Intermission: Preparations for Tomorrow

The bodypaint didn’t fade. Nor did the heat beneath it. As soon as the last torch outside the gazebo guttered, the women clustered together in the blue dark, the energy that had carried them through the challenge now mutating into something frantic, raw, and barely managed.

Norah was the first to crack. “This is going to be a bitch to wash off,” she muttered, picking at a gold-flecked swirl on her thigh with one finger. The gesture was casual, but her voice vibrated just below the threshold of panic. “I can already tell it’s going to stain for a week. Maybe a year.”

Erin snorted. She had a towel clutched under her arm, as if the thin strip of terrycloth would hide the fact that her nipples were practically boring holes through the painted sunrise on her chest. “Who cares about the paint? I just want it off. The second I got out there, it was like—” She looked at her hands, flexing them, shivering. “Never mind. I just need a shower, immediately.”

Emi, standing beside Dawn and visibly less bothered by nudity than almost anyone in the history of competitive dating, waggled all six arms and grinned. “At least you don’t have to scrub it out of six armpits,” she said. “I think my left arms are still tingling. I’m not even left-handed.”

Dawn’s answer was a whimper. She held a mug with both hands, her whole body hunched around it like a squirrel with a priceless nut. The mug read “My Other Cup Is a Vibrator,” the font cheery, the ceramic bright pink. She’d grabbed it from the communal kitchen on her way back to the main house, and now she clung to it like a lifeline. Every inch of her skin, even beneath the brushstrokes of yellow and turquoise, was flushed an impressive, alarming red.

“Oh God,” she said, when the silence threatened to swallow her whole. “Is anyone else…” She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to. Everyone was walking funny.

They funneled into the main house, the hush of the dark path breaking into nervous laughter, elbow jabs, and the steady chorus of “I call first dibs on the shower.” The urgency was real, but so was the undercurrent: this could be the last night all of them were together, and nobody wanted to waste it on posturing.

It was Claire and Sam who arrived at the lobby first. The only two Contestants who had exploited the loophole and worn clothes, they were far less randy than their companions. Claire in particular looked surprisingly together, though her eyes were glassy and she kept fidgeting with her notebook, as if expecting it to dissolve between her fingers.

Sam leaned against the wall by the commissary terminal, breathing in the silence for a moment before breaking it. “You think he’s okay?” she asked, low, almost private. “Andy, I mean.”

Claire shrugged, then nodded, then shrugged again. She flipped open the notebook and scrawled fast, tearing the page as she pressed too hard.

He felt like he was carrying the weight of the world, she wrote. Worse than usual.

Sam read it, then exhaled through her nose, a small, sharp sound. “Yeah. He did. I wanted to tell him he did good, but…” She let her head thunk back against the wall. “Never mind. I’m not great at that stuff.”

Claire scribbled again, then held up the new page.

I can feel it, too. The… she hesitated, then wrote, dread. It’s like a stomach flu, but it’s in his soul. I think he hates this part.

Sam’s mouth twisted. “Me too. I mean, I’m not psychic, but… yeah. It’s like he thinks he’ll kill someone if he picks the wrong one. Classic Andy.”

They let the silence lap at them for a while, just two women in the aftermath of a war neither had ever wanted to fight. The sounds of the others filtered in from the hallway: the hiss of running water, the shout-laughter of Emi and Liesa as they compared body art in the mirror, the occasional thunk of an elbow against a doorframe. It was almost homey.

Sam broke the quiet, voice softer. “He’s going to need someone to look after him tomorrow. Maybe both of us.”

Claire gave her a grin. An actual, open-mouthed, crinkle-eyed grin. She wrote: Pact.

Sam read it, then bumped Claire’s shoulder with her own. “Pact,” she echoed.

Sam looked around the lobby, then zeroed in on the sleek, chromed terminal inset next to the corridor leading to the bedrooms. She gestured at it. “Have you used this thing again since last time? The money machine? I keep meaning to check it once more, now that we got some BPs back, but every time I walk past, I get distracted.”

As they turned to head upstairs, the last of the other contestants trickled in, some still wet from the shower, others wrapped in towels or sheets, the bodypaint faded but the tension still high. The night was far from over, but for the first time in hours, Claire felt like maybe she could face the morning without dread.

Sam, already plotting her new reality, punched Claire lightly on the arm. “Race you to the kitchen,” she said. “Winner gets the last slice of cheesecake.”

Claire nodded.

They took off together, the blue hour outside deepening.

The Banquet Hall didn’t smell like a competition. It smelled like baked bread, chicken glazed with honey and rosemary, fresh fruit under a cloud of powdered sugar. The lighting was warm (real bulbs, not LEDs) and the chandeliers hummed with a low, almost parental comfort. It felt more like the day after a wedding than the eve of an execution.

The women arrived one by one, most still damp from the shower, hair twisted up in towels or left loose to air dry. The bodypaint, for those who’d bothered to check, was almost gone. What the water hadn’t taken, the friction of terrycloth and time did, leaving faint blue and gold ghosts under the skin. It was a kindness.

Liesa and Erin arrived together, neither speaking at first, but both moving with a new, tentative easiness. Liesa wore a fluffy white robe and sipped from a mug so large it required both hands. Erin was back in jeans and a faded T-shirt, damp hair leaving streaks down her back. They claimed the end of the table, close enough to the buffet that no one would have to get up for seconds.

Marissa entered soon after, wrapped in a tailored black silk pajama set that made her look like she’d been imported from a better, more restful universe. She eyed the table, then chose a seat on the long side, directly across from Erin and Liesa.

Dawn drifted in, still holding her pink mug, her cheeks pinker than the glaze. She’d changed into strawberry-print pajamas, the top buttoned all the way up, and bunny slippers so new the tag was still attached to the left ear. She perched on the bench closest to the kitchen, as if ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble.

Emi floated in, arms and hands moving in subtle orbits, the motion so natural now that it barely drew comment. She wore a navy wrap dress and no shoes, and found her place at the table almost instinctively, slipping between Marissa and Dawn. Within a minute, she’d filled a plate with tiny sandwiches and lined up three glasses of different juice, arranging them in a neat gradient from orange to crimson.

Norah came last, still drying her curls with a t-shirt, her body bare except for a loose blue sarong. She bypassed the food entirely, heading straight for the back corner of the room, where she leaned against a pillar and watched the proceedings with an expression that said, “I dare you to notice me, but not too much.”

Sam and Claire walked in together, each balancing a plate of cake in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. Sam had pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a college hoodie, hair mussed from towel-drying. Claire wore her favorite cardigan, the sleeves now stained at the cuffs by leftover paint, and a pair of men’s boxer shorts that nearly reached her knees.

They didn’t sit at first. Instead, they orbited the table, offering slices of cake, taking requests, topping off drinks.

It was Marissa who broke the silence. “I think we deserve a toast,” she said, holding up her water glass. “To surviving the worst group therapy session in the history of the world.”

Erin snorted. “It wasn’t that bad.”

Marissa raised an eyebrow. “You cried, Erin. I saw it.”

Liesa covered her mouth, hiding a laugh. “We all did, I think. Even me.” She looked at Erin. “I’m glad we did it together.”

Erin nodded, then picked at her salad. “I was wrong about him, you know. Andy. I thought he’d freeze up again. I thought he’d just… avoid all of it, like he used to.” She set her fork down, voice dropping. “I hope I don’t get eliminated tomorrow. I want to say I’m sorry. Not just to him. To all of you.”

The group went quiet. Emi reached out with her upper right hand and rested it on Erin’s wrist, a gesture so gentle it barely made contact. “It’s okay,” she said, and the others nodded, in their own ways.

Liesa smiled, eyes glistening. “We are all different than we were before. Maybe it’s the paint, maybe it’s the island, maybe it’s the food…” she gestured at the table, “but I don’t feel so scared anymore.”

Marissa sipped her water, then set it down. “For me, the hardest part was being a woman, and not a therapist. I’m not used to just…” She trailed off, eyes scanning the room. “Being. Not analyzing. It’s hard to put down the tools, you know? But I felt safe. Like I can just…” She searched for the word... “exist.”

Dawn, cheeks glowing, blurted, “He’s a true gentleman.” The words hung in the air, the old-fashioned-ness of them so sincere that no one could tease. Her eyes were dreamy. “He made me feel… not embarrassed, tonight. Even with everything.” Her hands fluttered at the mug, then curled around it again. “I mean, I know I’m a mess, but he made me feel special.”

There was a chorus of soft, affirmative noises, and for a minute, the group just focused on food.

Emi broke the spell by stacking a sandwich, a mini muffin, and a wedge of watermelon between her six hands, then eating them in sequence, like a machine. “I don’t even remember what it was like to have two arms,” she confessed. “This is just… me, now.” She sipped her juice, using a third hand to steady the glass. “It’s going to be hard, in the real world. But Andy sees me. Even with all of this.” She waved her upper set of arms, then smiled. “It feels good to be finally seen.”

Norah, from the corner, grumbled, “He’s snuggly, too, if anyone cares.” She said it like an accusation, but her mouth twitched at the corners. “I’d almost forgive him for that boardroom thing, if he promised to stop looking at me like he’s about to recite a poem.”

Sam, who’d just finished her cake, almost choked at Norah’s surprise statement, then laughed and slapped the table. “Welcome to the Andy Fan Club, Norah! You get a sticker and a free pass to the support group.”

Norah rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the small, private smile.

Liesa caught Erin’s eye, then spoke in a softer voice. “I thought, for a long time, that I had to earn love. That someone like Andy would only want the perfect version of me.” She paused, then shrugged. “But tonight, I did not feel judged. Not even once.”

Erin met her gaze, then looked down. “Same.”

Claire, who’d been quietly scribbling in her notebook, suddenly held up a page. She’d written:

None of you understand how we all fit in his heart. But I can feel it. When he looks at each of us, there’s a spike of affection. Different for each, but real. It doesn’t feel fake. It doesn’t feel ****.

She blushed as she realized everyone was reading over her shoulder, but pressed on, writing below it:

I didn’t expect to fall for him. Not so easily.

The silence was deep, but not awkward. It was the silence of people who knew that something important had been said, and didn’t want to rush to fill the space.

Sam leaned back, arms behind her head. “Well, this is a first. We’re all on the same page, and nobody’s trying to **** anyone.” She grinned at the others. “Should we hold hands and sing Kumbaya, or just keep eating?”

Marissa smirked. “I’d prefer the eating. Less likely to trigger a group panic attack.”

Liesa’s voice was tiny, but clear: “He’s better than he used to be, isn’t he?”

Erin nodded. “He’s trying, now. That’s all I ever wanted.”

The group hummed with agreement.

After a while, conversation drifted: to possible eliminations (“I bet they’ll double up, just to make it hurt more,” Norah predicted), to Commissary rumors (“Can you really buy a permanent transformation for someone else?” Dawn wondered, to everyone’s horror), to the likelihood of ever going back to “normal” after this.

It was Claire who wrote, in a looping hand that everyone could read from across the table:

Maybe none of us wanted to share. But I don’t think I’d want to win if it meant leaving the rest of you behind.

She underlined it, twice, then looked around, daring anyone to contradict.

For a long moment, no one did.

Emi, smiling gently, said, “We could always build a commune. Or a castle. Oh, a castle! With towers, and unicorns! Maybe we can have a garden. How many cats should we get?”

Sam barked a laugh. “As long as there’s wi-fi and good coffee, I’m in. Oh, and my own bed.”

Norah, more serious, said, “I think we’d be okay. Even in the real world.” She looked at each of the others in turn. “You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met. Maybe this isn’t real, but it’s not a lie, either.”

Liesa said, “It is real. Because we are real. Even if it ends tomorrow, for one of us.”

Erin looked at her hands, then at the faces around the table. “We’re going to be okay, and we’re going to help each other,” she said, as if she was trying to convince herself. “Even if we’re not picked. Right?”

Dawn gave a shaky, hopeful smile. “Right.”

Marissa raised her glass again. “To being in this together,” she said.

The others followed, glasses clinking. Even Norah lifted her juice, muttering, “Fine, but if I’m eliminated I’m haunting the lot of you.”

They laughed, for real this time, and the tension broke for good.

The food dwindled, the conversation softened, and after a while, people started to drift away—some in pairs, some alone, but all with a new, quiet confidence.

Claire lingered, refilling her coffee and watching as the others melted into the night.