Tough Love

Erin tried to cut through the hotel’s east corridor at an angle that would avoid the main lounge and, by extension, any blue-haired barnacles waiting to attach themselves to her ankles. She had mastered the art of ghosting people before it was called ghosting; the trick was not to walk faster or quieter, but to move as if you had somewhere better to be, a magnetic north that only you could sense. Unfortunately, Sam had always been impervious to misdirection.

“Erin!” The voice snapped down the hallway, loaded with so much confidence that Erin’s stomach dropped. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Sam jogging to catch up, her sneakers squeaking against the marble tile.

Erin tried to keep walking, but Sam moved in front of her and planted both feet, arms folded in that signature way that meant you could save your excuses for someone who cared. “You got a minute?”

“No,” Erin said, not slowing, “I’m already late for...”

Sam blocked her, easy as a turnstile. “There’s nothing scheduled right now.”

Erin rolled her eyes, but didn’t try to sidestep. “Fine. What’s the lecture today, Sam?”

Sam glanced down both sides of the corridor, then leveled a look at Erin that was somewhere between big sister and drill sergeant. “Liesa’s right, you know. You have to talk to Andy.”

Erin made a sound, half laugh, half scoff. “Liesa can mind her own business. She’s not my life coach.”

Sam didn’t move. “Neither am I. But you’re stuck here. We all are. If you keep this up, you’re going to self-destruct, and honestly? I’d rather you didn’t.”

Erin chewed the inside of her cheek, eyes darting past Sam to the window, the floor, anywhere but the human blockade in front of her. “He doesn’t want to talk to me,” she said, quietly. “Not after last time.”

“Wrong,” Sam said, uncrossing her arms and letting them hang loose. “He’s waiting for you to show up. You said he even made dinner for you the last time, Erin. That’s his number-one love language, and you know it.”

Erin flinched. “It’s not about dinner,” she muttered.

Sam softened, just a hair. “No. It’s about you being scared he’ll see you at your lowest. That he’ll think you’re weak, or broken, or whatever other bullshit you tell yourself, if you ask for help.” She stepped closer, voice low. “You know he cares. You know he’ll listen. So what’s really stopping you?”

Erin looked away, and when she spoke her voice was flat. “He can’t fix it. No one can.”

Sam reached out, squeezed Erin’s shoulder. “No one’s asking him to fix it. But you’ll feel better if you just… let him in, even a little.” She grinned. “OK, that came out wrong. Whoops, I did it again. Damn it, I can’t stop! I mean… It’s not like you to run from a fight, Erin.”

For a second, Erin thought about pushing past. About just walking away and never coming back, letting the island swallow her up. But Sam’s words stuck, and underneath the practiced avoidance was a very old, very tired want.

“Okay,” she said, giving up, after a long pause. “I’ll try.”

Sam raised both eyebrows. “Wow. That was easy. You’re practically a pushover.”

Erin glared. “Don’t push it.”

Sam laughed, then gave Erin’s shoulder a quick, reassuring squeeze. “You’ll be fine. I’ll be rooting for you from a safe distance.”

She stepped aside, and Erin started walking. She felt Sam’s gaze on her as she left, the weight of the expectation, the hope that maybe she could pull this off without burning the whole world down in the process.

Erin counted each heartbeat in the elevator, from the lobby to the Suite, willing herself to wait still, as if she were not someone about to detonate from the inside. By the time the elevator stopped and it sent Andy a notification, she felt like a marionette. Her lungs didn’t know how to draw a full breath, her fingers trembled, and her vision had narrowed to a blur at the edges. She stood there for a full ten seconds, hand raised, waiting for her courage to surface. She hoped he wasn’t in the Suite. Or that he didn’t want to see anybody.

But the door opened almost immediately. Andy blinked, like he’d been caught off guard, and for a second he just stood there in his jeans and T-shirt, wearing an apron and holding a spatula. “Erin?” He set the spatula on a side table, wiped his palms on his thighs, and tried to smile. “Sorry, I didn’t expect you. Come in?”

She did, but only just—taking one step inside, then anchoring herself by the wall.

Andy looked her over, concern overt on his face. “You okay?”

Erin gripped her wrist with her opposite hand, squeezing so hard she could feel the bones grind together. “No,” she said, and immediately regretted how small her voice sounded.

Andy nodded, as if that was a perfectly reasonable answer.

“I—” she started, then stopped. Her brain was a jammed printer: she could see the words, but nothing would feed through.

He waited, hands at his sides, not moving any closer.

“I can’t—” She tried again, then bit down on the inside of her lip.

Andy’s eyes softened. “It’s okay,” he said, gentle. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want.”

She braced herself, sucked in air, and said, “I can’t do it. Not without you.”

Andy didn’t flinch. “You mean…?”

She nodded, furious at herself.

He exhaled. “Okay. We can figure it out.”

She glared. “You don’t get it. It’s not some puzzle. It’s a fucking humiliation circuit wired right through my skull. I’m supposed to—” Her cheeks burned so hot she thought her hair would ignite. “I’m supposed to let you watch me. Like I’m a pet, or a zoo animal, or—” She broke off, trembling.

Andy shook his head. “That’s not it. Not to me.”

Erin snorted. “Well, it is to me.”

He looked at her, calm and steady. There was only one reason he could see for her being here. “Do you want to do it here? Or somewhere else?”

Erin barked a laugh that tasted like blood. “Yeah, can we do it in the middle of the cafeteria? Or maybe the pool? I’m sure everyone would love to watch.”

Andy didn’t respond to the sarcasm. Instead, he said, “You could hide behind the couch, just your head showing. The wording doesn’t say I have to see all of you, does it? Or if it’s easier, I could…” He trailed off, face coloring.

She stared at him. “You could what?”

He swallowed. “I could help you. You know.” He timidly raised a hand, and said it like an apology.

Erin felt the room tilt. The offer was… absurd, but for a second she imagined it. His hand, her skin, the gap between what she’d been and what she was now. She remembered those hands. She wanted to say yes, wanted to say no, wanted to dig a hole in the tile and climb down to the old world.

Instead, she folded her arms across her stomach and shook her head. “No,” she said. “No, I… I have to do it myself.”

Andy stepped closer, slow, telegraphing every inch. He stopped just outside her reach. Unknowingly echoing Sam, he said, “It’s not weakness to ask for help.”

She bristled, jaw tightening. “Don’t patronize me, Andrew. This isn’t some therapy session.”

He held up both hands. “Not trying to. I just don’t want you to hurt alone.”

She scoffed, but it came out as a sob.

Andy reached out, and for a second Erin was sure she’d punch him. But instead, she let herself lean into his touch—just his hand on her shoulder, light and warm.

She folded, all at once, the armor melting. She pressed her face into his chest and let herself tremble. He wrapped his arms around her, not tight but solid, and just held on.

They stayed like that, a minute or a lifetime, until Erin could breathe again.

She pulled back, scrubbed her face with both hands, and glared at the ceiling.

Andy said, “Do you want to try now? Or wait?”

Erin weighed her options, which were mostly just flavors of embarrassment. She looked around the Suite, saw her reflection in the window—red-faced, wild-eyed, a stranger. She shook her head. “I can’t,” she blubbered.

Andy nodded. “That’s okay.”

She stepped back, shaking. “Sorry,” she managed. “I’ll try again later.”

He watched her, and for a second she saw the real Andy—the one who never gave up on some things, even when he should.

But he had given up on her. Hadn’t he? She turned on her heel and walked out, the elevator’s door closing behind her.

Andy stood there, arms at his sides, listening to her footsteps fade. The kitchen still smelled of onions and butter, and the sun still glowed through the curtains. But everything felt different.

He walked back to the counter, put the spatula aside, picked up the knife, and started chopping again, methodical and slow. He wondered if there was a recipe for helping someone you’d already broken. Setting down the knife, he and looked out the window, at the wide blue ocean and the horizon beyond.

The hours between the end of the day and the night date always felt to Andy like a hangover without the party. The Suite was silent but for the small clicks of the air system. Liesa would be here tonight. Erin was somewhere on the property, probably staring down the horizon and refusing to process last night, or today’s meeting.

Andy wandered from room to room, restless. He ran the shower for longer than was needed. He even tried to nap, but the sheets smelled too much like last night (a trace of Erin’s shampoo, blue-violet and sharp) and he gave up after ten minutes. By seven-thirty, he was up, pacing the Suite like a caged animal.

He found himself in the bedroom, where Katherine’s painting was propped on the wall, still as a portrait should be. She was in her usual pose, legs straight and arms at her sides, but her eyes were different—clouded, if that was possible, in the slick surface of oil paint. He realized he’d begun to talk to her without meaning to.

“I need your help,” Andy said. “Again.”

Her gaze sharpened, green as ever, but she gave no sign of greeting. He felt a wave of embarrassment, like he’d caught himself talking to a wax statue. Still, he pressed on.

“I need to know something,” he said. “But it’s not just for me. It’s for everyone here.” He sat on the edge of the bed, hands hanging between his knees. “Why do you trust Arabella? After all this time. After everything she did.”

Katherine’s painted brow furrowed. She flexed the fingers of her right hand, then lifted her palm, as if weighing something invisible. Then, slowly, she mimed lifting a mask off her face, holding it high, then flinging it away.

Andy frowned. “You think she’s changed. I get that. But how can you be sure? She’s still running the show. Still… doing this.” He gestured to the painting. “You think she’s different now, but what if that’s just her new mask?”

Katherine’s frustration was immediate. She started to gesture, first to herself, then to the floor, then to her head, then back to Andy, as if she were trying to pull the idea from her brain and paste it into his. She tried again, this time forming her hands into a heart, then crushing it, then spreading her palms wide, as if scattering the pieces.

He watched, trying to follow. “You mean… she regrets what happened to you?” he asked. “Or to the others?” He couldn’t stop the question: “What did happen, to the others?”

Katherine stilled. She closed her eyes for a long moment, then looked at Andy, and mimed, very deliberately, drawing a finger across her throat. Then, opening her eyes, she brought both hands to her belly, cradling it, then let her arms drop, limp. She stomped on it. She took on a terrified pose, and froze for a moment. Then she covered her face, then **** herself to lower her hands, meeting his gaze.

He swallowed. “Jesus.”

Katherine’s lips twisted into a grimace. She spread her hands, palms up, then pointed at herself, then at the room, then back at Andy. She gave a little shrug, as if to say, Could be worse.

Andy exhaled. “So, you think you’re lucky.”

She nodded. Then, with a sudden ferocity, she jabbed a finger at Andy, then at her own temple, and then made a circling gesture with her fist, like winding a spring.

He frowned. “You think I’m going in circles,” he said. “That I can’t see past... what? My own fear?”

Katherine nodded, then pointed at him again, then at her heart, then mimed handing it over.

He thought he saw it then. “You want me to trust you,” he said. “Not Arabella. You.”

Katherine clapped once, sharp, then flashed both hands open in a gesture of victory. Then, softer, she pointed at Andy, then at her own face, then towards the window—arms held high in her signature Host posture—then made a slow, deliberate X with both arms.

Andy grinned, sad. “You’re saying I dont’ have to trust her, but I should trust you about her.” He let the thought settle. “That’s… a lot.”

Katherine looked at him, lips pressed tight. She gestured, small and precise, to the edge of her own frame, then at Andy, then back to the wall. She shook her head, then pointed at her mouth, frustrated, and traced a single finger along the invisible barrier between her and the room.

He saw the point. “You can’t say what you want,” he said. “You’re stuck behind glass. And you can’t speak or spell. And you can’t communicate what you know because it’s too complex for the gestures you’re allowed to do.”

She rolled her eyes, then made a slow, theatrical golf clap.

Andy stood up, feeling the need to move. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s try something different.” He began to pace the length of the room, keeping his eyes on her. “Last night, I thought I understood the pattern. I thought Arabella was just taking whatever fear the women had, and making it real. Or, making them live with it, until it broke them or made them stronger.” He stopped, facing her. “But then Claire showed me something. Something that didn’t fit. And now I think there’s something else going on.”

He didn’t say what Claire had found. He wasn’t ready to share the note with anyone yet—not until he knew what it meant.

“So,” he said, “here’s my theory. You tell me if I’m off base.” He held up a finger. “One: the transformations aren’t just punishments. They’re… tests. But also, traps. If you find a way to live with them, and win, you get to keep yourself. If you don’t, you end up like—” He broke off, gesturing at the painting. “Or worse.”

Katherine nodded, then made a little spiral in the air with her index finger.

“Two,” Andy went on, “the whole game is designed to break the Contestants. Or the Master. Or both. But you’re saying that’s not how it’s supposed to be anymore. That Arabella is different now.”

Katherine hesitated, then gave a slow, measured nod.

“But why?” Andy asked. “Why would she change the rules, now? What’s the point?”

She went still. Then, with elaborate precision, she mimed taking off a necklace—something precious—and holding it out to him. Then she shrugged. She ran a finger over her throat, and made a face. She shrugged again. After that, she shook her head, slow and sad, and pointed at Andy, then at her own heart.

"You think… she lost something? That she's… what, making amends?"

Katherine made a gesture: both hands up, then one hand slicing the other palm. Half and half.

"Then why can’t you say what it is?"

She pointed to her head, then at him, then at herself, then shook her hands as if trying to shake off water. Andy understood: she didn't know, either. Or couldn't know. Or—more likely—the knowledge itself was poison, or forbidden.

He watched her, feeling the swirl of doubt and hope inside. "Did she put you here to mess with me?" he asked. "Did she put you in this Suite to taunt me? To say, ‘Here’s the answer to all your questions, but she’ll never be able to tell you?’"

Katherine didn't move for a full ten seconds. Then she let her head drop, shoulders sagging in the frame, before looking up at him with an expression that radiated apology. She shrugged, palms up, the classic: Maybe. I wish I knew.

"God," Andy said. "If I could just get one honest answer in this place…"

Katherine nodded, once, giving him a rueful smile.

He said, "So, why, in all that, do you still think I should trust Arabella? How do I know it's not another trick?"

Katherine closed her eyes, breathing deep, as if centering herself. Then she started to gesture again, this time more frantic: hands steepled at her forehead, then fingers splayed outward in a firework burst; hands clutching her chest, then fingers clawing at the canvas; hands at her sides, palms up, then a slow, **** push against the invisible wall. Over and over, she tried to string something together, but every time it ended with her hands falling limp, then fisting in fury.

She slumped, spent, head bowed. Then, with a kind of stubborn dignity, she looked at Andy and simply nodded. Not a plea, or a command. Just: Yes. Trust her.

Andy felt a hot pulse of anger. "That's not good enough, Katherine. I need a reason. Anything."

She mimed a single tear running down her face, then wiped it away. She brought her hands together, palms pressed, and then moved them apart in slow, mirrored arcs—like opening a curtain, or drawing a veil away from the truth. She held them there, trembling, then dropped them.

Andy shook his head. "Is this what Arabella always did? Did she lull the Masters into thinking they were different, that they could fix the system, and then… what? Tear it all down in the end?"

Katherine considered, then gave a small, deliberate nod. Then, she mimed taking a mask off her face—again—and this time she crushed it in her hands before letting the fragments fall. She looked at him, and there was something naked in her expression. She touched her chest, and then extended a hand toward him, palm up.

He almost wanted to laugh. "You're saying this time is different."

She nodded, hand still outstretched, an offer she couldn't voice.

Andy stared at her, trying to absorb the certainty she was radiating. But all he could feel was the endless chasm between the world as he saw it, and the world she was trying to describe. In the end, he just felt tired.

He slumped onto the end of the bed, facing her. "I don't know if I can," he admitted. "Not after what Claire found. Not after what you just showed me."

She watched him, silent, then mimed a key, turning it in a lock.

"You think I'm missing something?" he said. "That I don't have all the information?"

She nodded. Then, careful, she mimed sewing her own lips shut, eyes shining. She pointed at Andy, then at the painting, and then up, toward the ceiling, or the sky, or maybe the invisible gods that ran this place.

He got it, then. She couldn’t say. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she literally couldn’t. What little communication she had been left with, when she had been trapped, or perhaps even before then, was not nearly enough.

He wanted to scream. Instead, he just looked at her, seeing her for the first time as a collaborator, a prisoner, maybe even a friend. Hell, she was knockout gorgeous, sexy, and couldn’t even hide: he would have lied if he had said he didn’t have a dream or two about her. But he had to wonder… Was she fully on his side? The question saddened him, a little, because he wanted the answer to be ‘yes’, but he might not be able to find out until the end. He would have to make a decision, whether to trust her or hold something back.

She looked back at him, a sad smile on her face, as if she knew what he was thinking, and for a second, neither of them needed to say anything.

The clock said seven forty-five. He had fifteen minutes to get his head together before Liesa arrived. He stood, stretching the stiffness from his back. "Thank you," he said, voice thick. "Even if it doesn't help."

Katherine winked, then gestured: shoo, shoo.

He managed a half smile. "Fine. I’ll let you get back to your flowers."

He left the painting in the bedroom, but propped it so she could see the rest of the room, and him, and maybe even a sliver of the stars when the sky darkened.

He closed the door softly, then stood in the hallway, alone with his thoughts. He didn’t know what he hoped would happen next, but he knew he was tired of charades.