?” She was yelling now, the words echoing off the concrete abutments below.

He tried to meet her gaze, failed. “It was nothing. She kissed me, I didn’t even—”

Her fury exploded in a forward rush; she shoved him hard in the chest. He stumbled, almost slipped, caught himself on the rail. “Don’t lie to me, Andy!” Her voice split on the last word. “Don’t you dare lie to me, not now.”

He let her hit him, didn’t even try to deflect. “I’m not—”

“She said you laughed about it,” Laura said, and the words hit like stones. “That you said I was nothing, just a girl you hung around with because you felt sorry for me.”

“That’s not—” He stopped, realizing the uselessness of denial. “Who told you that?”

Laura's mouth trembled, the fury twisting her face into something Andy had never seen before. Her eyes were red-rimmed, pupils dilated with rage, nostrils flaring with each breath.

"Everyone knows," she said, her voice breaking, hands clenched so tight her knuckles blanched white. "The whole school. And then she told me, she said you… you…" Her shoulders heaved. "She said you told her I was just a charity case, a puppy you kept around so you wouldn’t look like a loser, Andy! They were all pointing and whispering when I walked down the hall. Laughing. She said you called me a fucking freak. And you never said anything, and…” She took a ragged breath, then jerked backward when he shifted his weight, as if his presence burned her skin. “Andy, I thought I could trust you!” The last words tore from her throat, raw and primal.

Andy stepped forward, hands up. "Laura, you can. You do. I came here to tell you—"

She was done listening. “Don’t touch me!” she snapped, recoiling when he reached for her arm. The movement brought her perilously close to the edge, city lights flickering in her eyes, tears running down her cheeks in the rain. "Don't you dare touch me." Her chest heaved, tears streaming down her face even as her jaw clenched with fury. "Then why did you kiss her?"

He said nothing, because the answer was too stupid to say out loud. Because she'd been there, and she'd kissed him, and he'd frozen, and all he could think about was how much he didn't want to hurt anyone, and now here they were, hurting anyway.

"I didn't want to," he said, finally. "I wanted to tell her I liked you, but she didn't let me finish. She just... did it."

Laura stared at him, then looked past him to the river. A bitter laugh escaped her. "So you let her." Her voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "You stood there and let her put her mouth on yours while everyone watched." Her face twisted, a mask of grief and loathing so intense he almost didn’t recognize her. “You’re just like my dad. Everyone lies, and lies, and I just… I’m always left behind.”

“Laura, that’s not fair—”

She slammed the rail with her palm, making the whole bridge shudder. “What’s not fair? That I trusted you? That I thought you’d stand up for me?” The words tumbled out, frantic, all the secrets she’d never said out loud. “I loved you, Andy. I fucking loved you. And you… you let them say I was nothing because you didn’t want to be the weird kid.”

Andy felt the hot sting of tears, sudden and overwhelming. "It wasn't like that," he said. "I would never—"

But she was already walking away, boots thumping hard against the planks, each step a thunderclap of finality. “Too late.” She shoved past, boots slapping hard on the slick planks, the old bridge singing with each impact.

“Laura, wait!” She ignored him. Or maybe she didn’t hear; the water below was loud enough to drown a person’s name. Andy jogged after her, the footing getting more treacherous as the drizzle picked up. He caught up just at the far end of the bridge, grabbed her wrist—not to hurt, just to stop her from disappearing again.

She jerked back, and in the slick of the rain, Andy’s feet went out from under him. The world lurched sideways, the sound of the river rising up, and then everything was cold, biting, absolute.

In the memory, time shattered. He saw the sky wheel overhead, tasted the river in his mouth, felt the slap of water against his face. His arms pinwheeled, ****, but there was no up or down, only the churn and the endless gray. He screamed Laura’s name, but the river stole it.

A shape broke the surface—Laura’s coat, her hair wild, her face white with panic. She dove after him, arms knifing through the current, kicking hard to close the gap. Andy saw her eyes, wide and ****, and then she was next to him, grabbing his jacket, hauling him up, gasping for air.

The rest of the memory was chaos: him gasping, flailing, boots and jacket dragging him under, river mud in his mouth and eyes. He screamed her name, but the sound came out as a wet gurgle, swallowed whole by the current.

She tried to drag him to the far bank, her face twisted in effort, teeth bared, lungs burning. Every time Andy tried to help, he just dragged them both down. He remembered her breath against his ear: “Don’t let go, don’t let go, please, Andy, just don’t let go—”

They reached the muddy bank, and Laura shoved him up, then heaved him onto the riverbank with a strength he didn't know she had. His vision darkened at the edges. The world tilted sideways, mud cold against his cheek. He blinked once, twice, fighting to stay conscious.

When his eyes opened again, he didn't know how much time had passed. Seconds? Minutes? The rain still fell. His clothes still clung to him like a second skin. But Laura wasn't beside him.

"Laura?" His voice came out as a croak.

The river answered with its constant rush.

He pushed himself up on trembling arms, scanning the bank. Nothing. Then—there—a flash of movement downstream. A pale hand breaking the surface, fingers splayed like a starfish against the gray water, before the current pulled it under.

"LAURA!"

He lunged forward, slipping in the mud, his body still too weak to stand. By the time he reached the water's edge, the hand was gone. Only ripples remained, spreading outward, disappearing into the endless flow.

“Laura!” Andy yelled, voice shredded.

In less than a second she was gone.

In the present, Andy watched himself screaming, splashing, crawling through the mud. He watched the searchers later, the ones with flashlights and rubber boots. He watched the way his parents held him, the way his mother’s hands shook. He watched the blue-hooded sweatshirt pulled from the reeds, the paramedics, the white sheet.

He watched it all, and felt it all, and he heard himself screaming her name in the cold, empty dark.

The memory faded, but Andy’s hands were still shaking.

He didn’t look at Riley. He just sat there, breathing through his nose, the taste of river water and grief still raw in his mouth.

Riley’s voice, when it came, was so thin he almost missed it.

“I never knew it was that bad,” she said.

Andy wiped his face. He wasn’t ashamed. “That’s what happened,” he said. “All of it.”

Riley hugged her knees to her chest. She rocked forward and back, and for a while she said nothing.

“You really loved her,” she managed.

Andy nodded, slow. “And I never got to tell her. Because I was young, and stupid, and thought I’d always have the time.” His breath hitched. “And she died saving me, and the last thing she thought she knew, was that I’d betrayed her.”

Riley leaned forward, elbows on her knees, face buried in her arms. He could hear her breathing, the way it went ragged, then worse. For a moment he thought she might throw up, or scream, or run, but she just stayed there, arms tight around herself, shaking with the **** of it.

They sat in the memory cabana, the blue candle still burning, both of them folded in on themselves. Neither spoke, but the silence was different now—heavier, but not empty. It had shape and weight. It was something that could be shared, even if it couldn’t be made better.

For a long time, Riley didn’t move. Not even to wipe her face. She just sat there, back bent, breathing in the uneven, shallow bursts of someone fighting for self-control. Andy’s hand was still on her shoulder, and every few seconds she would shudder so hard he thought she might splinter.

Then, as if a signal had passed between them, Riley’s whole body convulsed. She gasped, a wet, guttural sound, and the dam broke.

She started to cry—not the neat, cinematic tears of a woman holding it together, but the kind that left her heaving, doubled over, face buried in the crook of her arm. Her fists slammed the bench, once, twice, the pain making no dent in the tide of grief that overtook her. Andy tried to let her have it, but when she didn’t stop, when the noise kept coming, he pulled her in.

At first, she fought him, her arms rigid at her sides. Then she went limp and let herself fold into his chest, clutching at his shirt, knotting her hands in the fabric as if she could tear it off him. He wrapped both arms around her and held on.

Riley’s voice, when it finally surfaced, was shredded. “He’s gone,” she said, though the words barely made it out. “They’re all gone.”

Andy didn’t ask who. He already knew. He let her rock against him, the sound of her sobbing filling the white-washed room, echoing off the blank walls and the blue candle flame.

“My husband—” Riley managed, voice trembling so hard the words fractured as they left her. “He died in Syria. Six months ago. There was nothing left. Nothing but the watch. The watch and a box and the news people, and then—” She started to hiccup, tiny spasms that seemed to tear at her ribs. “And then my son—he was born too early. He never got a chance. He never got—” Riley pressed her head to Andy’s clavicle, hard as if she could hammer herself out of existence, as if pain might cauterize the wound.

“He only lived a day. A single day.” She tried to inhale, but it came out ragged, more sob than breath. “I never even heard him cry.”

Riley’s voice didn’t just fade—it failed, gave out entirely, like a candle snuffed by the wind. Her body curled in, knees to chest, arms wrapped around herself so tight that Andy could almost feel her skeleton through the hollow of her back. She was so much smaller than the rage she inhabited, so much more breakable than the woman he’d fought in the lounge and the library and on the garden path. She convulsed, three whole-body shudders, then another, and Andy felt the tremor travel up his sternum and into his heart, like she was sending him Morse code in tremors and tears.

He had no words for her. He just held on, not too tight, not too loose, letting her take what she needed from his ribs and shoulder, his warmth, his stupid, insufficient presence. For a long stretch, the only sound was the wet, racking sob that came every few seconds, and the pulse of the blue candle near their feet, throwing shadows like the surface of river water.

And then Riley, as though she’d always been waiting for permission, began to tell her story.

“John—he—he was everything to me. We got married right after college because we thought we had time, all the time in the world. But he got deployed, and I got pregnant, and every time he called he sounded farther away, like he was already half-gone.” She squeezed her eyes shut, face burrowed in Andy’s shirt. “He died last October. Roadside bomb. I didn’t even know until they sent two men to my door with a flag in a plastic bag.”

She hiccuped, breathless. “I had the baby three months early, Andy. He was so small. They put him in this little box, all wires and tape. They told me his lungs were too weak. They told me it was nobody’s fault. But it was, and it was mine, and it was John’s, and it was the world’s, and I just—” She couldn’t finish. The words collapsed.

Andy rocked her, slowly. He didn’t say it would be okay. He didn’t say anything. Just let her spill until she was emptied out.

But the truth was, she wasn’t empty. Not even close.

Riley’s chest shook, the words forcing themselves past a blockade of guilt and rage so ancient it seemed geological. “I told myself I could do it alone. That I wouldn’t need help, that I could be strong enough for all three of us. And I tried, Andy, I fucking tried, but then the calls stopped, and the next thing they send you is a flag and a watch and a folder with his name on it.” She pulled away just enough that Andy could see her face, splotched red and raw, tears streaking down in uneven rivers. “They never even found his body. It was just gone. They mailed me a bag of sand and said it was from the place where he died. Like that was supposed to mean anything.”

Another sob, quieter. “Some days I felt like if I pressed the watch to my heart, I could hear him ticking inside me. I lived for the sound of that fucking watch.”

Andy loosened his embrace, just a little, so she could breathe. “It sounds like you never got to grieve,” he said, softly. “Not really.”

Riley’s eyes met his, and for the first time he saw her without the armor of sarcasm, the sharp-edged wit, the scathing anger. Her gaze was hollow, but there was a terrible clarity there, honed by months of loss. “I couldn’t. If I let myself break, I’d never come back.”

She shut her eyes, squeezing out the last of her tears. “You know the worst part?” she whispered. “I never saw the baby’s face. I—” Her voice caught. “They kept him in a fucking plastic dome. I couldn’t hold him. Not once. He died before I could even say his name out loud.”

She pressed the heel of her palm to her eye, like she could physically grind the memory down to dust. “I don’t even know what color his eyes were.”

Andy wanted to say, It wasn’t your fault. That nobody’s heart could survive so many hits, not in so little time. But he remembered what Claire had said: Don’t rush to fix what you don’t understand. Sometimes you just had to shut up and listen. So he did.

Riley took another breath, nostrils flaring. “I tried to go back to work the next week. I thought if I did, the ache might dull. But every time I walked past a mother and child, every time I saw a stroller, it felt like being skinned alive. None of it mattered. Not the job, not the news, not even the protests. All I could think about was how they were both gone, and I was the only one left.”

She hugged her knees closer, curling tighter. “I started going to the grave every day, even though there wasn’t anything there but dirt and a little plastic marker. I’d sit and talk, sometimes for hours, like if I just said enough words, someone would answer.”

Her voice was barely a whisper. “No one ever did.”

Andy felt his own throat close. He’d seen grief, but never so naked, so unadorned by metaphor or defense. “I’m sorry,” he said, because there was nothing else. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Riley made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. “You don’t have to apologize, Andy,” she said, voice wrecked. “Christ. You watched Laura die. The only reason I ever came for you so hard was because I couldn’t stand the idea that someone else might survive this kind of pain and not just… not just eat a bullet.”

The blue candle guttered in an invisible breeze, and the walls of the memory cabana faded to soft gray.

Riley’s whole body seemed to shrink. “That’s the thing nobody tells you,” she said, staring at the floor. “You think grief is fire, but it’s actually ice. It just keeps freezing you in place, making you smaller and smaller until there’s nothing left but a shell.”

Andy nodded, and this time it was Riley who leaned against him, pressing her forehead to his shoulder as if the heat of him might thaw her out.

They sat that way for a long time. Not talking, not moving, just breathing together.

Eventually, Riley found the strength to keep going.

“I was visiting the baby’s grave when Arabella took me,” she said, voice almost inaudible. “The dirt was still fresh.” She let out a jagged laugh, the sound so sharp it seemed to cut the air. “That’s the joke. I kept telling myself that if I could get through the day without killing myself, it meant I could survive anything. And then—” She waved one hand, weakly, at the room, at him, at the island and its impossible rules. “And then I was here. And I was so angry at you because if I hated you enough, it meant I didn’t have to grieve.”

The room stayed silent for a long time. Neither of them moved. Riley’s breath slowed, but she didn’t stop clinging to his shirt. Andy felt her tears soak through the fabric, cooling against his skin. For a moment, he imagined his own pain as a river, and hers as a stone that dropped into it, vanished beneath, then kept falling, deeper and deeper, until it was lost in darkness.

Riley spoke again, this time with something like wonder in her voice: “I forgot what it felt like to be held. Even for a second.” She shifted her weight, pressing her face hard against the curve of his neck, like she needed the pain to believe it was real. “I’m sorry I was such a bitch to you,” she mumbled, the words muffled by his collar.

Andy exhaled, a sound that might have been a laugh in another life. “It’s okay,” he said. “I probably deserved it.”

She let go of his shirt, but only so she could tangle her fingers in his. “I thought if I let myself feel anything, I’d die. That I’d just break open and bleed out.” She looked up at him then, and her eyes were red but steady. “I didn’t want to hate you, Andy. I just needed something to blame.”

He squeezed her hands, letting the silence do the work for a while. Then he said, “You don’t have to do it alone, you know.” The words were simple, but they hung in the air with a gravity he hadn’t intended. “Of everyone here, you and I… we’re the ones who knew her best. We’re the ones who have to remember her, even if it hurts.”

Riley nodded, a single, broken motion. “She would have hated this,” she said, meaning the hotel, the game, maybe the world. “But she’d have loved knowing we couldn’t let her go.”

Andy shook his head. “No, Riley. She would have loved this, because she would have had a family.” Riley sobbed, her grip tightening on his shirt, but did not deny this.

They sat like that, two survivors in a room built for reliving pain, clinging to the scraps of their old world because it was all that kept them from flying apart. The blue candle flickered, casting the walls in strange, watery shadows. After a while, Riley’s breathing steadied, and her hands uncurled from their **** grip.

She wiped her eyes, managing a laugh that was more like an exhale. “I’m a mess,” she said, but with less self-hatred than before. “If you ever tell anyone I cried, I’ll break your nose.”

Andy grinned. “Your secret’s safe. Scout’s honor.”

Riley made a face at him, then leaned her head on his shoulder, lighter than before, almost companionable. For a long while they sat in silence, neither needing to fill it. There was nothing to fix, only the slow, stubborn work of surviving.

When Riley finally stood, her hands shook, but she made no effort to hide it. “I’m not okay,” she said, voice clear, almost proud. “But I think maybe I could be. Someday.”

Andy nodded. “I’ll be here, when you want to talk. Or when you want to scream at me again.”

She smiled at that, small but real. “You’re an asshole,” she said, but this time it was almost a compliment.

He laughed. “So are you.”

“Do you want to go back?” Andy asked.

She hesitated, jaw flexing. “Yeah. But—” She looked at the cabana, then at her own hands. “There’s something I want to show you.” She stood, and circled the candle, stared at it like it was a puzzle she could only solve by **** of will. Andy stayed on the bench, waiting.

“I never let myself remember this,” Riley said, voice scratchy. “Not even once. But if you can do it, so can I.” She flexed her hand as if steeling herself for a hot stove, then passed it through the blue smoke.

The world blinked.

A small, dark bedroom: Riley’s, from childhood, walls plastered with concert posters and quotes in thick black marker. “This was the night before everything went wrong,” Riley said softly. Laura sat on Riley’s bed, knees hugged to her chest, tears streaking her face. She looked impossibly young, raw with the kind of pain that only happens before you learn to numb it.

Riley—her memory self, a teenager—sat beside Laura, hand on her back. She wore a sweatshirt two sizes too big, sleeves ripped at the cuffs. She was trying to comfort, but Laura wasn’t having it.

“I can’t believe Andy would do this to me,” Laura whispered, voice thick. “After Myra told me what happened with Chloe…”

Andy, in the present, froze. “Myra? Myra Calder?” he said aloud, involuntary.

The scene in the memory didn’t hear him, but the words kept coming.

“She said he kissed Chloe behind the gym,” Laura said, wiping her nose with her sleeve. “She said he put his hand under her skirt and he laughed about it. That Chloe ground herself against him and… and she said Andy told Chloe I was just… just a freak he pitied. I thought he was different. I thought…” She buried her face in her knees, shivering.

Riley’s memory self hesitated, then said, “Maybe it’s not true. Maybe Myra got it wrong.”

Laura’s head snapped up. “You don’t believe me?”

“I do,” memory Riley said, but her voice shook. “I just… I don’t want to see you hurt, that’s all. I hate when you cry.”

Laura tried to smile, but it didn’t stick. “I’m so stupid,” she said. “I knew if I ever let myself care this much, it would wreck me. I just didn’t think it’d be him.”

They sat in silence, the kind that tastes metallic. In the present, Andy felt his heart stutter, the memory of Myra’s name filling in blanks he’d never even thought to question.

“That’s it,” memory Riley said, voice flat with exhaustion. “I’m calling him. He’s going to explain this, and if he doesn’t, I’ll kill him myself.”

Laura laughed, soft and bitter. “He won’t come. He’s too ashamed.”

“Then you call him,” Riley said, hugging her, “You tell him to meet you at the footbridge. That’s your place, no? You face him and make him tell you the truth.”

The memory faded, color washing out until only the smoke was left. Riley dropped her hand, blinking hard.

“She never told me it was Myra,” Andy said. “Not once. I thought she just… I don’t know, heard a rumor. I never knew it came from her.”

Riley turned to look at him, face blank with the shock of old pain. “I did,” she said. “But I never let myself remember it.”

Andy stared at the candelabra, watched the blue flame pulse. “She believed it. She believed it so much she…” He stopped, unable to finish. “Myra was Chloe’s best friend.”

Riley nodded slowly. “Myra was in Laura’s class, too.” She sighed. “Laura should have trusted you. But she was so scared of losing those she loved. She was so possessive, with you.” Riley sank down next to him, knees pressed together. She didn’t cry, not this time. She just sat, head bowed, letting the truth settle between them.

“I could have stopped it,” she said, so quietly it might have been a thought instead of a voice. “I could have asked more questions. I could have told her she was wrong, that she should talk to you, not just listen to—” She broke off, chewing her lower lip until it blanched.

Andy put a hand on her shoulder, tentative, but she didn’t shrug it off. “I could have tried harder, too,” he said. “But we were kids. None of us knew how to do better.”

They sat, the seconds stretching out. The blue candle’s smoke drifted, then faded. After a while, Andy felt Riley lean into him—not all at once, but slow, like a tree finally giving way after a storm.

Her head rested on his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re still here,” she said, and he could feel the shudder in her breath.

He let his arm slide around her, held her close.

“Me too,” Andy said. “We have to keep her alive. Even if it hurts.”

They sat like that, together in the hush, two survivors bound by the memory of the same impossible girl. They didn’t speak again, not for a long time.

The blue candle burned on, the smoke rising and swirling in the stillness, the only witness to everything that might have been, and everything that was.

Hugged by the Master! +1 VP