Footprints in the Sand, Part 2

Mid-morning on the lawn, where the grass was already thirsty for sun, Erin and Claire sat at the battered stone edge of the firepit, last night’s coals cold and flecked with petals from the nearby hibiscus hedges. The hush around them made it easy to imagine the world had shrunk to just the two of them, and the slow, directional sweep of the ocean breeze.

Erin hunched forward with her arms wrapped around her knees, Cubs cap low over her eyes, half watching the writhing patterns of ash in the pit. Every so often she’d grab a stick and poke at the mess, as if maybe she could rekindle something from the charred remains. She said nothing at first—just a series of loaded silences, followed by the dull thunk of a rock tossed into the coals.

Next to her, Claire sat tailor-fashion, notebook balanced on her knee. Cat ears up, tail curled tight around her ankle, she looked like she was listening for something just beyond the range of human hearing. She wore the same blue dress as yesterday, the fabric faded in places, and every time she finished a line of writing, she’d tap her pen thoughtfully on the page.

Neither of them moved first. After a long silence (five, maybe ten minutes) Erin finally gave in.

“I never thought I’d be back here,” Erin said, voice tight and not looking at Claire, but at the skeletal remains of yesterday’s bonfire. She shifted her weight and stamped her heel into the damp grass, grinding it down as if she might tunnel straight through the lawn and out the other side of the world. The words came out clipped and low, more a confession to the wind than to her companion.

A thin silence spun out. Claire’s eyes flicked up, but she only uncapped her pen, poised it over the battered notebook in her lap, and waited. Wind licked at her hair and fluttered the corners of her page.

Erin huffed out a breath and lobbed a crumbly clump of charcoal into the pit. “This sucks. I left him behind after college. I told myself I was done, finally. Then I find him again, just like that, and I finally figure out what I want. We had a night together—best damn night of my life, I think. Yesterday, for the first time in forever, I was happy. And then this morning it hits me: surprise! He’s not mine alone anymore. He’s got seven other women in the mix now.” She ground her heel in harder. “And you, Claire, you’re the one he talks to. You’re the one he laughs with, the one he…” She broke off, jaw tight, and let the next rock drop from her hand.

Claire’s cat ears twitched at that, but she kept her head down, scribbling a few quick words before folding her hands in her lap.

You think I’m competing with you? I thought he cared about all of us.

Erin barked a short, bitter laugh. “Of course he says that. You take it at face value, don’t you? You believe everything he says is true, just because he said it.”

Claire shrugged, once, but her ears flattened a little. Truth was, she did believe Andy. She couldn’t remember when exactly she made that leap, only that it felt natural, inevitable. An unavoidable consequence of her connection to him, perhaps. He’d never given her a reason to doubt him, even when he’d disappointed or frustrated her. He was always honest. Sometimes, even when it hurt.

Erin went on, voice softer now, but every word scraped raw. “Do you know what sucks? Finally realizing what a dumbass you were. Finally realizing how much you still love someone—” She caught herself and flushed, but there was no walking it back. “And then knowing that, even if you get him back, you have to share him now. That’s what this is.” She gestured, not just at the firepit, but at the whole hotel, the island, the game. “I never thought I’d have to fight for him. And now… now it feels like I have to audition every day.”

Claire was quiet for a moment, then wrote, I’m sorry. I don’t want you to feel that way. I didn’t mean to hurt you.

Erin’s laugh was sharp, almost angry. “Of course not. That’s the thing with you, Claire—you’re too busy being nice. You’re not even hearing me.”

I hear you, Claire replied. I really do. I just… don’t know what to say that helps.

Erin stared at the sky, the slow movement of clouds, and blinked fast. “I guess I don’t want you to fix it. Just… I don’t know. Understand it? I’m not as good a person as you. I know that. But I wanted him to pick me.”

Claire nodded slowly.

I understand that you’re upset. I would be too, if I were you.

She found a blade of grass and twirled it between her fingers, then dropped and continued scribbling. I don’t want to take him from you. I just care about him too.

Erin’s eyes narrowed. “So you’re telling me I should just share him peacefully? No jealousy, no frustration?” She shook her head. “You really don’t get it.”

I don’t want us tearing each other apart over him.

Erin let out a breath that trembled halfway between anger and exhaustion. “I’m just… tired, Claire. I thought if I could get him back, I’d find myself again. But I’m not sure that works when there are eight of us.” She paused, looking down at her hands, stained with ash. “Is it really that simple for you?” she said, not quite accusing. “You really don’t care about all this?”

If we love him, does it matter? He’s not a prize. He’s a person. Claire’s huge, pale blue eyes looked at Erin earnestly, as if she truly did not know the answer.

Erin sighed, collapsing onto the bench, exhausted. “Claire, there’s one of him and eight of us, not counting Sam.” Erin’s anger wavered. She swallowed. “Pretty sure they’ll all end up in his bed sooner or later. We’re always going to compete for his time, his attention. That really doesn’t bother you?”

Claire shrugged. I can be a lot sometimes. He probably will need the space.

Erin stared for a long moment, then let out a short, shaky laugh. “You’re something else, Claire.”

The pale-haired girl gave Erin a tiny smile. I want him in my life. But I like all of you. Then, in smaller, hesitant script, she added, I think I have friends now. I don’t want to lose that.

Erin stared at Claire’s handwriting and suddenly felt like she had been punched in the gut.

“Claire… You really think it would work?”

Claire closed her eyes for a moment, then wrote one last line:

It won’t be easy, but I love him and I care about you all and it’s better than being alone.

Erin stared at the words. Then she looked up at Claire’s calm face—and something in the steady quiet cracked the tension in her chest. She took a deep breath, stood, and looked at the smaller woman. She wasn’t sure whether this conversation changed anything, but she needed to think. “You know, back in college, Andy and I used to play this game—‘What if you could have everything you wanted, but only if you shared it?’ He always said yes, every single time. I thought it was a guy thing. But maybe it’s just… him.” She stretched. “Look, Claire, I don’t know how I feel about all this. I don’t like that I cannot see him when I want. I don’t like to think he’ll spend most of each week sleeping with women who aren’t me. I know this is the reality we’re stuck into, but I do not like it. A week ago I would not have cared, but… things have changed. A lot. I don’t want to be just one of eight. Do you understand?”

Claire nodded slowly.

Erin sighed. “Fine.” Not peace, but a truce, until she could figure out how she felt. She studied the pale-haired librarian. “I just wish…” Her lips twisted, as if it hurt her to admit it, “I wish I were enough.” She closed her eyes. “Fuck, I told myself I would never be this pathetic, you know?”

Claire blinked. You know he loves you, right?

Erin gave a short, brittle laugh. “Does he?”

Do you remember my transformation? I know how he feels.

Erin read the message twice, then looked at the catgirl, hesitating. “You…?” Claire nodded. Erin snorted. “Fine. Tell me.”

He loves you. Every time he spoke with you last week, I could sense it. He was sad and hurt and wanted to make you feel better. But the night of the party, he wasn’t sad anymore. He… flared.

“Flared?” Erin asked, confused.

Claire nodded towards the firepit. It was like a big bonfire. He wanted you, but he also loves you. He let himself be **** with you. She hesitated, then added, in smaller script, I wish he could feel the same with me too. Maybe on our next date.

Erin stared at Claire. “A bonfire? Really?” She snorted, but her lips twitched into a small smile. “Well, now.” She hesitated, then, though it cost her something, she said, “Want to go get coffee?”

Claire nodded, and together they walked up the slope, neither quite leading, neither quite following. They passed a patch of wildflowers and Claire stopped to pluck a sprig, offering it to Erin. Erin snorted, then took it, no protest.

They walked in silence. At the door to the Banquet Room, Sam was waiting. She leaned against the frame, arms crossed, watching them with a smirk that said she’d seen the whole thing from the start.

“Wow,” she said, “Did you two just hold hands? Are we at a middle school dance, or did I miss a chapter?”

Erin rolled her eyes. “Shut up, Collins.”

Sam grinned. “I’m just saying, the drama in this place puts reality TV to shame.” She paused, then looked at Claire, who met her gaze without flinching. “You okay?” Sam asked.

Claire nodded, then wrote:

We talked. I think we’re okay.

Sam took the note, read it, and grinned wider. “Good. Because if I had to play referee, I was going to make you both run laps.”

Erin snorted. “You might still need to.”

Sam stuck out her tongue, then gestured inside. “Come on. Bet you two could use a double shot. Of espresso, you drunkards.”

The three walked in together, side by side. Behind them, the firepit smoldered quietly, the last of the smoke curling into the air like a flag of truce.

Inside, the Banquet Room buzzed with soft, early-morning energy: Dawn and Emi at one table, Liesa and Marissa at another, Norah perched by the window with a mug the size of her head. Mildred hovered behind the counter, grinding beans with the sort of enthusiasm only found in cartoon villains and underpaid baristas.

Erin and Claire took a table near the window, Sam sliding in opposite. For a moment, the three just sat, letting the quiet settle.

“Alright,” Sam opened, “Who wants to go first? Because, Erin, I think you should. Looks like you had a great time with Andy, you were so happy yesterday, and today I’m seeing the grumpy Erin we all thought you had left behind.”

“I’m sorry,” Erin said, voice low.

Claire shook her head.

Sam sipped her coffee, then said, “Look, Andy is not going to pick just one of you. It’s just not how this place works. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t. You ask me, I think this makes him the lucky one. He doesn’t have to choose.” She looked at both of them, eyes serious for once. “Most people don’t get that option. They just lose.”

Erin stared into her cup. “I don’t want to lose again,” she said, not to anyone in particular.

Claire wrote, quick and confident:

You won’t.

She passed the note to Erin, who read it quietly.

After a minute, Sam said, “He loves you both,” She went on, voice softer. “Trust me. He tells me stuff. When he thinks he’s being subtle? He’s not. He’s hopeless at hiding it.”

Erin looked down, then muttered, “I just wish I knew what to do.”

Sam grinned. “You keep doing what you’re doing. You both make him better. Claire, you keep him curious: he’s never bored with you, not for a second, and you never judge him. He can open up with you, because you already know how he feels. And Erin, you... keep doing whatever the hell you did last time, because he looked like he won a million dollars the next day. And call him on his bullshit, which he needs. You’re the only one he won’t ignore when he’s self-destructing.”

Claire blushed, then wrote:

What about you?

Sam laughed. “Please. I’m the comic relief and the backup generator. And, apparently, his emotional anchor now.” She rolled her eyes. “Which means every time he gets stuck, I get to be the one to snap him out of it.”

Erin smiled, and Claire did too.

“We should talk to him, you know. All three of us.” Sam grinned, wry. “Before the rest of the house tries to claim him. You girls can get the largest pieces.”

Erin groaned. “You volunteering to lead the intervention?”

Sam shrugged. “I’m always up for a challenge.”

Claire just nodded.

The pool was the only place in the entire compound immune to drama. Even the birds knew this: at the infinity edge, gulls and smaller brown doves pecked for crumbs, as if the threat of water made the very idea of confrontation absurd. You could see the whole of the island from the right angle, but no one at the pool ever looked up that long. The sun made its own gravity.

The early afternoon crowd was thin. Claire, Erin, and Sam were missing. In their place, the pool was claimed by the harem’s quieter members: Marissa floating in lazy orbits, Emi perched on the deck with a notebook and a box of colored pencils, Liesa and Dawn splayed out on adjacent loungers with a shared tray of mango and kiwi (Liesa, incongruously, fully dressed), and, standing awkwardly by the steps, Chloe.

Chloe had dressed for the pool in the way of someone expecting to be invisible: a plain one-piece, a white shirt over it, hair knotted up but already frizzing at the temples. She stood at the border between tile and water, toes gripping the ridge, eyes scanning for a safe landing.

The only spot not taken was at the farthest end, beyond where Emi had colonized the shade with her sketchbook. Chloe hesitated—there was something about Emi that felt delicate, like she could disappear if startled. She felt a certain kinship with that. She edged a little closer, careful not to make any sudden moves.

Marissa had been drifting, slow and meditative, but now she came up for air and called to Emi in a low voice: “You still working on the cartoon?”

Emi didn’t look up. “It’s not a cartoon,” she said, almost shy. “It’s just… practice.”

Marissa nodded, not pressing. She floated a while, then let herself drift toward the infinity lip and trailed both hands along the concrete, eyes closed. Her new transformation—the cleavage, the always-exposed skin—didn’t matter when all she wore was a bikini. Her permanently erect nipples poked throughthe fabric, but somehow, she had so thoroughly integrated that transformation that Chloe no longer noticed it at first glance. Marissa’s face was unreadable, as ever, but she looked more at ease than Chloe remembered from yesterday’s ceremony.

A laugh from the lounge area: Liesa and Dawn. Liesa was fully clothed, down to the buttoned shirt, slacks, and even socks, as if she’d come straight from a Belgian winter instead of a tropical island. Dawn wore her swimsuit and nothing else, legs up on the table. They shared a fork, stabbing fruit in turn, the rhythm so familiar they hardly noticed.

“I am telling you,” Liesa said, “it’s worse with every layer I remove. It feels like I am on fire. Very aroused. But no release.” She took a defiant bite of mango, juice dripping onto her wrist.

Dawn giggled. “You could try the bikini, just once. See what happens.”

Liesa rolled her eyes. “If I wear a bikini, I will want to hump all of you. No, thank you.”

“Check the Commissary,” Dawn said, voice bright. “Emi used it to upgrade her arms. She said it was worth it.”

Liesa looked skeptical. “Didn’t you say the upgrades cost all her points?”

Dawn shrugged. “It’s just points. We’re not taking them home.” She reached over and flicked one of Liesa’s strawberry-blonde braids. “Try it. What’s the worst that can happen? You could probably use an upgrade on your first thing, too.”

Liesa grinned sheepishly. “I will. Thank you”. Dawn went back to her fruit, content.

A few feet away, Emi was hunched over her notebook, all six arms in motion: two for drawing, two for coloring, the top set used to anchor the page and shade it from the breeze. She wore a loose caftan, the sleeves slit to accommodate her extra arms, and a black bikini bottom. Her focus was absolute, but every minute or so she would look up and scan the pool area, as if checking for witnesses. Her cheeks were pink, maybe from sun, maybe from embarrassment.

Chloe watched her, then took a seat at the edge, ankles dangling in the cool blue. Emi glanced over, offered a small wave—awkward, with only one of her many hands—then went right back to her art.

For a while, the scene held a perfect balance: Marissa doing slow laps, Liesa and Dawn sniping in low voices, Emi focused on her page, Chloe with her feet in the water, nothing more dramatic than the occasional flutter of a bird or the slap of a wet towel.

Then Norah appeared, sudden and silent, like a mirage above the shimmering concrete. She wore a deep green sundress that fit her perfectly, hair slicked back, skin glowing with a trace of sunscreen. She walked the perimeter of the pool, ignoring the loungers, and stopped directly in front of Chloe.

“Do you swim?” Norah asked, direct as always.

Chloe blinked. “Not really,” she said. “I mean, I know how, but—”

Norah nodded. “You look like you want to talk but don’t know how to start.”

Chloe’s face flushed, caught out. “I didn’t want to interrupt,” she managed.

Norah shrugged, then eased herself down next to Chloe, dangling her own legs over the edge. “There’s nothing to interrupt. This is the part of the day where we pretend things are normal.”

Chloe risked a glance at the others: Liesa and Dawn were in deep discussion about whether breadfruit was an actual fruit or a vegetable; Marissa floated on her back, eyes closed; Emi was in her own world, still drawing.

Norah followed her gaze. “You don’t have to be nervous,” she said, not unkindly. “We’ve all had worse introductions.”

Chloe nodded, then let the silence stretch. It was Norah who broke it.

“What do you do, back home?”

Chloe’s hands twisted in her lap. “Kindergarten teacher,” she said. “Fourth year, just finished. I had a class of twenty-three.”

Norah whistled. “That’s… masochistic.” She paused. “Or impressive, I suppose.”

Chloe almost smiled. “Some days it’s both.”

“Were they monsters?”

Chloe shook her head. “Not really. Some of them just needed someone to notice them.” She stared at her feet, then at the line where pool and sky met. “It’s the parents that are the real monsters, sometimes.”

Norah laughed—a short, sharp sound. “That’s true everywhere.”

Chloe risked another glance at Emi, who was definitely listening now, six hands slowed to a deliberate pace. Chloe caught her eye, and Emi offered another wave, this time with two hands and a shy smile.

Norah nudged her. “You should tell them about the classroom. I bet they’d like it.”

Chloe’s face froze. “I don’t want to—”

Norah cut her off, gentler this time: “Seriously. Just try.”

Chloe took a breath, then spoke up. “I had this wall in my classroom, where the kids would hang their ‘good job’ stickers. Every Friday, we’d count them, see who had the most. But the twist was, they could give their sticker to another kid if they thought someone else needed it more.”

She looked at the water, unsure if she’d made any sense.

But now Emi had stopped drawing altogether, listening with all six hands folded in her lap. Marissa had drifted closer, and Liesa and Dawn had gone quiet, the talk of breadfruit forgotten.

Chloe cleared her throat. “One week, this girl named Laila came in and she was just… off. Wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t look anyone in the eye. By lunch, the kids had all started giving her their stickers, without me asking. By the end of the day, her setion of the wall was covered in them.”

She felt suddenly self-conscious, but Marissa picked up the thread. “Did it help?”

Chloe nodded, blinking fast. “Yeah. She hugged everyone. The next week, she brought me a drawing. She’d never done that before.”

There was a quiet in which the only sound was the slow trickle of water from the infinity edge.

Emi looked at her, really looked, and said, “That’s beautiful.” She said it with a sincerity that was so unfiltered it almost made Chloe’s throat close up.

Dawn piped in, “That’s how we should do points here.”

Liesa nodded, smiling. “I would give you all my stickers, schat.”

Chloe didn’t know what to say. She settled for smiling, small but real, and for the first time, she did not feel like an invader. The circle had expanded to make space for her.

Emi tore out a sheet from her notebook—a drawing of the pool, all six women rendered in bright, gentle lines. She offered it to Chloe, who took it with both hands, holding it as if it were glass.

Marissa, never one for displays, watched Chloe and then said, “You’re welcome here, you know. For whatever it’s worth.”

Chloe nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

They sat that way a long time: sun on their shoulders, water licking at their ankles, the world on mute except for the slow, shared hum of belonging.

It was a little like being a kid again, Chloe thought—finding a patch of shade on a hot day, letting yourself be quiet, and knowing that, for once, nobody needed you to be anything other than what you already were.

The room at dusk was a box of honeyed glass: windows glowing with that impossible gold, every hard line of the Master’s Suite blurred by the last light pouring in from the west. Andy sat on the edge of his couch, chin in hand, not even looking at the reflection of the sea. He stared at the far wall, at the painting. At her.

Katherine’s world was a field of flowers, fixed and endless and silent. But the way the sunset hit the varnish, the meadow looked like it might be swaying; the grass shimmered, and her skin—a pale, spectral blush—caught every shade of orange and pink the island could muster.

He wasn’t sure what always compelled him to confide in her. Maybe it was loneliness, or maybe the instinct to confess was stronger when the only person listening couldn’t interrupt.

“Arabella told me,” he said, “that this season would be different.” He let the words settle in the room. “She said it would be about healing. About making things right.” He dragged a hand through his hair, eyes never leaving the canvas. “But I keep asking myself,” Andy went on, “if she’s really trying to help us… If she’s as trapped by the rules as we are… then who’s the real enemy here?” His voice was low. “It feels like there’s something I’m not seeing.”

Katherine’s lips parted, but of course there was no voice. Instead, her painted hand drifted upward, index finger raised in a soft “wait.” Her eyes cut, for just a second, toward the window and the distant blue of the pool beyond. Then back to Andy.

“You think it’s about them?” he asked, watching her.

She nodded, slow.

Andy let out a laugh—short, not unkind. “I suppose I’m not as observant as you,” he said. “I spend all day trying to protect everyone, but I can’t even protect myself from the past.”

Katherine shook her head, just once, deliberate.

Andy frowned, unsure. “What, then?”

She gestured as if gathering things in a hug.

Andy swallowed. “All of them? Even Chloe? You really think I should give her a chance? After everything that happened?”

Katherine’s gesture was tender: a slight bow of the head, the hair spilling forward to shade her face, then a return to upright. She didn’t press, but there was a patience in the posture that made Andy feel like a child before a teacher.

He leaned back, letting the couch take his weight. The ceiling’s angles fuzzed in the fading light.

“It’s not easy,” he said. “Forgiving. Even if the other person doesn’t realize what she did needs to be forgiven.”

There was a long, velvet silence, interrupted only by the distant rush of a shower in a guest bath, the faint cry of a night bird outside.

He looked at the painting again. Katherine’s eyes—green, unblinking—were fixed on him, the way a memory sometimes fixed itself to the backs of your eyelids.

“Is that what you want, too?” he asked, almost joking. “You want me to forgive?”

The tiniest movement: a lift of the painted shoulders, as if to say, Only if it’s true.

He reached out, hand hovering an inch from the canvas. He didn’t touch it, not quite. “I wish I could hear you,” he said.

And he did.

Maybe that was why, when he looked one last time, he thought—just for a second—that Katherine’s painted face was a little sadder.

Sighing, he stood and prepared for date night with the whirlwind that was Sam.