Lessons in the Kitchen

Andy lingered at the water’s edge long after Laura had vanished from view, waves hissing over his ankles as if the ocean itself was trying to salt away the last hour. The world felt suddenly transparent and very far away, like he’d stepped outside the boundaries of his own life. He tried to pin down how he felt about any of it—the new rules, the old ache, the next phase of the game—but every emotion surfaced in pieces, each too slippery to hold for long.

It wasn’t the wind that made him shiver. It was the knowledge that, for the first time since he’d arrived, he had no idea which version of himself would survive the next day.

He almost didn’t hear them coming. Erin walked with deliberate, measured steps—no sand flying, no wasted motion. She wore nothing, as always, except sneakers that tracked damp prints behind her. Claire moved beside her, smaller, wrapped in a gauzy cardigan and skirt that seemed designed more for hiding than for warmth. The two of them appeared so mismatched that it was easy to miss the synchronization: the way Erin set the pace, the way Claire matched every stride with a nervous precision.

They stopped three meters short, as if the last stretch was private property. Erin’s eyes locked on Andy’s, unblinking. Her body was as coiled as a steel trap.

Andy didn’t ask if they wanted to talk, because that was too obvious. He was being watched for any sign of retreat, any dodge, and he knew it. Erin’s presence at his shoulder, even at three meters, felt like a dare. Claire’s quiet was sharper than any stare.

It was Erin who broke the silence, but in a way that cost her something. “Are you coming in, or are you going to let us stand here until we turn into statues?”

He expected the jab, something to set the tempo. “I was just—thinking,” Andy said, and the words sounded like a confession.

“Try doing it somewhere with less wind,” Erin replied, gesturing up the shore. She didn’t wait for him to agree but set off, stride unhurried, expecting him to follow. Claire stuck to her like a moon to a planet, matching each step, and Andy couldn’t help but see the choreography: Erin always in the lead, Claire always at her side, neither ever quite comfortable unless the roles stayed put.

He caught up without trying to, the sand too soft for dramatic arrivals. They sat—a driftwood log, warm from the day, slightly damp from the tides. Erin remained standing, legs braced as if she might need to sprint, while Claire perched at the end as if the wood might sink under her if she relaxed. For a minute, the only sound was the distant churn of surf and the loose, scribbling motion of Claire’s pen.

Andy waited, then realized that was the test: who would speak first, who would set the terms. He passed, barely, by holding out.

Erin started, voice even but pitched low enough that it didn’t carry. “We need to know where we stand,” she said, looking not at Andy but at the horizon. “All of us. Because if you’re going to change the script now, I’d rather hear it from you than from Arabella.”

Andy flinched, not because she’d named the feeling but because it was so precisely correct. “I’m not changing anything,” he said, and he meant it, but the words landed differently than he wanted. “This isn’t some reset. Laura’s back, but—” He shut his mouth, recalibrated. “That doesn’t erase what’s happened here. Or you. Or either of you.”

Claire wrote quickly and handed him the notebook, her handwriting unusually tight and underlined: She’s not the only one who came back. So did you. Don’t pretend you can separate it out.

He winced, a short cut of pain through his chest. “I know,” Andy said, letting the notebook flop open in his lap. “I’m not going to lie and say I haven’t thought about what might have been. But I’m not going to pretend the past was some mistake, or that everything since was just… waiting for this to happen.”

Claire’s eyes narrowed, not with malice but with the precision of a scientist examining a specimen that didn’t fit the textbook. He felt the flicker of her emotion through the bond—curiosity, doubt, and a strange, raw hope that seemed to catch her off-guard.

Erin’s voice got quieter. “I need to ask something and I need you to answer honestly.”

Andy tried to keep the surprise out of his face. “Okay.”

She didn’t look at him right away. “If this had happened two months ago, if Laura had just shown up out of nowhere—before everything—would you have wanted any of this?” She tightened her arms around herself, the movement oddly self-conscious. “Or would you have just… gone back to her? Is this just a consolation prize?” She gestured to herself, to Claire, towards the Main Building.

He had rehearsed versions of this conversation in his head, but none of the scripts survived contact with Erin’s actual voice. Andy wanted to say something definitive, something that would make it all line up, but the words stuck. He **** himself to look at her, at the muscles working along her jaw, at the human thing behind the bravado. He looked at the surf, at the line of foam scouring the old footprints, then back at Erin. “Two months ago I wouldn’t have been able to say yes,” he said, finally. He hated himself for saying it, but he owed her, and Claire, and all the others, the truth. “But it’s not two months ago. I’m not the same man I was two months ago. That man… he was stumbling, he was lost, and he thought he had nothing left to live for.”

He looked up at Erin, remembering watching himself in the Garden of Glass, the afternoon before he was taken to The HH. He had barely recognized that man. “I thought you were gone forever. Liesa, too. Claire, I never thought I’d see you again after high school. None of the others were in my life, not really, except for Sam. But I couldn’t see a way out. I was just… existing. And badly. But you… you all have changed me, over the last two months. You’ve shown me things about myself I didn’t like, and things I didn’t know I had within me. You’ve cared about me even when I was beyond caring for myself. You have given me more of yourselves than I ever thought anyone ever would. I can’t rewrite everything I’ve felt for either of you, and I won’t.”

He paused, realizing how inadequate that sounded. “What we built is real. Two months ago, I didn’t know I could feel that way again. But you all showed me I was wrong. I do, and Laura’s return doesn’t change that.”

Erin’s shoulders relaxed, just enough to show she was listening. Claire’s tail curled a half-turn around her ankle, tentative.

Andy let a slow, deliberate breath through clenched teeth, trying to find the right calibration for the words he owed them. “It’s like—have you ever missed something so much it feels like you’re living in the negative space it left behind, but you still build a life anyway?” He looked down, running his thumb over the pale scars on his palm, a nervous tic that wouldn’t have made it past Erin ten years ago. “That’s what it was like with Laura. She’s the missing piece, but I didn’t even know I was waiting for her until she came back. The difference is—” He paused, looking up, tracking the movement of a blue kite skimming above the surf, probably a gull, but Andy could only focus on how desperately it rode the wind. “The difference is, I wasn’t even living—really living—until The HH. Until I had all of you again. You all rewrote me, and not just the parts I wanted to forget.”

He looked at Erin, then Claire, then at the horizon, steeling himself against the pull to say what was safe instead of what was real. “So, Laura’s back. But that doesn’t mean I want to stop living the present with you. I love what we have. It isn’t a placeholder. It’s a life I didn’t think I’d ever get to have.” He stopped short of saying ‘I love you’ because the words felt cheap in comparison to the way Erin’s face twitched with each syllable, or the way Claire’s pen hovered, frozen mid-thought. “All it means is I need to figure out how to do both. And I know it’s going to be hard for me, and for you, for all of us. But I don’t want to give anything up. Not anymore.” He found his hands trembling, and in a fit of candor added, “Frankly, I wouldn’t even know how.”

Claire scribbled so fast the page tore slightly at the edge, then angled the notebook up so Erin could read it at a glance: He’s not lying.

Erin’s lip curled, not quite a smile, but not the usual armored sneer, either. She read the note, then turned to Claire, her expression softening into something like gratitude, which she immediately disguised with a roll of her shoulders. “You buy that?” she asked, but the bite was missing, and her gaze lingered on the notebook longer than necessary.

Claire shrugged, a twitch of one shoulder. Andy couldn’t help but think how fragile she looked, perched on that log. She wrote: I can feel it. He means it. But he doesn’t know how it’s going to work.

Erin barked a laugh, short and almost bitter, but it didn’t stick. “At least he’s honest about that,” she said, then turned to Andy with a look that, for just a second, reminded him of the first time they’d ever fought and she hadn’t stormed out.

Andy tried to smile, and this time it didn’t feel like an act. “You know you can say these things directly to me, right?” He let the grin widen, self-deprecating. “I don’t know how any of this works, either, but I’m not giving up on either of you. If you want out, I’ll understand, but—”

Erin sliced at the air between them with her hand, the way she always did when she wanted to cut off his nonsense before it became a speech. “Don’t. You’re not getting rid of me that easy. If I wanted out, I’d be out.”

Claire’s tail flicked, as she scribbled something new. She held the notebook toward Andy: It’s not about who you love more. It’s about whether you’ll still love us if we don’t make it easy for you. Or if Laura doesn't make it easy for us.

Andy blinked at the words, then at Claire, who was studiously avoiding his gaze, her face hidden behind a curtain of hair. “I’m not here for easy,” he said, the words coming out raw. “I’m here because I want—no, because I need you. All of you. I know it's greedy, but... that’s the only thing that makes any of this make sense.” He paused, looking at Erin's eyes. "Without you, none of this would have been possible. The HH gave me the opportunity to reconnect with all of you, but without you all, without your love, without your trust... I would still be the man from two months ago. That's a debt I will never be able to repay, but I want to try. For the rest of our lives, if you'll let me."

There was a long, viscous stretch of silence—thick enough that Andy counted three full waves breaking before Erin finally exhaled. Her shoulders sagged, just a little, and in a single, decisive motion, she dropped onto the driftwood beside him. Her body hit his with enough **** to make the log sink an inch into the sand, and she tilted her head up so their eyes met, a challenge and a question all at once.

“If you ever start treating me like a consolation prize, I will make you regret it,” she said. The words were brash, but Andy could see the vein of fear running through them, the way her knuckles whitened until she let her hands go slack.

Andy met her gaze, steady. “I’d expect nothing less from you,” he said, and meant it.

Claire didn’t move, but Andy felt the faint pressure of her mood through the bond—a flicker of uncertainty, then a wash of relief so gentle it almost felt like sleepiness. She tucked her knees up and hugged them, tail wrapped twice around her ankles, and let the notebook fall closed on her lap. The wind caught a strand of hair and whipped it across her cheek, but she didn’t bother to brush it away.

Andy leaned back on his elbows, watching the horizon, the sharp line between sea and sky. “She asked about you,” he said, not sure who needed to hear it.

Erin’s voice was smaller than he’d ever heard it. “Laura?”

Andy nodded. “She wants to meet you both. For real. She said she doesn’t know how to act, or what the rules are, and she knows she’ll probably be jealous, and maybe mean, but she wants to try.” He hesitated, then added, “She wants to understand what happened. To me, and to you, and to all of us.”

Claire’s lips twitched. She opened the notebook, wrote something in tiny script, then tore the page free and handed it to Andy. I think I would like that very much, it said.

He looked at her, surprised. He could feel she was afraid, at least in part. But she bit her lip, then wrote: I am scared, but that’s not a reason not to try. We’re all going to have to coexist, eventually.

Erin grunted. “I’m more scared of what Arabella’s going to do now that you blew up her show,” she said, but the tension was gone, replaced by a kind of practiced bravado that Andy recognized from their college days, when neither of them knew how to admit they needed the other.

Andy shrugged. “She’ll cope. Besides, it’s not like I won the game. I just… redefined the rules of the challenge.” He didn’t tell them about Arabella’s warnings. He didn’t want to frighten them, not now, not while he couldn’t know what she meant to do. He looked at Claire, then at Erin. “What matters is that no one goes.”

Erin nudged him with her shoulder, a surprisingly gentle gesture. “You’re still an idiot, and we’re too good for you.”

“Absolutely,” Andy agreed.

They let the silence creep back in, this time less brittle, more companionable. The sun was lowering, painting everything in gold, and the beach had gone quiet except for the ever-present susurrus of the waves. Andy glanced at Claire, who was busy doodling geometric shapes in the margins of her notebook, and then at Erin, who’d stopped scowling and was watching the horizon like she was planning to punch the next problem that came over it.

He wanted to ask what they were thinking, but he didn’t have to. The bond told him enough: a swirling, tentative hope from Claire, mixed with fear. And Erin's lines radiated her jagged, stubborn loyalty, even if fear was mixed up there, too. He wondered if he deserved either. He knew the conversation didn’t solve anything, not yet. It was just a reprieve. The tectonic shift that had been Laura’s resurrection was still radiating aftershocks. And he still didn’t know how to frame her return.

Laura knew she was being watched, but she didn't move. Not when Sam came up from the south, boots grinding through the last dry crest of sand before it pitched toward the water, not when Sam hovered a step behind and slightly to her right. Even when she dropped to a seat—no warning, no preamble, just a neat collapse into the sand—Laura barely registered it. She stayed as she was: arms folded, weight on her right hip, heels dug in against the tide line as if the Pacific might reach out and snatch her back.

It was the closest she'd let the water come since returning, notwithstanding when she had visited the private beach with Andy.

Sam glanced up, then out, as if measuring the break between horizon and cloud. “Not to be dramatic,” she said, “but this beach gets old after the first thousand yards.”

Laura said nothing. There was a lull—just the slip of surf and the faint creak of the hotel’s windbreak, far behind them.

“I was going to say something about the moon being romantic, but it’s not even up,” Sam tried again. “Classic bait-and-switch.” She kicked at the sand, spreading her knees a little for balance.

Laura drew a breath, then: “You can skip the preamble, if you want.”

Sam barked a short laugh. “That obvious?”

“Yeah.”

A comfortable silence this time, or at least one less brittle.

“I’m bad at this,” Sam admitted. “Not the feelings part—just the part where you have to announce them. It feels like selling door to door, only the product is my own bullshit.”

Laura snorted, surprised, then immediately clamped down on the smile.

Sam grinned, sharp as a blade but warm around the edges. “There it is,” she said, like she’d found a rare shell. “I knew you had it in you.”

Laura looked away, eyes on the strip of foam gnawing at her toes. The sky had faded, sun half-down, but the water still caught every last scrap of gold. “I don’t know if I trust the ocean,” she said, unprompted. “Feels like it could eat you if you stop paying attention.”

“Probably would,” Sam agreed. “But it makes a nice change from the pool. Less pee.”

Laura gave her a sidelong glance, uncertain if she was supposed to laugh. She didn’t.

Sam shrugged. “Okay, that one was for free. You get three more before I start charging.”

“I’m not sure I can afford you,” Laura said, voice so dry it made Sam’s smile flicker again.

“I work on a sliding scale for new arrivals,” Sam countered, then glanced up, tone shifting. “You can tell me to fuck off. Andy’s the sentimental one, not me. I just wanted to check you weren’t planning a dash for the rocks.”

Laura thought about it, then said, “What if I was?”

Sam squinted. “Then I’d probably tackle you and break your tailbone. But you don’t have the look. The ones who want to run always stay higher up the sand.” She gestured at Laura’s feet, half-buried and bracing against the next wave.

“I’m not running,” Laura said.

Sam nodded, satisfied. “Good. Would have been a waste, after all that effort.”

They sat like that for a while, wind moving around their bodies but not through them. Laura was conscious of every muscle, every awkward spill of her own hair, the faint pink line of her old scar tight from the sun.

It was Sam who broke the quiet. “Do you want the orientation? Or would you rather make up your own stories about us first?”

Laura blinked. “Orientation?”

“You know—the Real World breakdown. Who sleeps with who, who’ll stab you for closet space, who actually knows how to make coffee in the mornings. I have charts, if you’re into that.”

Laura weighed the offer. “You do this for every new girl?”

“Only the ones that scare me,” Sam said, quick. “Or the ones that could wreck everything if they wanted.”

Laura tried not to let the words sting. “I’m not here to ruin anything.”

“That’s what everyone says,” Sam said, but there was no accusation in it. “But it’s true—sometimes, you don’t get to pick. Sometimes you just… show up and someone else’s world catches fire.”

Laura almost laughed at that, but it twisted, sharp. “Are you worried I’ll steal him back?” The ‘him’ wasn’t named, but it didn’t have to be.

Sam’s lips curved. “No. I know how it works. You don’t un-love your first, especially not after this many years. Still, I have faith in the other women, and in Andy, too. But I am worried about collateral damage. There’s a lot of fragile egos in there.” She jabbed her chin toward the hotel, invisible beyond the dune.

“I don’t want to hurt anybody,” Laura said, and this time she meant it with a **** that surprised them both.

Sam caught the shift, eyes narrowing. “You don’t have to.” She leaned back on her hands, stretching her spine. “Honestly? Andy hasn’t shut up about you since the day he got here. All he wants is to keep everyone safe.“ She paused, then added, more precise, “That’s just how he loves. You’re part of that now.”

Laura looked down at the wet sand , fingers curling once, then relaxing. “He doesn’t owe me that. No one does,” she said quietly. “I don’t want to be the reason he forgets his limits.”

“Doesn’t mean he won’t try.” Sam plucked a shell out of the sand and tossed it into the surf. “That’s the problem with good guys. They don’t know when to quit.”

Laura watched the shell skip twice before vanishing under the foam. “You talk about him like he’s a project.”

Sam shrugged. “He is, sometimes. But he’s also the glue. The rest of them, they'd burn out in a week without someone holding them together. That’s him. And even when he fucks up, people stick by him. That's the ancient lore passed down from generations.” Laura didn’t miss the implications in that sentence. She didn't include herself in the group. She's his right-hand woman. The blue-haired girl flicked a glance at Laura, measuring. “What do you want from him?”

Laura inhaled slowly. When she spoke, her voice was steady. “I want him,” she said. “I want who he is now.” She didn’t rush the next part. “I know he loves me. And I love him. That’s not something I’m unsure about.” Her fingers pressed briefly into the sand. “I promised him I’d try. Not just with him—with the others, too. I don’t know how to do that without breaking things yet. But I’m not going to pretend I don’t want him just to make it easier.”

Sam absorbed it without blinking. She didn’t offer a joke, or a lifeline, or even a nod. She just let the words settle, as if waiting to see if they triggered an allergic reaction. “That’s an honest problem,” she said at last, and the weight of it landed in the still air between them.

“I don’t want to pretend,” Laura repeated, and there was an edge to it this time—a tiredness, maybe, or a dare.

Sam nodded, approval in her eyes. “Good. Pretending is where people really get hurt.”

The conversation sank, then, the way only two people who’d survived by silence could let it. They watched the curl of a gull overhead, the awkward lunge of a crab toward the tideline, the way the wind flattened the grass that grew in the soft sand behind them. Laura felt herself unfold, a little, like a fist unclenching. She wondered if this was what Andy felt when he talked to Sam.

She turned to her, face open for once. “Are you his best friend?”

Sam blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah. Why?”

Laura hesitated, then: “Because he needs that. Someone who can stand next to him without wanting anything from him.” She fiddled with a grain of sand on her knee, not quite sure what she wanted from the confession.

Sam barked a laugh, but it was warm. “No, he needs both,” she said, emphatic. “He’s not the type that survives on just one flavor of love. He needs a best friend, and a college girlfriend, and a woman who can see how he feels when he shuts down, and a soulmate, and a dozen other things he hasn’t figured out how to name yet.” She ticked the list off on her fingers, then folded her hands together, like it was a complete answer.

Laura let that settle. She didn’t want to believe it, but it was too honest not to. “So what do I do?” she asked, because she couldn’t not ask.

Sam’s smile was sharp and tired, as if she’d answered it a thousand ways before. “You do what you want. If that means taking a flamethrower to the system, go for it. If it means sitting here and staring at the water for three days, that’s fine too. Just—don’t lie. Not to him, and not to yourself.”

Laura let herself exhale, and it came out as a laugh, all air and no voice. “I used to be really good at lying,” she admitted, more to herself than to Sam.

“Yeah,” Sam said. She picked up a rock and lobbed it into the waves. “But you don’t have to be anymore. Lies don't do well here.”

A silence, then Laura said, softer: “I can see why he trusts you.”

Sam grinned, but there was a trace of embarrassment to it, like she didn’t know what to do with the compliment. “Low bar. He’s prone to trusting people, even when he shouldn’t.”

“No,” Laura said, and this time she met Sam’s eyes. “Andy needs a friend like you. I can see why he'd trust you. You... Your kind of friendship is rare.”

The blue-haired girl looked away, then back. “Careful,” she said, “I’ll start charging for validation.” She grinned to take the edge off.

Laura actually laughed this time—thin, almost weightless, but real. “I’m glad he has you on his side, you know.”

Sam gave her a look, half gratitude, half warning. “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.” She stood, brushing sand from her jeans. “You coming to the party tonight?”

Laura shrugged. “Maybe.” She didn’t know if she’d be welcome, or if she could handle it, or if she’d just sit there counting the seconds until everyone else forgot she was different.

Sam shifted her weight from foot to foot, then softened her voice. “There’s always a place, if you change your mind.” She started walking, got two steps away, then turned back. “And if you don’t, I’ll save you the best leftovers.”

Laura watched her go. She watched the boots leave prints in the sand, watched them fade as the tide worked up the slope, watched the blur of blue hair disappear behind the windbreak. Her body slumped, the effort of keeping it upright no longer necessary. She let herself collapse, knees drawn up, chin pressed to her chest.

A haze of memory flickered behind her eyes—Andy, a thousand years ago, at a kitchen table, tracing patterns in spilled flour, telling her that the world was full of people who pretended to be fine but secretly wanted someone to notice. She wondered if he’d ever known how badly she’d wanted him to notice her.

At least he noticed her now.

A gull shrieked overhead, and the sun was gone except for a dull orange smear at the horizon. The water had come closer, the tide licking at the soles of her feet. She could see the dark beneath the waves, the way it never quite matched the light above. She drew a line in the sand with her big toe, then watched it disappear, erased in three seconds by the next wave.

She let herself think about the party. She tried to imagine Andy there, surrounded by women who’d made him laugh or made him cry or made him believe he could be more than a jumble of guilt and soft edges. She tried to picture him seeing her—not as a ghost or a test or a prize, but as the one person who’d helped him survive the first time everything went wrong.

The ache in her chest was less than it had been. That was something.

Chloe and Riley had an unspoken agreement about the perimeter. Neither liked being in the middle—too much risk of being asked how they felt, too many eyes trying to read what wasn’t there—so after the results had settled, they ended up on the beach, walking a line parallel to the water, just at the margin where dry sand collapsed into wet. They didn’t hold hands, didn’t brush arms, but every few strides Riley would angle her hip outward so Chloe had to correct course, just to prove they were still tethered.

Riley led, as always. Her boots left deep, deliberate tracks, heel to toe, and every few steps she’d stop to scan the horizon, looking for boats or bombs or the first sign that the universe had changed the rules again.

“I still don’t trust it,” Riley said, voice pitched low. “All that bravado about breaking the system. If I were Arabella, I’d just move the goalposts and laugh when nobody noticed.”

Chloe considered this. She squinted at the surf, trying to imagine it roiling up to the treeline. “What if she really just… let it happen? Like, what if she wanted Andy to win?”

Riley grunted. “Nobody here gets to win. Not really. There’s always a twist.” She kicked at a clump of kelp, sending it spinning. “But I’ll give him points for trying. I didn’t expect him to stick his neck out.”

Chloe nodded, then found herself gnawing the inside of her cheek, a nervous habit that had never quite faded. “He did it before, too. The first challenge, just before I came to The HH. I feel bad for hoping someone else would go,” she confessed, the words small and sharp. “That sounds terrible, but it’s true. I just wanted to be safe, and then when we all stayed—”

Riley didn’t need the rest of the sentence. “You wanted to celebrate. But you didn’t trust it.”

Chloe’s blush was immediate and deep, blood rising into the thin skin beneath her eyes. “I know it’s selfish.”

“No,” Riley said. “It’s biology. Only an idiot wants to be the next neck on the block.” She angled a look at Chloe, direct and almost brutal. “You’re allowed to want your own story to keep going. Doesn’t make you the villain.”

Chloe absorbed that, then risked a glance at the line of surf. It was the sort of day where the clouds seemed to hold their breath, waiting for someone to give up. “Do you think it’s real, though? That Andy’s… hack, or whatever, can last?”

Riley shrugged. “Nothing is real here except the consequences. If Arabella wants to turn the screws, she’ll find a way. I think she likes him, though. Or maybe she just enjoys a little chaos before breakfast.”

Chloe’s mouth twisted up, but she didn’t smile. “I wish I could be more like you. You don’t seem scared of anything.”

Riley barked a dry laugh. “Are you kidding? I wake up every morning wondering if today’s the day the air stops, or if my hair will strangle me before the coffee even finishes.” She flicked a piece of kelp with the toe of her boot, watched it tumble end over end. “I just don’t pretend otherwise. That’s the difference.”

Chloe nodded, slow. The salt breeze stung her eyes and she blamed it on the wind.

They walked on. After a minute, Riley said, “You haven’t asked me about Laura.”

Chloe hesitated, then: “You were closer to her than I was.”

“Maybe,” Riley said, her eyes narrowed against the glare. “But you were in the story. Not everyone here was.”

Chloe chewed her lip. “Does it—make you angry, that she’s back?”

“Anger’s not really it,” Riley said. She stopped, letting the surf curl around her boots. “It’s like seeing a ghost, but the ghost is more alive than you are. I wanted her to have another chance. I wanted Andy to get his, too. But I also think that every resurrection comes with a bill, and the universe collects.”

Chloe stared at her, not blinking.

Riley looked over. “You want to ask if you’re still to blame. I can feel it.”

A quick shake of the head, a squeeze of the arms. “No—I mean, yes. I want to know if… if she’s back, does that mean I’m off the hook? Or do I owe her even more, now?”

Riley’s voice went flat. “You owe her whatever you owed her before. That’s the point of coming back from the dead: you’re not a symbol anymore. You’re a person with a vote, and a fist, and a right to say you fucked up.”

Chloe let the words hit. They hurt, but they were honest. She tried to stand a little straighter. “I should talk to her. I should have talked to her years ago, but—”

“Now you can,” Riley said. “Unless you’re afraid of what she’ll say.”

Chloe was afraid. The thought of facing Laura was like the threat of being made to read her own diary out loud in front of a panel of ex-friends. But the beach was too open for hiding.

“I’ll do it,” she said, and surprised herself with the firmness.

Riley grinned, the kind of grin that looked like it had to push through a decade of disappointment to surface. “That’s the spirit. Nothing’s as bad as the part where you can’t look someone in the eye.” She glanced at the sky, then back at Chloe. “You think Andy’s going to implode now that he has all his toys in the same sandbox?”

Chloe wanted to laugh. “I think he’s going to try to make everyone happy, and fail, and then try even harder. That’s what he does.”

“He’s going to kill himself trying to keep us in one piece,” Riley said, not unsympathetically.

“Do you think it’ll work?” Chloe’s voice was a whisper now, not for secrecy, but because the question felt like a dare.

Riley took a while to answer. She walked a few more steps, leaving gaps in her own boot prints, before saying: “Depends on whether we want to be kept together, or if we want to see who cracks first. Some people are only loyal to themselves. Some people are loyal to the idea of belonging. We’re about to find out which is which.”

Chloe nodded. “I want to belong. I think a lot of us do.”

“Then you will.” Riley’s certainty was so unforced it felt like fact. “But it won’t be pretty.”

A gust of wind slammed into them, carrying the sting of dried seaweed and the promise of a storm that wouldn’t come until after nightfall. Riley looked over at Chloe, considered her, then: “You know, you can be brave and scared at the same time. Most people are.”

“I think that’s the only way I know how to be,” Chloe admitted.

Riley nodded. “You’re fine, then.”

They stood in silence, the kind that didn’t beg for filling. The tide pressed closer. Chloe stared at her own feet and remembered, for a second, what it felt like to run away from home the first time, the feeling of walking into a new school where every corner was a dare and every voice was a test.

She glanced at Riley. “Do you think Laura will hate us?”

“Hate?” Riley shook her head, hair rippling in the breeze. “No. She’ll be jealous. She’ll be angry, and it’s understandable. But hate? Not really.”

Chloe considered that. “I didn’t love her. Not like Andy. But I didn’t want her to disappear, either.”

Riley’s lips curled, sharp and a little sad. “That’s the worst part, isn’t it? Wanting two things at once. Nobody tells you how to live with it, so you just keep doing both until you snap.”

Chloe breathed in, the ocean air cold and sharp. “Do you think she’ll come to the party tonight?”

“She has to,” Riley said. “If she doesn’t, the rest of us will collapse in on ourselves like a black hole.”

That made Chloe laugh, and it felt real.

They stood a minute longer, then turned and retraced their steps, letting the surf erase their prints.

Halfway back, Chloe said, “Thank you for walking with me.”

Riley shrugged, her voice low. “I needed someone to keep me honest.”

Chloe nodded, and for the first time all day, the anxiety in her chest felt like something she could bear. “See you at the party?”

Riley gave her a sideways look. “We’re not going to the party. We are the party.”

They walked the last hundred yards together, neither in front nor behind, just two girls in the same tide.

The kitchen wasn’t just full. It was overflowing, bright with flour and sunlight, counters alive with every bowl and spoon and measuring cup the hotel could conjure. Dawn wielded the workspace like a battle map, hopping from mixing bowl to oven to cooling rack in a blur that looked improvised but had strict internal logic. In the middle of it, Emily stood on tiptoes, drizzling lemon glaze in perfect spirals across a short stack of poppyseed muffins. Her hair, worn loose, kept threatening to dip into the icing. She didn’t seem to notice or care.

Dawn wiped her hands on her apron (borrowed from Mildred, of course; she hadn’t owned anything this frilly since age six) and paused just long enough to flick a glance at Emily. “You sure you don’t want a hair tie?” she asked, gentle but insistent. “It’s like a living thing.”

Emily grinned, tucking a stray strand behind her ear. “I’m good, thank you.” She licked a spot of lemon from her finger and gave Dawn a look that was half apology, half dare. “Besides, I kind of like feeling like a mad scientist.”

Dawn snorted. “You look like one, too. In a good way.”

The compliment sent a visible shiver down Emily’s spine. Dawn noticed, of course. She noticed everything, especially now, with the rest of the house in a holding pattern and the two of them left to fortify the world one pastry at a time.

They worked in a comfortable rhythm for a few minutes. Dawn focused on the sticky buns, rolling out the dough in perfect rectangles, spreading cinnamon sugar edge-to-edge. Emily attacked the lemon muffins with almost reckless abandon, letting glaze spill and pool until every surface was sticky. It was messy, but it was deliberate.

Dawn waited until they’d both caught up to the same beat, then said, “You don’t have to stay in here, you know. I’m not holding you hostage. If you want to go—”

“I like it,” Emily said, without pause. “Besides, I’m not sure what else I’d do. This is my favorite place in the whole hotel.” She punctuated the word by sliding a still-warm muffin off the tray and popping it, whole, into her mouth.

Dawn couldn’t help but smile. “You know, if you eat enough of them, you’ll turn into a lemon.”

Emily made a show of chewing, then said, around a mouthful, “I’ll risk it.” She swallowed, wiped her lips with the back of her hand, and added, “It’s not like anybody’s going to eliminate me for getting fat.”

The joke hit heavier than she meant it to. Dawn saw the hitch in Emily’s smile, the way her shoulders pinched for half a breath.

Dawn didn’t let it slide. “You’re not worried about that, are you? The elimination thing, I mean.”

Emily shrugged. “Used to. Not so much now.” She wiped her hands on a towel, then tossed it over her shoulder. “Honestly, the weirdest part is that now I don’t have an excuse. If I screw up, I can’t say it’s because the game made me.” She hesitated, then: “Feels like I have to be real, or else there’s no point.”

Dawn nodded. She understood that. She’d spent the whole morning rehearsing how she would talk to Laura if she bumped into her, running “helpful” scripts in her head only to discard them when they sounded too needy, too eager. “It’s hard,” she said. “Trying to be normal after so much not-normal.”

Emily studied Dawn, like she was memorizing the shape of her face. “You’re really good at it, though. The normal thing. You always seem like you belong.”

Dawn nearly blushed, but **** herself to keep rolling dough. “I fake it. That’s the trick.” She let out a long breath. “Actually, I’m terrified I’m going to do something that makes her hate me. Or think I’m trying to take her place.”

Emily’s face went soft with understanding. “You mean Laura?”

“Yeah.” Dawn flinched, caught in the act. “I know it’s ridiculous, but I want her to be okay. I want to be the first person who makes her feel safe, not… threatened. Is that weird?”

Emily shook her head. “No. That’s just you.” She snuck another muffin off the tray, more careful this time not to get icing on her wrist. “You should tell her that. Just say, ‘I want to help.’ Even if it’s awkward, it’s better than pretending.”

Dawn smiled, and it was genuine. “I might,” she said. “I just don’t want to overwhelm her. I remember what it was like, that first morning here. Everything was too bright and too fast.”

Dawn set the last of the sticky buns on the tray, covered them with a towel, and slid them onto the warming rack. “You think Laura’s going to come to the party tonight?” she asked, voice low.

Emily considered. “I think she’ll try. And if she doesn’t, that’s okay too.”

“You really think so?”

Emily nodded. “Yeah. Not everybody heals the same way. Some people need the noise. Some need the quiet.” She gave Dawn a conspiratorial glance. “I think you’re the first kind.”

They moved to clear up the mess. Dawn loaded the dishwasher, Emily stacked the bowls and wiped the counters. The kitchen fell into an easy hush, punctuated only by the hum of the oven and the faint clink of glass.

Dawn was about to speak when Emily beat her to it. “You’re scared you’ll lose your place, aren’t you?” she said, not unkindly.

Dawn hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I know it sounds selfish. But I finally feel like I belong, and I don’t want to go back to just being an extra.”

Emily nodded, slow. “That’s how I feel, too. Even when it’s terrifying.”

Dawn let herself lean against the counter, exhausted but alive. “I never used to get scared. Not like this.”

Emily shrugged. “Maybe it’s just because now it matters.”

Dawn considered that, then smiled. “You’re really smart, you know.”

Emily grinned. “Don’t tell anyone.”

They stood in silence, comfortable for the first time all day. After a while, Emily said, “Do you want to try one of the sticky buns? Just to make sure they’re not poison?”

Dawn laughed. “Only if you promise not to hog all the icing.”

Emily held up three fingers, solemn. “Scout’s honor.”

They split a bun, eating in slow, careful bites, the sweetness cutting through the nervous tension. Dawn closed her eyes, savoring the taste. “I hope Laura likes these.”

Emily smiled. “She will. How could she not?”

Dawn opened her eyes and looked at Emily, really looked. “Thank you,” she said. “For not making me feel like a loser.”

Emily squeezed Dawn’s hand. “You’re not a loser. You’re like the Sun.”

Dawn flushed at the compliment. She looked at Emily, and the two shared a silent moment of understanding. Emily broke the silence first. “Do you think the rest of them feel this way? Like, do you think they’re scared, too?”

Dawn nodded. “I think so. Even if they’d never admit it.”

Emily smiled, and there was a sadness to it, but also a spark. “I hope we all make it to the end,” she said. “I hope we get to see what that looks like.”

Dawn raised her half-bun in a toast. “To making it to the end.”

Emily bumped her muffin against it. “To being real.”

They ate, and the kitchen filled with the scent of lemon and sugar and hope.

The fitness studio at the end of the Guest Wing wasn’t used much—too utilitarian, too exposed. But that’s where Sam found Norah: alone, working the heavy bag with the calculated boredom of someone who’d rather be fighting an actual person. Norah wore a fitted black crop top and crimson leggings, and her incongrous heeled shoes. Her hair was up, makeup perfect, her body a compact engine of precision. She didn’t break rhythm when Sam came in, just snapped a jab and a cross, then let the bag swing back.

Sam shut the door with her foot and leaned on it, arms crossed, an old habit from a dozen service jobs. “This where you go when you don’t want to talk to anyone, or when you do?” she asked.

Norah’s knuckles rebounded off canvas, clean and sharp. “Depends on who follows me.”

Sam grinned. “You’re the only one I know who works out just to prove a point.”

Norah caught the bag and glared. “You think that’s why I’m here?”

“Why else?” Sam said, strolling to the nearest bench. “You don’t look like you need to lose weight. You look like you’re waiting for the world to pick a fight so you can say ‘I told you so.’”

Norah rolled her eyes, but her mouth twitched. “Don’t project your hero complex onto me, Collins. You’re the one who keeps signing up for camp counselor duty.”

Sam shrugged, letting the dig land. “Somebody’s gotta mop up the messes, or we all drown in our own drama.”

Norah turned, arms folded, leaning back against the bag. “Cute. So what do you want?”

Sam studied her, taking in the tension riding under Norah’s perfectly smooth posture. She’d seen it before—the way Norah’s left hand twitched after every exchange, the microsecond lag between looking and seeing. She was wound tight, ready to spring, but also itching for a reason to relax.

Sam gestured at the gloves. “You expecting a sparring partner, or just shadowboxing with your demons?”

“I don’t spar,” Norah said. “Not with people I care about, anyway.”

Sam grinned wider. “So you care about me, then?”

Norah gave her a long, unimpressed look. “You’re one of the few who can keep up. That’s not the same as caring.”

Sam whistled, mock-wounded. “Brutal. Remind me never to ask for a birthday card.”

Norah pushed off the bag and peeled off her gloves, tossing them onto the mat. “Fine. Let’s do this the short way. You’re here to say something. Say it.”

Sam dropped onto the bench, elbows on knees. “You really think Andy’s hack is going to get us all killed?”

Norah laughed, but there was no amusement in it. “Killed? No.” She tilted her head, studying Sam more carefully. “He bought us time. That’s not nothing. But time cuts both ways.”

Sam nodded. “Probably not. But what’s the alternative—start throwing each other under the bus every week and hope we’re the last one left?”

Norah leaned in, her voice gone hard. “That’s not what I’m saying. The problem isn’t this round. It’s that we don’t know how many more there are.” She tapped two fingers against her own wrist, like a countdown only she could see. “We all know how it ends. Anyone who doesn’t hit a hundred VP doesn’t walk out. Avoiding one elimination just means the pressure stacks.”

Sam matched the stare, not flinching. “And you think Andy made that worse?”

Norah exhaled sharply. “I think he made it visible. Arabella didn’t flinch when he bent the rules—and I don’t think she wanted to. She’s not the problem.” Her mouth tightened. “But this is still a show, Sam. And when the story stops escalating on its own, someone else steps in to fix that.”

Sam’s brow furrowed. “The Producers.”

Norah nodded once. “Exactly. Laura’s back, the center of gravity just shifted, and suddenly ‘we all survive together’ is the least interesting ending they could sell.” She folded her arms tighter. “They won’t undo what Andy did. They’ll compensate. Split us. Isolate someone. **** a choice that teamwork can’t smooth over. Because tension is the product.”

Sam let that sit for a moment. “You think this is about punishing unity.”

“I think it’s about testing it,” Norah said. “Until it fails.”

Sam’s voice stayed level, the barista calm that made people spill their life stories over lattes. “I don’t want fairy tales. But I don’t want to start playing like there’s only one winner, either.”

Norah paced a step, the mat squeaking under her heels. “And I’m not asking you to. I’m saying your way works… right up until the system notices it’s working.”

Sam looked up at her. “You make it sound like I’m the problem.”

Norah stopped pacing. Her tone shifted—still sharp, but more precise. “No. You’re not the problem. You’re the variable.” She hesitated, just a fraction. “You keep people together. You absorb damage. And every time you do, the game learns how much **** it takes to break that next time.”

Sam blinked. “You think I always come out on top.”

“I think you survive,” Norah said. “And I don’t think that’s an accident.”

Sam considered that. “So you don’t trust Andy? Or me?”

Norah’s voice was bitter, but quieter now. “I don’t distrust you. And I care about Andy, a lot. You, too. I just don’t believe the cost of hope stays theoretical forever.”

There was a silence. Sam studied the floor, then the wall mirror, then Norah’s reflection in it—face set, body rigid, but eyes looking everywhere but at herself.

Sam got up and walked closer, stopping at the edge of Norah’s personal space. “Why are you really mad, Norah? You think I don’t see you?”

Norah’s nostrils flared. “What’s there to see?”

Sam kept her hands at her sides, voice gentle. “You care more than most here. You’re just pissed nobody notices unless you’re bleeding for it.”

Norah jerked, like she’d been struck. “You don’t know me.”

“Oh come on, Norah, we’ve all lived together for almost two months. At this point, I know enough,” Sam said. “You could have let Dawn fail, but you didn’t. You could have ditched some of the others a hundred times, but you still show up for them.” She paused. “You want to keep the group alive. You just don’t think you’ll ever be allowed to enjoy it.”

Norah stared at her, a second too long. Then she looked away. “You think this is empathy, or manipulation?”

Sam shrugged. “Does it matter if it’s true?”

Norah exhaled, the fight draining out a little. “You’re infuriating.”

Sam grinned. “You say that like it’s news.”

They stood in the lull, neither backing off, the tension a live wire stretched between them.

Finally, Norah said, quieter, “What happens when the next test comes and we’re not all so lucky?”

Sam smiled, thin but steady. “Andy and I do the same thing we always do. Try to keep people together. Even when it hurts.”

Norah studied her. “That’s not how the world works.”

Sam nodded. “Maybe not. But I’d rather lose as myself than win as a stranger. And I trust my friend. He’s put his neck on the line for us more than once, and he deserves it.”

Norah nodded, slow. “You would, wouldn’t you?” There was a weight behind it, something like admiration hidden under years of practiced indifference.

Sam moved to the mat and sat cross-legged, patting the spot next to her. Norah rolled her eyes, then joined her, stiff but unwilling to leave.