Chloe's Night

They left the other women behind in the Banquet Hall. Chloe didn't say a word, just took Andy’s hand and towed him through the echoing corridors. Her grip wasn't strong, but it was unyielding, like she could drag him all the way to the ocean if she set her mind to it. Andy was surprised: he had never seen Chloe this determined, even back in high school.

They walked in silence. She didn’t slow at the front doors, didn’t pause at the carved wooden archway, just led him out onto the broad sweep of lawn sloping down to the sea. The sun was starting to set, the sky already bruised and molten at the edges, painting the grass in a color that didn’t exist in any other hour of the day.

Chloe stopped at the very edge, where the lawn ended and the sand began, and folded her arms tightly across her chest. Andy could see her knuckles whiten. She stared straight ahead, out at the low tide and the distant smudge of the volcano.

He waited, but Chloe was determined to be the first to speak. She **** it out in one breath, almost a whisper: "I know I’m the one leaving tomorrow. You don’t have to pretend."

Andy blinked, caught off guard. “What? No—Chloe, that’s not—”

She shook her head, hair catching the last light. “I can count, Andy. I’ve watched shows like this one. It’s always the new girl, and I’m—" Her voice wobbled, then steadied. "I’m not dumb. I just wanted to say it to your face. You deserve that much.”

He swallowed. “Chloe, I’ve done this speech with half the girls here. Every one of them swore it was over before it started.”

She laughed, but it came out as a tremor. “Maybe. But it’s different for me. I never got the chance to… to have a real moment with you. Not like the others.”

He started to protest, but she pressed on, her hands now balling into fists under her arms. “It’s my fault. I should have been bolder. Should have tried to talk to you, find out why you were always—" She faltered, then finished in a rush: "Why you were always running from me.”

Andy felt a flush of guilt, shame threading its way into his gut. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s not what I meant to do. I just—”

She held up a hand, not looking at him. “Please. Let me finish?”

He closed his mouth.

Chloe drew a breath, let it out. “If I had been less afraid of ruining the happiness for everyone else, maybe I would have made it. Maybe I would have fought for it. But I’ve always been—” She glanced at him, then away. “I’ve always been the one who waits her turn. I wanted to do it differently, but I didn’t know how.”

Andy wanted to reach out, touch her arm, but something about her stance—rigid, braced—kept him still.

He tried again, softer. “Chloe, if you wanted to do things different, then do it now. There’s still time.”

She looked at him, really looked, and he saw tears threatening at the corners of her eyes, not quite ready to fall. “You mean it?”

“I do. You can do anything you want,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

That got a laugh, too, but it was smaller, almost private. “You’re very convincing, Andy Cooper. Too bad you weren’t around when I was sixteen.”

He risked a step closer, hands open and empty. “What would you have done then?”

Chloe tilted her head. “Maybe I would have… never mind.” She shook it off, then took a sudden, decisive step past him, pivoting on her heel toward the service path leading away from the main building. “Come with me. Please.”

He followed, a step behind, and realized she was leading him away from the others, down a gentle slope past the hedge maze and the overgrown tennis court. The path was dirt, then gravel, then dust. At the end of the path, half hidden by palm and the sag of heavy bougainvillea, sat a small, white-washed building: the Memory Cabana.

Andy slowed, uncertain. “How—? I thought this was locked down.”

Chloe gave him a look that was mostly mischief, a little proud. “I spent my Bonus Points on a 24-hour unlock. I wanted it to be a surprise.” She hugged herself again. “It seemed important.”

Chloe 3475 BP - 1000 BP = 2475 BP

Andy smiled, and the act of smiling made him realize how tense he’d been. “Let’s do it,” he said, and Chloe grinned back, the expression brighter than he’d seen all day.

The inside of the Cabana was cramped, the walls scoured pale by salt air and sunlight. The only real furnishing was the candelabra, a strange black iron thing that stretched from floor to eye level, its three arms ending in curls like question marks. The candle at the top was already set—white wax with a blue wick, unlit. Andy realized he had never been here in the flesh, before.

Chloe pulled the door closed behind them, and the sudden quiet was total. The air felt colder, heavier inside, as if the room held its own atmosphere separate from the world outside. Andy glanced at her, waiting for her to take the lead.

She did, but her hands were shaking so badly she fumbled the lighter twice before she could get the candle lit. The blue flame flared, then settled into a steady, almost electric glow. Smoke drifted upward, then curled downward, swirling around their feet and filling the space with a subtle, spicy scent—somewhere between cinnamon and cold stone.

Chloe stepped back, leaving Andy in the center, and the light began to shift: growing brighter, then fading, then flickering in patterns that seemed to move in time with the rhythm of their breathing.

She whispered, “It’s supposed to play the memory, like a movie. I heard the other girls used this in the previous challenge, to show you something true about themselves. I wasn’t there… and I want to do the same.”

Andy nodded, awed by the ritual quality of the moment. “I’m ready.”

Chloe took his hand in hers, this time holding it gently, and swirled the smoke with the other hand. Together they watched as the smoke began to pulse and take shape. The room grew colder, then warmer, and as the blue haze thickened, it became impossible to tell where the present ended and the past began.

He could feel her trembling through their joined hands, but she didn’t flinch or let go. Instead, Chloe squeezed tighter, determined to see it through. The first images began to form in the smoke, the colors ghostly but the shapes so familiar Andy felt his stomach drop.

He looked at Chloe, and her eyes were fixed on the light, as if nothing else mattered in the world.

She said, “Watch,” and the room obeyed.

The smoke thickened, settling first at their knees, then rising, cool and tinged with a faint, medicinal sharpness. A hush fell over the room—a hush so deep, Andy could hear the slow thump of Chloe’s pulse through their joined hands.

The world around them flickered. For a split second, Andy thought the candle had blown out, but then the air itself turned liquid, the colors pooling and swirling, and the walls of the Cabana vanished.

In their place, a memory: Chloe, maybe six years old, hiding behind a battered hardcover of The Tale of Peter Rabbit in a classroom that looked like it had never seen sunlight. The little girl peered over the spine at the other children, watching them laugh and jostle each other at a round table. Chloe’s hands shook so badly the book’s pages quivered. Even in memory, she tried to make herself invisible.

A teacher’s voice—warm but impatient—called her name. “Chloe? Would you like to come up and read?”

Memory-Chloe shook her head, tucking her chin into her chest. The real Chloe, standing beside Andy, mirrored the motion exactly. Her hair, even in memory, was a curtain: a screen she could retreat behind.

The memory faded. Another took its place: Chloe at a birthday party, standing against the wall as other girls shrieked with laughter over a pile of presents. Her dress was too tight at the armpits, the lace itchy. She smiled only when someone else looked at her; otherwise, she stayed silent, twisting the hem of her skirt until it nearly tore.

The next memory came in quietly, like a tide that had always been there just below the surface. It was a dinner table scene, but not the soft-lit, laughing kind from commercials. Chloe sat wedged between her older brother and sister—both of them taller, louder, more vivid in every way—at a rectangular table that looked a size too big for the dining room, the edges crowding the walls. Her brother recounted something about a science project, gesturing with his fork until green bean fragments speckled the placemat. Her sister monologued about a friend’s party, rehearsing every detail as if it were a comic monologue, not a story to be shared. Their mother played the host, refilling glasses and making little noises of encouragement, while their father remained a fixed point at the table’s end, eyes focused on the small TV, watching the newscaster as if they were a divine revelation, his face crunched into a frown.

Chloe, caught in the middle, tried to wedge a sentence into the conversation. She waited for a pause, but there never was one. When she finally blurted out, “Today we made owl masks in art,” the words flopped onto the tablecloth and lay there, ignored. Her mother didn’t look up. Her brother snorted, still chewing. Her father, without looking, fired off: “Not now, Chloe.” The memory of his voice was sharp as vinegar, and she drew into herself, chin tucking in, shoulders rising. Over the meal, she said nothing, just watched as the food on her plate cooled and congealed while the rest of her family’s conversation orbited on without her, a planet unvisited.

The present Chloe—solid, trembling—stood even closer to Andy now, and he could feel her hand clutching his so tightly her nails dug into the web between his thumb and finger. He looked over, searching her face for anger, but there was only a kind of weary resignation, the sort that comes from living the same moment so many times it carves a groove in your memory.

The memory dissolved, smoke swirling in its place with a faint, bitter twist.

Then the images ramped up, coming faster, a series of quick flashes with no clear chronological sequence. Chloe, five years old, on her first day at a new school, standing alone by the coat racks with her lunch box clutched to her chest while the other kids formed packs and ran amok. Chloe on the playground, trying to work up the courage to ask if she could join the jump rope game, hovering at the edge of the asphalt and pretending to tie her shoes until the bell rang and she could escape the possibility of rejection.

The time she tripped during gym class, sneakers catching on a loose shoelace. She went down hard, palms skidding raw on the linoleum, and the snickers started before she even hit the floor. The gym teacher, a brisk woman with little patience for gentle souls, barked “Walk it off, Chloe,” as if bruises were something only imaginary children collected. Her cheeks burned; she walked it off.

Another memory: in sixth grade, Chloe **** herself to raise her hand in science class. She had rehearsed her question the night before, even written it out on a notecard hidden in her desk. But when Mrs. Holliday called on her, she fumbled the words and her voice came out too quiet, squeaky at the end. The teacher frowned, classmates tittered, and Chloe felt herself shrink another inch, her body trying to fold in on its own embarrassment.

Christmas at her grandmother’s house. Chloe dressed in a stiff, powder-blue dress, sat on the plastic-covered couch and waited for her turn to open presents. Her aunt, the one who bathed in perfume and left lipstick smears on every cup, declared in a voice meant to carry: “What a little shrinking violet!” as she patted Chloe on the head. The phrase stuck. Her siblings and cousins picked it up, tossing it around at every gathering, a gentle needle, harmless in intent but slicing just the same.

The scenes flickered past: Chloe watching from her bedroom window as the neighbor kids played flashlight tag, too shy to join; Chloe at the back of a birthday party, holding a balloon string and smiling when she thought someone was looking; Chloe writing stories in a spiral notebook, never showing them to anyone. Each vignette carried the same, deep undertow: the world moving just a bit too fast, too loud, Chloe always just a beat behind, or outside altogether.

The last flash caught Andy by surprise: it wasn’t even a big moment, just a freeze-frame of Chloe at a middle school dance, perched on the edge of a folding chair while pop music thudded through the gymnasium. She wore a dress that didn’t fit, hair bunched in a lumpy bun, arms crossed over her lap. The gym lights stuttered; the other kids swirled past in clusters. For a second, she looked up and the memory-Chloe’s eyes met his, or seemed to, as if she could see through the years and all the walls between them.

At first, Andy felt like a voyeur. But then he realized that this—this entire avalanche of remembered shame—was exactly what Chloe wanted him to see.

The images started to speed up, dissolving into a fast-forwarded series of Chloe growing taller, her hair longer, her face changing from round to heart-shaped. Through it all, she remained quiet, always just outside the ring of other people’s joy.

Then, abruptly, the memories stopped at a hallway: fluorescent lights, battered lockers, a trophy case filled with the usual hollow brags. Chloe, now thirteen, wore a plain yellow sweater, one sleeve pulled down over her fist. She hovered at the mouth of the hallway, peeking around the edge like a burglar.

The clock on the wall read 3:16. Chloe’s hand trembled as she checked her watch—3:18—then ducked back, breathing hard.

From a side door, a girl with curly brown hair burst out, cheeks flushed, eyes wild with excitement. “He’s here! He’s by the gym already!” she said, bouncing up and down. “Go, go, go!”

Chloe shook her head. “I can’t, Nina. I’m not—" Her voice, even in memory, sounded like it was afraid of itself.

The other girl rolled her eyes, then grabbed Chloe’s hand and hauled her down the hallway. “He totally likes you, okay? I’m sure he does. Why else would he ask you to meet him? Just be bold for once, please, Chloe?”

The doors to the gymnasium loomed large and glossy in the half-light, their narrow glass slits revealing nothing of the echoing space beyond. Chloe and her friend, Nina, stood just outside, peeking at the boy who waited alone on the far end of the cinderblock corridor. He looked as if he’d been sculpted from gangly uncertainty, a scarecrow in sneakers and a school-issue polo shirt, his hair violently static from either bed or the wind. Even in recollection, Andy seemed to radiate a gentle confusion, arms folded tightly across his chest in a posture somewhere between defense and self-embrace.

Nina leaned in close, her words a rapid whisper: “He’s totally looking at you. Don’t chicken out, Chloe.”

Chloe’s mouth was dry; her heart thudded so violently, she was certain even the memory could hear it. She was suddenly acutely aware of the prickle of her sweater against her skin, the sharp tang of gym floor wax, the metallic taste of adrenaline. She risked another glance at Andy—saw him glance back, then instantly away, cheeks coloring bright beneath the thin mask of indifference. He scuffed a shoe against the linoleum, the sound sharp and brittle.

Nina gave her a nudge. “Go. Now. Or I’ll do it for you.”

Chloe shot her friend a look of pure, unadulterated terror, but Nina only grinned and shoved her forward, propelled by a **** more ancient than reason or will: the **** hope that maybe, just maybe, the world would see her the way she wanted to be seen.

The hallway seemed to stretch as Chloe crossed it, every step drawing out a decade of longing and doubt. She could see the faint, nervous quiver in Andy’s jaw, the way he bit his lip and looked everywhere but at her, and she wondered if he was as scared as she was. Maybe that would make it easier.

They stopped a safe distance apart—close enough that Chloe could smell the faintest trace of Andy’s deodorant, some awkward scent meant to invoke adventure or night air but mostly just smelled like chemicals and hope. He didn’t speak at first, and neither did she. It was as if both of them were waiting for the other to blink, to say something, to make the world less terrifying.

Nina, sensing her work was done, melted into the background of the memory, a supporting character whose job was to set the scene, then vanish. Now it was just Chloe and Andy, the only two people in existence. The silence ached between them.

At last, Andy spoke, voice pitched higher than he’d intended. “Hey, Chloe. Can we talk?” He tried to sound casual, but the little hitch in the middle betrayed him.

Chloe nodded, too quick, and managed to squeak out, “Okay.”

Even in memory, she could not stand still. She twisted the sleeve of her sweater until a loose thread unraveled between her fingers. Her weight shifted from one foot to the other, creating a subtle rocking motion as her eyes darted from Andy's untied shoelace to his Adam's apple and back again.

Andy took a deep, shaky breath. "So, um... I heard something from Nina. That you like me? Like, not just as friends?" His voice cracked on the word "friends," and he cleared his throat. "You're really cool, Chloe, but I don't... I don't feel that way about you."

God, Nina, Chloe thought, her stomach plummeting through the floor. The fluorescent lights suddenly seemed too bright, too exposing. Her carefully rehearsed speech—the one with just enough self-deprecation to survive rejection—evaporated from her mind like morning dew.

Her body moved before her brain could stop it. One moment, she was standing there, frozen in humiliation, and the next, she was pressing her lips against his, as if this one **** act could rewrite his feelings. His mouth was warm, slightly chapped at the corner. She tasted mint lip balm and felt the soft brush of peach fuzz above his lip. Three thundering heartbeats passed before she pulled away, mortified equally by her boldness and the stunned look on his face.

“I really like you,” she blurted, the words tumbling out in a single, unbroken stream. “Ihavealwayslikedyou. Movies? We could go? Or anything really—”

Her voice cracked; every nerve in her body screamed for her to run, to disappear into the floor or combust on the spot. But she stayed. If only for the second or two it took for Andy to collect himself.

His eyes were wide, startled, but not angry. There was kindness there, the sort that made her want to cry—because she knew, in that instant, what the answer was going to be.

He took a step back, hands rising as if to steady a wild animal. “Wait, I—what?” His face was a storm of confusion and sympathy, mouth open, searching for the right words.

Chloe’s cheeks went so hot she was sure the gym lights would explode. She tried to muster a smile, to play it off as a joke, but her face refused to cooperate. Instead, she stood there, blinking, mortified and raw, until Andy spoke again.

“I just wanted to talk,” he said, softer now, his eyes still a little wild. “I heard from someone that you were going to ask me out tomorrow, in front of everyone?” He ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up even worse. He looked at her, then down at his shoes, then back at her, anxious, earnest. “I just—” He paused, as if the rest of the sentence was too heavy to lift. “I just didn’t want you to get hurt. You’re really nice, Chloe. Truly. But I… I like someone else. I thought if I told you in private, it wouldn’t be as difficult.”

She wanted to laugh, or scream, or die, but mostly she wanted to disappear. A movement flickered in her peripheral vision—someone watching? Her stomach clenched. The fluorescent lights buzzed like angry wasps. Her lips still tingled where they'd touched his.

Memory-Andy reached out, awkward. "You're really cool, though," he added, voice cracking. "Anyone would be lucky to go out with you. I just… I have feelings for someone already. I'm sorry."

The first hot tear spilled before she could stop it. Then another. And another.

"Oh god," she choked out, backing away, nearly tripping over her own feet. Her chest heaved with a ragged inhale. She turned and ran, sneakers squeaking against the waxed floor, vision blurring as she fled. Behind her, she heard Andy call her name, but she was already gone, sprinting around the corner, past lockers that swam in her vision, past curious stares, past everything until she found the empty girls' bathroom where she could finally, finally break.

Real Chloe—her hand clutching Andy’s so tight it hurt—made a small, choked sound.

The memory faded, the edges of the gym dissolving into fog. But Chloe’s embarrassment, her shame, remained corporeal, thick in the air.

Andy looked at Chloe, saw her jaw locked tight, tears pooling but refusing to fall.

But the Cabana wasn’t finished with them. The first scene faded, not with a gentle dissolve but with a shudder, leaving Chloe and Andy standing side by side in smoky, disorienting limbo until the next memory coalesced.

They found themselves in a different hallway, one softer, dimmer, lined with low shelves and peg hooks each burdened with a rainbow of miniature backpacks and jackets. The air trembled with the nervous laughter of children, tinny music, the underlying white noise of a thousand small chaos engines. The walls were painted with murals of cartoon animals and broad, joyful flowers, but even in this environment engineered for cheer, there was a sense of quiet constraint. Chloe crouched near the end of the line, not a child anymore, but not an adult as Andy knew her—maybe twenty-four, twenty-five, dressed in a faded, sunflower-print sundress and an expression of total, quiet focus. She concentrated on tying a little girl’s sneaker, fingers nimble, the motion practiced.

The child in question, a kindergarten-age sprite with brown pigtails and one front tooth missing, leaned into Chloe with the unconditional trust only small children possess. When the second shoe was tied and Chloe made to withdraw, the little girl wrapped her arms around Chloe’s neck and squeezed with all her might. Chloe blinked in surprise, then embraced the girl, squeezing her tight. She whispered something into the child’s ear, words lost in the ambient hum, but the little girl’s eyes lit up. She beamed, nodded emphatically, and ran off in the direction of a cluster of friends by the play mat.

Chloe, still kneeling, watched her go. For a second, Andy thought she might smile, but instead she wiped at her cheeks, stealing a moment to herself while the children lost themselves in play. She rose stiffly, hugged her own elbows, and retreated to a corner of the room, an observer by nature and by habit. She watched the other children—watched them form alliances, make up games, crown and uncrown each other as best friends. Chloe’s gaze tracked them with a longing that was both maternal and profoundly lonely. Even here, in a place built for togetherness, she was on the outside, looking in.

They watched as the scene repeated, day after day, with variations: Chloe arriving early to unlock the classroom, Chloe coaching a shy child through writing her name, Chloe refereeing a sandbox dispute. The children loved her, that much was clear. But with the adults—the teachers, the parents—she melted into the background, always standing a little apart, the assistant whose name no one quite remembered.

The blue smoke shimmered, shifting the scene again, and now Chloe was older: closer to her current age, maybe, though her face retained the same watchfulness. She sat in a cramped apartment, the kind that probably cost too much for what it offered, with a view of the same brick wall from every window. The lighting was all wrong—one harsh overhead bulb, supplemented by the cold glow of a laptop screen. Chloe perched cross-legged on a fraying couch, a stack of papers beside her and a red pen moving with mechanical efficiency. She read, marked, set the page aside, repeated. Her posture was meticulous, every movement small, contained.

Andy noticed the box almost immediately. It sat on the coffee table, visible in every angle the Cabana provided. It was shoebox-sized, covered in wrapping paper printed with clouds and rainbows, and labeled with a sticker that read, “HAPPY MEMORIES.” Every so often, Chloe would look at the box, as if waiting for permission, or courage, or a sign. She’d reach toward it, then stop herself, biting her lip, and return to her work. The temptation of the box was a gravitational constant, but she resisted, every single time.

The apartment’s silence was a character unto itself—an oppressive, deliberate quiet. There were no roommates, no music, no partner, no phone calls. The only sounds were the scribble of the pen and, sometimes, the faintest hum of the refrigerator cycling on and off. Andy felt the loneliness in his own chest, like static.

The montage bounced back and forth in time. Now Chloe in her mid-twenties, hair a little shorter, smile a little more tentative, at a party she clearly didn’t want to be at. She stood near the back of a crowded room, a plastic cup held with both hands, watching as friends—if that was the right word—laughed and flirted and took endless selfies. Every so often, someone would beckon her over. Chloe would oblige, pose for a picture, make a joke, and then slide away. She existed in a state of perpetual almost-inclusion, welcomed but not necessary.

There were more dates. Always the same: someone else arranged it, a well-intentioned friend or a determined co-worker. The boys were kind enough, and some even genuinely liked her, but Chloe never once looked anything but anxious. She would smile, laugh at the right moments, nod along to stories, but her eyes always wandered. She paid more attention to the waiter than the table, more attention to the couples around her than to her own companion. It was as though the part of her that might have reached out or hoped had curled up and gone into hiding, long ago.

For a while, the vignettes cycled between the classroom and the apartment. Chloe the teacher, beloved by children. Chloe the woman, alone. Chloe opening her box of Happy Memories, only to shut it again without peeking inside. The scenes became so repetitive Andy wanted to scream at the memory, shake her by the shoulders, pull her out of the loop.

But the Cabana, like any good tormentor, was just getting started.

The blue smoke darkened, crackling with static, and with a sick lurch Andy saw Chloe—maybe one, two years younger than now—seated on the edge of a doctor’s exam table. She wore a paper gown, bare legs dangling above the sterile floor. Her hands balled the fabric around her knees; her eyes were huge, fixed on the wall clock, which ticked with the slow, predatory rhythm of a creature savoring its meal.

The door opened and a nurse entered, one of those brisk, practiced professionals whose job it was to shuttle patients between waiting and wondering. The nurse handed Chloe a slim white envelope, sealed, and left without preamble. The room felt suddenly cavernous, the air pressure dropping as memory-Chloe stared at the envelope, then at her own reflection in the shiny metal exam lamp. She looked so young in the mirror, so desperately unprepared for bad news.

She opened it with trembling fingers. The first thing Andy saw was how Chloe’s face crumpled—not just sadness, but something devastating, primordial, a collapse so total it emptied even the memory of color and sound. For a heartbeat, the world stopped: not just in the memory, but in the Cabana, and possibly, Andy thought, in every reality that ever existed.

Chloe read the page. Her eyes flickered over the words again and again, as if reading them more times would change their meaning, or lessen the blow. She pressed the sheet to her chest, slid off the exam table, and collapsed onto the cold tile floor. She sobbed without sound, without breath, her whole body wracked in a way that suggested she’d reached the limit of physical pain and kept going. Her hands covered her face, but nothing could shield her from the enormity of what she had just learned.

In the real Cabana, Chloe let go of Andy’s hand. She stepped forward, reaching for the memory version of herself, but of course she couldn’t touch it. The woman on the floor cried and cried, and no one came. The sheet of paper flew out of her hand, landed partially crumpled on the floor. Andy’s gaze was drawn to one sentence, and he did not know if it was by coincidence: “Ovarian reserve testing shows no viable eggs remaining. Pregnancy is not a viable possibility. We recommend discussing family planning options.”

Andy’s throat hurt. He took a step, then another, until he was beside Chloe. He wrapped his arms around her, and she let him, her body stiff at first, then melting against his chest.

For a long time, they stood in the blue-lit dark, neither speaking, just breathing together.

When the smoke finally faded and the Cabana’s walls returned, Chloe didn’t let go. She clung to Andy, her face buried in his shirt, her tears seeping through the cotton and onto his skin.

He held her, letting her arms wind around his ribs so tightly that if there were bones beneath these memories, she’d have cracked them. It felt less like comfort and more like huddling together inside a shelter during a hurricane: the air still blue and shivering, the urge to run but nowhere to go. Chloe shuddered against him, gasping in little jittery breaths as she tried to stuff her sorrow back into the neat, polite box where she’d always kept it.

Hugged by the Master! +1 VP

Andy didn’t pretend to have the right words. He didn’t try to shush her, or urge her to move on, or do any of the things he’d have done for a child with a scraped knee or a friend with a breakup. Instead, he let the silence crawl around them, thick and forgiving, like a blanket woven from all the things neither of them could say. In the Memory Cabana, there was no Audience, no running commentary, no Arabella to swoop in with a dramatic monologue. There was only Chloe, and Andy, and the afterimage of a life rewound and replayed until its pain was worn thin and almost holy.

After a long, trembling minute, Chloe’s grip loosened. She drew a ragged breath, then another, and extricated herself enough to wipe at her face, dabbing carefully at the sticky crescent moons of mascara beneath each eye. For a second she faced the memory wall, watching as the last trace of her younger self dissolved from the floor, the exam table, the crumpled letter. Only when the blue smoke faded completely did she turn back to Andy, her expression unsteady but determined.

“God, that was embarrassing,” she said, but her voice was so rough that the words broke and scattered.

Andy almost laughed—not at her, but at the absurdity of apologizing for something so raw, so human. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said. His own voice was thick and foreign, and he felt suddenly, inexplicably shy.

She tried for a smile. “I’m not usually… like that. I mean, I am, but—” She started to laugh, but it came out as a hiccup and made her nose run, which made her laugh harder, which made her cry, and then she was caught in that ridiculous, hopeless loop where you’re so mortified by your own feelings that it’s physically impossible to have them quietly.

Andy found a box of tissues near the memory candle and pressed it into her hands. Chloe took one, blew her nose with a **** that was at once deeply unfeminine and deeply endearing, and when she looked up at him the whites of her eyes were rimmed bright red.

She said, “I don’t know why I wanted you to see that. It’s not even the worst thing that ever happened to me. It’s just… the only thing I never told anyone.”

Andy considered this, letting the silence stretch, and then asked, “Did you want children?”

She nodded so fiercely her hair fell into her face. “Always. It’s so stupid—I knew it was a long shot, even with a partner, and I’m not, like, obsessed with babies or anything. But all my life it just seemed like, I don’t know, the thing that would finally make me necessary. The one thing I could do right.”

She stared at her shoes, picking at a loose thread on her cardigan, and only after a long pause did she add, “I hated myself for wanting it. I kept thinking if I was smarter, or more together, I wouldn’t care. I’d just do something else.”

“That’s not how it works,” Andy said softly.

Chloe’s eyes snapped up, surprised. “No? Because it kind of seems like that’s how it works for other people. I mean, look at you. You’re so… you have all these people, and all these plans, and your life actually matters.”

Andy almost winced. “Only on TV, apparently,” he said. “And even then, does it really matter?” He reached up, tucking a wild lock of Chloe’s hair behind her ear. “You realize you’re the kindest person here, right?”

Chloe snorted. “Not even close.” She gestured vaguely at the Cabana’s walls, as if the rest of the women were lurking just offscreen, eavesdropping on her abjection. “There’s a literal goddess on this island, Andy. And that’s before you even count people like Erin or Marissa or Claire, who actually do important things for a living.”

“But you do important things too,” Andy said, and he meant it. “Those kids—” He gestured toward the ghost-memory of the kindergarten. “They need you. You make their lives better. How many people get to say that?”

Chloe regarded him with a mixture of skepticism and gratitude. “You’re just saying that because you’re supposed to,” she said.

He shook his head. “No. I’m saying it because it’s true.” He tried to frame it the way Arabella might, without the razor edge: “You change their lives just by being in them.”

Chloe gave him a wobbly smile that could have lit a small city. “Are you flirting with me right now?”

He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I haven’t decided yet.” And then, because it felt right, he added, “But if I am, you’re allowed to tell me to shut up.”

She smiled harder, then looked away, embarrassed. When she spoke again, it was so soft he almost missed it. “Thank you. For watching. For wanting to know me. For not making this whole thing weird.”

Andy laughed. “I think we’re at least three layers past weird.”

Chloe considered this, then laughed too. It was a small sound, cautious, like a bird testing its wings after a storm. They stood like that for a minute—two casualties of the Cabana’s cruelty, breathing in the aftermath.

Eventually, Chloe straightened, squared her shoulders, and said, “I should be mortified right now.”

“Are you?”

“Not really.”

“That’s a good sign,” Andy said.

Chloe nodded, a single, decisive bob of her head. “I should probably reset my face before we go outside. Do you think the others are still in their rooms?”

Andy grinned. “Not if they’re watching the show.”

Chloe made a face. “They better not be watching the show.” She groaned. “Oh my God. You realize how many people just watched me ugly cry?”

“Millions,” Andy said, deadpan. “But you were adorable.”

She whacked him on the arm. “Shut up.”

He caught her hand, holding it for a moment before letting go. “If you ever want to talk about it again, or—” He faltered. “Or if you want to talk about anything, I mean. I’m here.”

She nodded, her eyes shining again.

For a while, they just stood together, letting the silence unspool until it was no longer heavy but peaceful, like the quiet after a summer rain.

When Chloe finally looked up at him, her face was composed, almost serene. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” Andy said, and meant it.

“Why do you think Arabella brought me here? Was it just random?”

Andy considered lying, telling her it was all part of the game, or that he wanted to get to know every contestant equally. But she deserved more than that.

“I think you’re kind,” he said. “You said you’re not, but that’s not true. You cared about people even when it would have been easier not to. And…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “And I think you’re a lot stronger than you realize.”

Chloe stared at him as if she’d never seen his face before. “That’s not how most people describe me.”

Andy smiled gently. “Then most people are idiots.”

Chloe smiled shyly.

They stood there a while longer, the blue candle burning lower, the last wisps of memory-smoke curling toward the ceiling. The air in the Cabana was starting to cool, the magic receding as if it, too, were spent from the emotional weather.

Chloe took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and said, “Okay. I’m ready to go.”

Achievement Unlocked: Quiet Courage +5 VP

Andy offered his arm, and she took it, her fingers looping through the crook of his elbow. Together, they walked out of the Cabana and into the dusk, leaving the ghosts behind.

The walk back to the suite was mostly quiet, though not uncomfortably so. The wind off the sea had picked up, scouring away the taste of candle smoke and memory. Andy still felt the shock of what they’d seen—of what Chloe had shown him—but also a strange sense of relief. There was nothing left unsaid between them. Every secret, every humiliation, every hurt was out in the open, floating somewhere above the sand.

When they reached the suite, Chloe paused at the threshold. “Are you sure that I…” she started, but trailed off, uncertain.

Andy gestured to the Suite. “It’s your night, Chloe. Whatever you want.”

She smiled, the first real one since the Cabana, and stepped through.

The living room was as he’d left it—too clean, almost sterile, the furniture lined up with military precision. But even here, the mood was softer than before. Chloe kicked off her shoes, wiggled her toes in the plush carpet, then wandered over to the glass doors to the balcony and peered out at the dark.

Andy wasn’t sure what to do with himself. He’d never brought Chloe up here before. He hovered near the kitchen, trying not to stare, but Chloe noticed anyway.

“Do you want to make dinner?” she asked, eyes still on the horizon.

Andy blinked. “I, uh… wasn’t sure if you’d be hungry after—” He made a vague gesture, then caught himself. “Yeah, sure. I could eat.”

Chloe crossed to the fridge, surveyed the contents with the air of a seasoned camp counselor, and began pulling out ingredients. “Pasta okay?” she asked.

“Perfect,” Andy said.

They moved around the kitchen together, awkward at first—he kept bumping her elbow, she kept opening drawers on the wrong side—but gradually, they fell into rhythm. Andy boiled water, Chloe chopped garlic, and soon the air was full of the promise of dinner. It felt strangely domestic, and for the first time all day, Andy found himself able to breathe without the constant tension in his chest.

While they cooked, Chloe snuck glances at the bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, and from where Andy stood, he could see Katherine’s painting in its place above the dresser. He half-expected Chloe to ask about it, but she said nothing—just blushed, once, and looked away with a private smile.

When the pasta was done, they plated up and sat at the little dining table. Chloe twirled her fork in silence, then looked up.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” she said. “In the Cabana. If that was too much.”

Andy shook his head. “No. It was exactly right.”

They ate in companionable silence, letting the steam from their bowls fog the window.

Eventually, Chloe broke the quiet. “Do you ever miss it? Middle school, I mean. The way things felt so… important, back then?”

Andy laughed, not unkindly. “I spend half my life trying to forget middle school. The other half trying to pretend I never left.”

Chloe smiled. “I know what you mean.” She spun her fork, then set it down. “You still carry Laura with you. Everywhere you go.”

The words were gentle, not accusatory. Andy felt a pang, but didn’t deny it. “Yeah. I do.”

“She was special,” Chloe said. “What you two had was beyond rare.”

Andy looked out the window, the darkness pressing against the glass. “We were just kids.”

Chloe shook her head. “You were more than that.”

For a moment, Andy wanted to argue. But then he remembered the way Laura used to laugh at his jokes, the way she’d squeeze his hand in the halls when nobody else was looking. Chloe was right. He still carried Laura with him, like a lighthouse in a fog—something to steer toward, even when he knew he’d never reach it.

He cleared his throat, then pushed the bowl aside. “I don’t want to make this night about the past.”

Chloe nodded, understanding. “Then let’s talk about the future.”

They migrated to the couch, Chloe curling up at one end, Andy at the other. He told her about the previous challenge, and although he did not disclose the truths the other women had shared (they were not his to disclose), he told her how each of them had chosen to share some of their pain. And how they had built something out of it, after. Something stronger. But privately he winced at his words. Chloe, he understood now, wanted more than anything to be the one thing she had found out she could never be.

A mother.

They watched the last rays of sunlight melt out of the windows, their dinner bowls left to congeal on the table. Chloe’s face had settled into that peculiar mix of serenity and defeat that only came with exhaustion—a spent, gentle calm. Andy wanted to say something, to offer comfort, but every word he could muster felt like a platitude he’d hate to hear himself.

Instead, they washed dishes in silence. Chloe rinsed and Andy dried, moving in a kind of synchronized inertia. There was a tiny grace in the way she stacked plates and slid utensils into their places, a gentleness Andy had seen before only in people who’d grown used to being let down by the world, but still insisted on treating it with care.

When they finished, Chloe padded over to the couch and flopped onto the corner cushion, tucking her knees under herself. The position was pure Chloe—half defensive, half ready to spring away at a moment’s notice. Andy sat beside her, close but not crowding, and for a long time, they just stared at the fake fireplace flickering in the wall.

At first, it felt like they’d finally run out of words. But the quiet wasn’t awkward; it was full. Chloe broke it, eventually, by glancing down at her bulging chest, which threatened to explode out of her shirt, and sighing.

“Sorry,” she said, tugging at her neckline. “It’s the transformation again. Arabella’s idea of a joke.”

Andy looked, then quickly looked away, mortified at himself. “Sorry…”

Chloe rolled her eyes, smiling for the first time in what felt like hours. “It’s okay. I just have to get used to my shirt acting like it’s a size too small.” She gestured to her cleavage, which, under the spell, bulged just on the edge of indecency. “It doesn’t matter what I wear. Even sweaters. It’s like Arabella has a vendetta against modesty.”

Andy laughed, tension breaking. “You pull it off better than most would.”

Chloe snorted, then froze. Her face bloomed pink, then red, and she closed her eyes, shifting in her seat.

Andy blinked. "What's wrong?"

She looked up at him, cheeks blazing. "That's my other transformation, remember? Compliments."

Andy's brow furrowed. "But I've complimented you before tonight and you didn't…" He gestured vaguely at her fully-clothed form.

Chloe bit her lip. "I talked to Emi and Dawn. They helped me… upgrade it. Instead of the clothes thing, I just get this… rush." She pressed a hand to her sternum, inhaling sharply. "Like electricity, right here."

Chloe 2475 BP - 1000 BP = 1475 BP

"Oh," Andy said, the realization dawning. "Oh."

Chloe laughed nervously, covering her face. "It's actually better this way. Less embarrassing. Just more…" She dropped her hands, met his eyes. "Distracting."

Andy caught her gaze and, for a moment, it felt like they were the only two people on the island. Maybe in the world.

He wanted to say something else, but Chloe was already moving the conversation forward, unwilling to dwell. “Do you ever think about what you’d wish for, if you could have anything?” she asked.

Andy hesitated. “You mean, besides getting out of here alive?”

Chloe nodded. “Yeah. Like a real wish. Something impossible.”

He took his time, thinking. “I used to wish for a house. One of those old ones, like in Evanston. It would have a library and a fireplace, and maybe a dog. I’d wish for a place where I wasn’t alone, where I didn’t have to hold everything together for everyone else.” He paused, then added, “I used to always put Laura in that wish.”

Chloe watched him, silent.

He went on. “But now… I think I’d want it to be bigger. Not just me and Laura. Maybe…” He trailed off, embarrassed. “Maybe a whole crowd. Liesa, Claire, Erin, all the rest. Is that selfish?”

Chloe shook her head. “I don’t think it’s selfish at all. I think it’s… sweet.”

Andy smiled, but it was a small, wounded thing. “What about you?”

Chloe’s turn. She bit her lip, thinking. “I’d wish for a house, too. Full of laughter. Full of love. Even when it’s messy, even when everyone’s yelling at each other.” She smiled, but it was edged with sorrow. “I’d wish for that more than anything.”

He reached for her hand, resting it gently on her knee. “That’s a good wish.”

For a while, neither spoke. They just listened to the hum of the fake fire, the distant clink of wind against the glass.

Eventually, Chloe turned to him, her voice softer than before. “Can I ask you something kind of personal?”

“Anything.”

She hesitated, then went for it. “What was Laura really like? The real her. Not just the version everyone remembers.”

Andy blinked, caught off guard. “That’s… a hard question.”

“I want to know,” Chloe said. “I think I need to. I never really knew her well.”

He thought about it, letting the memories bubble up. “She was intense,” he said. “All in, all the time. If she loved you, you knew it. If she hated you, you knew that too. She never did anything halfway.” He smiled, lost in the recollection. “She could be protective of the people she cared about. She'd stand between me and anyone she thought might hurt me. Sometimes she could be jealous, very jealous, but…"

Chloe nodded, understanding immediately.

"She grew up in a house where..." Andy paused, searching for words. "Her father ruled everything. I'd see her mother flinch when he raised his voice, which was often. He would bring other women home. Make her mother serve them drinks. I remember once finding Laura hiding in our treehouse at midnight because her father had thrown a lamp at the wall beside her." His voice tightened. "Laura would slip out her window those nights and come to my house. She'd say she just wanted to hang out, but I knew." He glanced away, suddenly shy. "She held on tight to the good things in her life. I was one of them. But it also meant she could be… possessive. I always worried she’d break if I did something wrong.”

Chloe rested her head against the back of the couch, staring at the ceiling. “It sounds like you loved her a lot.”

Andy nodded. “I did. I still do, as stupid as it sounds.”

She looked at him, eyes soft, but said nothing.

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty. They sat together, each caught in their own thoughts, their own wishes.

Finally, Chloe said, “Tell me about the last challenge. The first challenge, I mean.”

Andy grinned, grateful for the change of topic. “It was called ‘Show Yourself.’ Arabella gave the girls access to the Cabana and allowed them to relive some of their memories. Everyone had to show something true, something raw. It was powerful, it was painful, but… it kind of brought us together.”

Chloe shuddered. “That sounds like a nightmare.”

“It was,” Andy agreed, laughing. “But in a weird way, it made everything better after.”

Chloe’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “What do you think tomorrow’s challenge will be? Public speaking? Synchronized swimming?”

Andy considered. “Knowing Arabella, probably something like ‘Confront Your Greatest Fear’ but with costumes and a live audience.”

Chloe snorted. “I hope it’s not some sort of wardrobe challenge. I don’t think I could survive a day in a cat suit.”

Andy burst out laughing, a real one this time, and Chloe joined him. They laughed until the tension melted, until the only thing left was the bright, humming joy of being here, together, for one last night.

Andy looked at her, and before he could stop himself, he said, “You’re amazing, you know.”

Chloe froze, color surging into her cheeks. She trembled, just slightly, and then let out a shaky laugh. “You have to stop saying that,” she whispered, but there was no real protest in it.

Andy reached over, pulled her close, and let her rest her head on his shoulder. They sat like that, quiet, until the clock ticked midnight and the world outside the suite fell silent.

They watched TV for a while, Mildred talking about some weird bird from New Zealand, and giving the simultaneous impression that she was concerned about its likelihood of extinction, and excited to lend a hand to that effort. Chloe pressed herself into the corner of the couch, her feet tucked under Andy’s thigh for warmth. The tension in her body had gone soft, almost syrupy. When the show ended, she didn't reach for the remote.

Instead, she said, “Can I tell you something kind of embarrassing?”

Andy didn’t look at her, just focused on the faint reflection of the fire in the blank TV screen. “You can tell me anything.”

Chloe’s voice shrank to the barest whisper. “I know you don’t want to sleep with me tonight. I mean, not like that. And I… that’s okay. But would you still, um—” She struggled for the words, then blurted: “Could you just hold me?”

Andy felt his heart stumble. “Of course,” he said, and meant it more than he could say.

They stood, not quite knowing how to transition from the couch to the bedroom without it being weird, but it wasn’t. They just went. Chloe ducked into the bathroom to brush her teeth and emerged in an oversized T-shirt—probably meant for a much larger man—and a pair of drawstring shorts that looked like she’d owned them since college. She grinned at Andy’s glance, then mimed a little pirouette. “Laundry day,” she said, and the phrase contained the whole universe of ordinary longing.

Andy changed in the open, not out of bravado but because modesty felt unnecessary now. He wore loose pajama pants and a shirt he’d picked from the constantly replenished closet, then slipped under the sheets beside Chloe. The bed was wide, but she slid over to him immediately, fitting her back to his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He wrapped his arm around her waist. She placed her hand on top of his, her fingers cold and fine-boned. They just breathed together for a while, letting the day’s fatigue sink into the mattress. The only sound was the sigh of the climate control and, maybe, their heartbeats, echoing in their shared silence.

Spooned by the Master! +1 VP

After a long time, Andy said, “You know, whatever happens tomorrow, I’m glad you are here. That we could talk. I’m sorry, Chloe. I’m sorry for doubting you.”

Chloe reached back and brushed his cheek with her knuckles. “I’m glad we did, too.” Her voice was small but certain. She pulled his hand up to her collarbone and held it there, as if afraid it would slip away in the night.

Andy pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck. “I don’t know what the future holds, Chloe. But I promise, this won’t be the last time.”

She made a contented sound, then rolled over to face him. Her hair fanned across the pillow, bright as gold in the dim light. She kissed him, once, twice—not a hungry kiss, but a grateful, contented one. Then she nestled into his chest and let out a shaky breath, all the tension leaking away.

Kissed the Master! +1 VP

Within minutes, she was asleep. Andy lay awake, listening to the rhythm of her breath and wondering at the quiet, stubborn strength in this woman he’d barely known a month ago. He thought about wishes and houses and the impossible architecture of longing. He remembered Laura, and wondered how it would have felt to hold her like he was holding Chloe now, as a grown woman.

Eventually, sleep claimed him too.

He woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of a drawer softly shutting. Chloe was already up, dressed in the same sundress as yesterday, her hair damp from the shower and combed into a loose, shining braid. She was perched at the kitchen counter, buttering toast and humming something under her breath.

Andy padded over, rubbing his eyes. “Morning.”

Chloe grinned, then waved a toast triangle like a tiny flag. “Morning, yourself. Hope you don’t mind, I made coffee. Couldn’t sleep past six.”

“You, and half the other women. I swear, I never thought myself a late sleeper until I started hanging out with you girls.”

He poured himself a mug, sat beside her at the counter. They ate together, not talking much, but not out of awkwardness. There was a peacefulness in the moment, like the hush before a big storm.

Chloe’s appetite was back. She devoured the toast and poured a second glass of juice, then fidgeted with the napkin until the edge frayed.

Andy wanted to say something reassuring, to tell her she’d be fine, but the words died in his throat. Instead, he just reached over and squeezed her hand. She squeezed back.

When it was almost time to leave, Chloe stood, smoothing her dress. She hesitated at the door, then turned to Andy. “Can I…?” she began, then trailed off, embarrassed.

He opened his arms. She stepped in and hugged him, tight and trembling. Her face pressed into his neck, and he felt her lips move, maybe forming a silent wish or a prayer. She pulled back, looked at him with her bright, breakable smile, and then, before he could react, kissed him.

“I’ll see you later,” she said, and it wasn’t a question.

She left before he could say goodbye. He watched her go, the echo of her steps softening as she walked down the corridor, toward whatever came next.

Andy stood in the quiet for a long time, the taste of Chloe’s kiss still warm on his lips.