Sand and Dust

Chapter XIII: A Sunlit Guardian

VP and BP Standings
Claire - 23 VP - 2000 BP
Emi - 4 VP - 2000 BP
Dawn - 3 VP - 2000 BP
Sam - 2 VP - 2500 BP
Erin - 0 VP - 1000 BP
Liesa - 0 VP - 2000 BP
Marissa - 0 VP - 1500 BP
Norah - 0 VP - 1000 BP

The sun hit the sand early, but it took hours for the warmth to reach the water. Andy walked the shoreline in tennis shoes and rolled-up jeans, hands sunk deep in his pockets, the ocean’s spray tangling his hair and stinging his nose. Each wave broke and curled back as if afraid to come any further. He tried to match his stride to the rhythm, a mindless exercise, but every few steps his thoughts slid backward to the night before: the awkwardness, the silence, the brittle way Erin had lain beside him on the bed, as if the mattress were a tightrope and touching the sheets too hard would send her plummeting.

He wondered if he’d ever get the hang of this—making peace with the past, being honest about the future, and navigating the weird, hormonal funhouse that was the Harem Hotel. His mind kept going back to the list he had drafted the previous evening, and how he almost could draw direct connections between each woman’s greatest fear, and the transformation she received. For most of them, at least. He wondered what was the goal. To break them, perhaps? To remake them into compliant members of a harem for a man who didn’t need or want one? The conversation he had had with Arabella further muddied the waters. But one thing was certain. He could imagine this game could be even more twisted with less… restrained, or more deviant Hosts. He blinked. Did he just consider for a moment that they were lucky to have Arabella as a Host?

Either way some people, he thought, probably adapted. They let the bizarre rules amuse them, let the game itself become the purpose. He could imagine Masters getting giddy with the kind of power this show seemed to grant them over the harem. Andy wasn’t one of those people. He still woke up in the morning and reached for a phone that didn’t exist, still expected to hear old Giuseppe’s voice barking about bagels as he opened the store beneath Andy’s apartment, still checked the time as if he might be late for something important.

Still dreamed of the raging river and a tear-streaked face on a footbridge.

Now, he was late for nothing. And perhaps, he was late for everything.

He walked on, squinting into the glare, until he saw a blue-haired figure perched at the edge of a little tidepool. She balanced on the balls of her feet, watching the tiny crabs skitter sideways between rocks. For a second, Andy considered pretending he hadn’t noticed her—let her have the moment to herself, unobserved—but Sam looked up before he could make the decision for her.

“Andy!” she called, her voice slicing clean through the surf. She waved, both arms overhead. The gesture was so purely Sam that he grinned without meaning to.

He made his way over, watching his step on the algae-slick rocks. When he got within a few feet, she held out her arms. “Don’t make this weird. Just hug me.”

He did. She was strong and solid, the kind of person who always hugged with her whole body, and for a moment Andy let himself relax into it. When they broke apart, she held onto his arms for a half second, as if grounding him.

“Thank you,” she said. “If I don’t get at least a hug a day from my favorite nerd, I go into withdrawal. You don’t want to see that.”

He smiled. “Is it like caffeine shakes?”

“Worse,” she deadpanned. “I get emotionally shriveled, then I start quoting Disney movies until someone intervenes.”

He snorted. “Well, let’s not risk that.”

She grinned, then, but it faded a shade. She jerked her chin toward the resort, where the white of the cabanas and the dark, sloping glass of the main building stabbed into the morning sky. “You been inside lately?”

He shook his head. “As little as I can. Not today, either. I needed air.”

She nodded, approving. “Smart. The mood in there is… I don’t know. Tense? Four days to Arabella’s first challenge. Like everyone’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. Or the other tit, in Norah’s case.” She paused, then grinned. “Sorry. It’s too soon, isn’t it?”

Andy shrugged. “A little. But I’ve already thought of that joke.”

“Good man,” Sam said. “Means you’re adapting.”

They started walking the beach together, side by side. Sam kept her hands in her pockets, as if resisting the urge to collect seashells. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, then looked away.

“You wanna talk about last night?” she said, voice softening.

Andy sighed, the sound blending into the wind. “Not really. But yeah.”

Sam waited, not pressing. They walked for a few minutes, the water cold around their ankles. Andy found himself grateful for her presence—uncomplicated, familiar, the only person in the hotel who didn’t want anything from him but honesty.

He said, “It went badly. Erin… she was just—” He stopped, searching for words. “She was brittle. Like if I tried to touch her, she’d shatter.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. She’s always been like that. Even in college, she couldn’t handle being looked at the wrong way. It’s like she wants to disappear, but she also wants you to chase after her and prove you care enough to look.” She stopped, then amended, “You know what I mean.”

He did. “I tried. I tried to make it better, but maybe that’s the problem.”

Sam snorted. “You’re always trying to fix stuff, Andy. Sometimes it’s enough to just say, ‘This sucks, I’m sorry you’re in pain, let’s eat ice cream and not talk about it.’”

He looked at her, surprised by the wisdom. “You really think that would work?”

She grinned. “Not at all. But it would piss her off less than pretending the problem has a solution.”

He laughed, for real this time. “You should be a therapist.”

“I’d rather be a barista,” Sam said. “At least with coffee, you know if you fucked it up immediately.”

He shot her a look. “You don’t make the coffee at Blue Bean, do you?”

“Hell no,” Sam said. “That’s Michael’s job. I just handle the cash register and tell the old guys to stop ogling the girls.” She grinned. “And occasionally, I dispense life advice. On the house.”

Andy’s hands were cold in his pockets, so he pulled them out and let them hang loose. Sam noticed, and, after a second, laced her arm through his. The gesture was so natural he barely noticed until she started steering them toward a little spit of rock where the sand was dry.

They perched on the sun-warmed stone, watching the pale foam slide up the beach and recede. Sam swung her feet, toes leaving little marks in the sand.

“So, you wanna know how the others are doing?” she said, half teasing.

He rolled his eyes. “Hit me.”

“Claire is crushing it. I’ve known that girl for five days, and already I can’t imagine not having her in my life. She’s quiet, especially… you know. But!” Sam said. “She and Dawn found the rec room, and now they have a secret Mario Kart league going. Claire says she needs a better player than you to test her skills. Emi… Emi’s still sensitive about… you know.” She wiggled her own arms. “Better though, since that night with you. Liesa and Norah are locked in a Cold War, for some reason, and Marissa’s started reading trashy novels because she’s secretly tired of acting like a grownup.”

Andy tried to imagine the dynamics, and failed. But the thought of Dawn and Claire hunched over controllers felt very apropos. He wondered what could have riled up gentle Liesa so much, then he figured if anyone could, it would have to be Norah. And as for Marissa… the thought of the normally reserved therapist enjoying trashy romance novels was somehow both hilarious and strangely fitting. “And you?”

She looked away, a weird seriousness settling over her. “I’m fine, Andy. Really. I know I’m the first one out. I made peace with it before I even got here.”

He frowned. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” she said, with a little shrug. “I’m not here for you. I’m here for us. For this.” She gestured between them. “I’m the emotional support lesbian. The token LGBTQ character. Clickbait, you know? My job is to make sure you don’t crack under the pressure of all these women competing for your attention.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s an important job.”

Andy looked out at the water, the sky gone soft and blue. “I never wanted you all to compete,” he said. “I didn’t even know there was a leaderboard until you mentioned it.”

Sam laughed. “Oh, it’s there. Giant screen in the lobby. Claire’s got twenty-three points. Who’d have thought, right? Of all people, Emi is second now. And believe it or not, Dawn and quiet bespectacled therapist Marissa are third. Somehow, I am fourth. Which is hilarious. The rest of us are just here for the ride.”

He shook his head. “I hate that. I wish it wasn’t a game.”

She shrugged. “Everything’s a game, Andy. Even this. Especially this.”

He didn’t argue. They watched the surf for a while, saying nothing. Then Sam turned, her voice low and tight. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah.”

She picked at a loose thread in her sleeve, then looked up, fierce and ****. “Are you okay with this? With me? I don’t mean, like, as a friend. I mean… am I a liability? Does it make things worse, having someone in the harem who’s never going to want you that way?”

He blinked. The question caught him off-guard. “Sam, you’re the only reason I haven’t run for the hills yet. You’re the only one who gets it. Who gets me.”

She smiled, embarrassed, and looked down. “Thanks. It’s just… Sometimes I feel like I’m making things harder for you. For everyone.”

Andy reached over, took her hand, and squeezed it. “You’re not. You’re the only person here who tells the truth.”

Sam snorted. “Not true. Claire does. But only in writing.”

He laughed. “Fair. But you’re the only one who says what everyone else is thinking.”

She gave a little bow, then nudged his shoulder. “That’s why you keep me around?”

“That, and the hugs,” he said. “I’m addicted too, now. If I go cold turkey… well, you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”

She barked a laugh, the old Sam for a moment, and leaned her head on his shoulder. “You’re such a dork, Andy Cooper.”

He let the quiet linger, the two of them side by side, warm in the rising sun. For a second, he imagined a world where this was enough—a world without the rules and the points and the expectations.

He said, “Do you think it’s possible? To make this work, I mean. To get through it without becoming someone we hate?”

Sam thought about it, then nodded. “Yeah. But only if we don’t lose each other.” She poked his chest. “Promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“No matter what happens, no matter who wins or loses, you’ll still talk to me. Even if I have to follow you home and threaten you with bad coffee and pop culture references.”

He grinned. “Deal.”

She held out her pinky, and he wrapped his around it, sealing the promise.

The sun climbed higher, burning off the last shreds of morning mist. Andy felt lighter than he had in days.

After a while, Sam stood, dusted off her pants, and offered him a hand up. “Come on,” she said. “We have a day to get through, and you need to practice your hugs before tonight’s guest.” She paused. “Oh wait. That’s me.” Grinning, she added. “That will be convenient.”

He took her hand, and together they walked the beach, two silhouettes cutting through the glare, each leaning a little on the other.

As they reached the steps back up to the hotel, Sam looked back at the water, then at Andy. “Hey,” she said, more quietly. “I’m glad you’re here, too.”

He smiled. They climbed the stairs together, ready for whatever the day would bring.

Emi liked to walk the beach early, when the only other life around was the black-hooded terns and the tiny scuttle of ghost crabs. The air at that hour was always sharp and honest, the kind that made your lungs hurt just a little, like you were being punished for daring to breathe. She walked with her shoes tied together and slung over one shoulder, the sand cold and smooth under her arches. Every step was a reminder that, if nothing else, the sea and the shore never changed.

She found a little solace in that. In a hotel where every second seemed designed to strip away choice, the pathless shore felt almost sacred.

It took her a while to realize she wasn’t alone.

A hundred yards ahead, Norah sat on a chunk of volcanic rock, knees pulled to her chest, hair unbound and wild in the wind. She looked impossibly small, though her silhouette was exaggerated by the transformation. Even from a distance, Emi could tell Norah was crying—her face was hidden in her arms, shoulders rising and falling in time with the tide.

Emi paused, unsure. Norah wasn’t a friend. Not even an acquaintance, really; their interactions had been brief, awkward, and usually bracketed by Norah’s dry sarcasm. She’d systematically irked most other women with her broken-record speech about Andy being a horrible person. But Emi remembered how it felt to want to vanish, to hope the world would pass you by and leave you unexamined. She walked forward, slow and careful, the sand cushioning her approach.

When she was close enough to speak, she stopped. “Is it okay if I sit?” she asked, voice soft as sea glass.

Norah glanced up, blinking furiously. “Free country,” she said, but it didn’t sound hostile, just exhausted.

Emi sat, folding herself with practiced grace on the lowest ledge of the rock. For a while, neither of them spoke. The sound of the waves did all the conversational heavy lifting.

Finally, Norah said, “You ever wish you could just… hit reset?”

Emi tilted her head, thinking. “Not really. But I wish I could skip ahead sometimes. Past the part where everything hurts.” She surprised herself at that answer. Did she really not want to go back to her life, as it had been a few days ago? What was wrong with her?

Norah barked a laugh, bitter but real. “If you ever figure that out, let me know.”

They watched the horizon. Emi let her hands rest in her lap, willing the extra arms to stay still. “You want to talk about it?”

Norah shrugged. “It’s nothing. I just—” She stopped, then let out a breath. “I don’t do this. The whole, ‘let’s share our feelings and cry it out’ thing. I always figured if you worked hard enough, you never had to.”

Emi listened. She knew enough not to interrupt.

Norah went on. “I grew up in Cicero. Jordanian parents, four kids. Youngest of four daughters. No money, not even for the bus most days. Hand-me-downs all the way. Scuffed shoes, socks with holes, the whole package. I was smart, so everyone told me I’d get out, go to college, make something of myself. But there’s a difference between being smart and knowing what to do with it.”

Emi nodded, watching Norah’s hands clench and unclench around her shins.

“I worked every job I could get—waitress, call center, janitor at a shitty health club. I did all my homework in the back of a laundromat. Finally got into UIC, barely scraped by. There were days I thought I’d have to drop out, because I couldn’t afford food and rent.”

Norah’s voice was flat, emotionless, like she was reading a news report about someone else.

“Then, I got the interview at that marketing startup, Lanternlight. I’d never had a real job before. Not one where people wore suits. I worked my ass off for that. And when I got it, I thought…” She trailed off, shaking her head.

“What?” Emi prompted, gentle.

“I thought it would be different. I thought I’d finally matter.” Norah’s mouth twisted. “But the first time Cooper saw my work in a big presentation, he shredded it. In front of everyone. He was right—I mean, technically, I missed something substantial. But it was my first job, and I’d already put in seventy-hour weeks. All I wanted was for someone to say, ‘You did good. You belong here.’ But instead, he said I was reckless. That I didn’t care about the consequences.”

Emi watched Norah’s knuckles go white.

“I hated him for that,” Norah said, voice barely above a whisper. “But what I hated more was that he was right. If I’d been careful, I wouldn’t have fucked up. If I was really that smart, I would’ve seen it coming.”

She looked away, eyes glassy. “I remember the faces of the other people in the room. Their eyes, staring at me, judging me. It wasn’t just embarrassment. It was knowing that everything I’d worked for could vanish with one mistake.”

Emi felt the words in her chest, cold and tight.

She slid a hand—top right, the one that felt the most honest—over Norah’s shoulder. “He doesn’t know,” Emi said. “Not all of it.”

Norah snorted. “Why would he? He probably thinks I’m just bitter, or jealous, or whatever.”

“I don’t think he’s like that,” Emi said, careful. “But I think he doesn’t always see what’s under the surface.”

Norah glanced at her, the edge of a smile flickering and dying. “No one does,” she said. “Everyone sees the numbers, the points, the performances. No one sees the reasons.”

Emi squeezed gently, the touch light but sincere. “I do,” she said. “I think a lot of us do. We just don’t always know how to say it.”

They sat in the wind for a while. Eventually, Norah wiped her face with the heel of her hand and laughed, embarrassed. “God. You must think I’m pathetic.”

“Not even a little,” Emi said. “I think you’re strong.”

Norah eyed her, suspicious. “You don’t even know me.”

Emi shrugged, a cascade of arms following the motion. “I know what it feels like to be scared. To want to hide.”

Norah’s gaze softened, just a hair. “You handling the arms okay, Kim?” she asked, eyes flicking down to Emi’s hands. “You’re groping me less at night. Or maybe I’m getting used to it.” She shivered.

Emi considered, then nodded. “I’m doing better than I thought. Some days are good. Some days, I want to lock myself in a closet and never come out. But more good days than bad, now.”

Norah gave a grudging laugh. “You should teach a masterclass. I can’t even handle the bigger boobs.”

Emi smiled, and this time it wasn’t ****. “We could start a support group.”

“Please,” Norah said, “the last thing I need is more group therapy.” But she didn’t move away from Emi’s touch. “I’ll settle for not being the butt of every joke for one hour.”

They watched the water roll in, the wind stinging their faces, and for a minute, Emi forgot about her own problems. She saw Norah—not the one with a grudge, but the one still fighting to stay afloat, even if it meant never letting anyone see her sink.

Eventually, Norah stood, brushing sand from her legs. “Thanks for the talk,” she said. “Don’t tell anyone I cried, or I’ll—”

“—deny everything?” Emi finished, grinning.

Norah snorted. “Exactly.” She started walking, then glanced back. “You should tell Cooper. About the arms. About all of it. He needs to hear the truth from someone who isn’t trying to win.”

Emi nodded. “I will.”

Norah hesitated, then added: “You’re all right, Emi. For what it’s worth.”

Emi smiled, watching Norah trudge up the dune, shoulders a little less hunched than before.

She waited until Norah was gone, then got up herself, dusting off her palms. The morning sun was higher now, and the world seemed lighter, just a bit. And then she realized that for the first time, Norah had called her by name. It felt noteworthy.

She started back along the beach, already thinking of how she would tell Andy about what she’d learned. For the first time since arriving, Emi felt useful.

The terrace was tucked away behind the spa, just far enough from the main path that most people never found it. There were two wicker chairs and a low stone table, and a single potted palm that swayed in the lazy afternoon breeze. Liesa and Erin sat across from each other, tea cooling between them, neither eager to be the first to speak.

Erin had always liked Liesa—not in the way she’d liked Andy, or even Sam, but as a kind of safe harbor. Liesa was steady, thoughtful, capable of listening for entire hours without once turning the conversation to herself. She could make you feel interesting without seeming to try. The two had talked a few times in college, before Liesa had vanished. Even now, as Erin worked through her anger and humiliation, Liesa’s green eyes never wandered, never signaled impatience.

“So,” Liesa said, voice barely above the wind. “You see him last night?”

Erin nodded, the motion tight as a drumhead. “Yeah. He made dinner. The whole thing.” She swallowed. “He remembered I like salmon.”

“That’s sweet, I think,” Liesa said.

Erin barked a short laugh. “It’s manipulative. Classic Andy.” But the words sounded wrong, even to her.

Liesa looked at her, waiting.

Erin rolled her eyes, then said, “Fine. Maybe it was a little sweet. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing he does now will change what he did to me.” She made a fist, stared at her own knuckles.

Liesa set her own hand beside Erin’s, palm up, a gentle invitation. Erin hesitated, then rested her fingers there, letting the touch ground her.

“I’m so tired, Liesa,” she said, voice cracking. “I’m tired of being the experiment. Of being the cautionary tale.”

Liesa squeezed her hand, then let go. “What happened, exactly? Alsjeblieft. If you want to talk about it.”

Erin exhaled. “We ate. Barely spoke. It was like… like waiting for a bomb to go off, except you know exactly when it’s going to explode.” She looked up at the blue ceiling, the palm fronds flickering shadows on her skin. “After dinner, we talked some more. Then I must have fallen asleep. He took me to bed. Slept like a rock. I woke up early, he was still out like a light. He still had his clothes on. I lay there next to him, and my body just—” She stopped, shook her head. “I can’t even say it.”

Liesa’s voice was soft. “You don’t have to.”

“But I do,” Erin said. She **** the words out. “I closed my eyes and touched myself. I had to. But… the curse doesn’t work that way, does it? It’s not about being in his presence. It’s that I can’t feel anything unless he’s watching me.” She gave a humorless, brittle laugh. “So it didn’t work.”

Liesa flinched, then reached across to touch her arm. “That’s afgrijselijk. Horrible.”

“It’s humiliating,” Erin said. “I used to think I was strong. That nothing could break me. But now…” She trailed off.

Liesa let the silence stretch, only the wind and the chirr of some hidden insect to fill the gap. “You’re still strong,” she said, after a while. “Even if you don’t feel it right now.”

Erin snorted. “I’m pathetic. I slunk out of there with my tail between my legs like a beaten puppy.”

Liesa nodded, but didn’t let go of Erin’s hand. “You could give him a chance,” she said, quiet. “Just to talk. Or yell at him, if that’s what you can need.”

Erin considered, then looked down at her lap. “I don’t know if I want to see him again,” she admitted. “Short of masturbating in front of him and humiliating myself completely, I don’t see how he could fix this.” Her voice broke on the last word, and she covered her face with her free hand.

Liesa squeezed her fingers, not offering any more advice. They sat together, watching the clouds drift in slow, patient herds across the sky. The light faded, shadows lengthening over the tiles.

After a long time, Erin wiped her eyes and tried to smile. “Sorry. I know you didn’t sign up for this.”

Liesa shook her head. “We are all together.”

They fell into a comfortable silence.