Myra's Night, Part 1

Andy always had a soft spot for well-fitted clothes. It wasn’t about vanity; it was about showing up, about framing yourself for the world you wanted rather than the world you had. On the rare Friday nights in college when everyone else staggered down frat row holding their blood-type-red solo cups, Andy would wear a navy blue polo—never branded, always ironed—and a pair of slim-cut slacks, just sharp enough to feel like armor. You could read the intent in the little details: the squared-off watchband, the clean white sneakers, the way he never let a button droop or a hem unravel. It was a ritual, and tonight, it was all he had.

He stood in front of the full-length mirror. The clothes framed a man who had been a startup executive, in a previous life. But tonight, the armor was as much for himself as for anyone else.

He was supposed to pick up Myra at eight. He made himself wait until exactly 7:55 before leaving the Suite, just to prove he could. On his way out, he caught the faintest scent of Erin in the hallway, a pollen-sweetness that always made him think of mint, basil and field trips from his own elementary school days.

Room 143 was halfway down the next corridor, the one with the indoor-outdoor bamboo wall and the half-moon light sconces. When he rounded the last bend, he found Erin waiting outside, arms folded, shoes planted square on the smooth stone floor. Next to her, Marissa sat on the floor, wearing a tailored white blouse that did nothing to hide her nipples or her mandatory cleavage, and a skirt that, while professional, did nothing to hide the curve of her thighs.

The thing that amazed Andy most was how Erin handled being half-plant. Not in the “walking around naked with mint-green skin” sense, although the physical adaptation was impressive: she moved with the loose, loose-limbed comfort of someone who’d worn nothing but running shoes and sunlight for a hundred years, her hair thrown back in a copper mane, her skin a shade so shockingly alive that it felt like standing too close to the edge of a summer field. It was the emotional adjustment that stunned him—the way she shrugged off the stares and muttered “photosynthesis” jokes from the others, the way she owned her transformation like a new tattoo, something she’d chosen, even though he knew she hadn’t.

He looked at her now, standing in the corridor, and he didn’t see the angry, resentful woman whom Arabella had forcibly brought to The HH. In every line of her, he saw the woman he’d fallen in love with: her body buzzing with energy, her eyes tracking his every move, her smile an open dare. Whatever else Harem Hotel had taken from them, it had given Erin herself back.

She watched him with a kind of gentle challenge, as if daring him to flinch from what he saw.

“I thought you’d be late,” Erin said, voice low but bright.

Andy raised an eyebrow. “You know I don’t do late. I have a rep to maintain.”

She grinned, then sobered, and he saw her scan his face for micro-fractures, the way she always did when she thought he might break.

“You’re wearing a polo,” she observed. “And slacks. Didn’t realize this was a formal event.”

Andy glanced down, half-laughing. “Armor,” he said, and left it at that.

Erin stepped closer, a hint of green deepening along her jaw where she blushed. “You look good,” she said, and meant it. She reached for him—no hesitation, no awkwardness— and hugged him, hard, planting a kiss on his lips. Her arms were strong, her chest soft, her body impossibly warm. The scent of her hair caught him off-guard: sharp, a little peppery, like leaves after a rain. He let himself be squeezed, surprised to feel something loosen inside his chest.

Marissa stayed on the floor, watching with that calm, analytical air she’d never lost, even after the world turned upside down. She didn’t move to join the hug, but there was a small, approving smile on her lips when Andy pulled away.

Erin brushed the hair from her face. “How are you, really?”

Andy hesitated. “I’m fine.”

She looked at him. “You’re not.”

He shrugged. “I’ll manage.”

Marissa finally stood. Up close, she looked as if she’d stepped out of a high-end therapy brochure: gold-blonde hair in careful curls, crisp blouse tenting over her permanently erect nipples, skirt that showed off the curve of her hip without ever seeming undignified. But her eyes—they were always the second thing you noticed, cool blue and quietly relentless—locked on Andy and didn’t let go.

“Are you worried about tonight?” Marissa asked.

He shrugged again, this one more practiced, but the question stuck.

“Not worried,” he said, then glanced at Erin, “just… it’s a lot. Myra, the whole thing. I don’t know how I’m supposed to act.”

“She’s nervous too,” Erin said. “She asked me a dozen times if you’d even show up.”

Andy frowned. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“She said she wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t,” Marissa supplied. “I think she’s worried you hate her.”

Andy opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked at the door—Room 143, white paint, no markings except the brass number—then at his hands, which suddenly felt empty.

“I don’t hate her,” he said, not quite convincing himself. “I just—” He stopped.

Marissa took a step closer, her presence suddenly more therapeutic than friendly. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, as if they were in session.

He felt Erin’s hand on his elbow. “You don’t have to,” she said. “But if you want to, we’re here.”

He looked at both of them, then nodded once, sharp and fast. “Can we…?” He motioned to the alcove across the hall. They moved together, a small cluster, out of earshot of the door.

He spoke quickly, as if afraid the words would corrode if left too long in his mouth. “I found out a couple days ago,” he said. “Riley told me, and I didn’t believe her at first. But we checked.” He glanced at Erin, then Marissa, then back to Erin. “Myra was the one who told Laura about Chloe’s kiss, who made it sound like I made out with Chloe behind the gym.”

A beat. The sound of water in the wall. Then Erin said, “No way.”

He nodded. “She was the popular girl, in middle school. She always had a story.” He tried to laugh, but it came out dry. “Apparently, she told Laura that I made out with Chloe, that I touched her, that I called Laura a freak I spent time with because I pitied her.” He rubbed his hand along his jaw, eyes on the floor. “Laura believed her. She didn’t even give me a chance to explain.”

Erin’s face did a weird thing then—a little wince, almost as if she’d just gotten hit in the stomach. “Fuck,” she whispered. “Are you kidding?”

He shook his head. “No. Riley remembered, too. She said it was Myra that spoke with Laura. She was there, behind the gym when I asked Chloe to come meet me. When Chloe kissed me, she saw it.”

Marissa looked as if she wanted to say something, but didn’t. Erin just stared, then blinked, her eyes wet with a sudden, sharp fury.

“She’s the reason,” Erin said, and her voice was hollow and full of an old, old pain. “That’s why—”

Andy nodded. “It’s why Laura wouldn’t talk to me. Why she went to the bridge that day, and why—” He stopped, the words jamming in his throat.

Erin pressed her fists together. “You don’t have to do this, Andy. You don’t have to spend tonight with her.”

He shook his head. “I have to,” he said, and his voice was steadier than he felt. “It’s the only way.”

Marissa found her words then. “Was there… anything else?” she asked, and it was not a therapist question, but the question of a woman who had lost too much, and didn’t want to let anyone off the hook.

Andy knew what she meant. “No. Not that I remember.” He felt the memory like a live wire: the sick, fizzy rush of adrenaline when he realized Chloe had kissed him, the helplessness after, the way he’d wanted to find Laura and explain. The footbridge. She died believing I had betrayed her. She died hating me. “Just the lie. That was enough.”

Marissa’s eyes softened. “Andy. She was thirteen. All of you were.”

“Does it matter?” His own voice came out flat.

“It might,” Marissa said, and she looked at him the way she had two years ago, when he came to her for therapy and neither of them could admit he needed help. “You know what I see, when I look at Myra now?”

He waited, not trusting himself to speak.

“I see a woman who has spent her entire life paying for a single mistake, and doesn’t even know what that mistake was,” Marissa said. “She went into medicine because she needed to be needed. She worked herself blind because it was easier to care for others than to care about herself. Everything she’s done, she did to atone for something she doesn’t even understand, not really. She’s been flagellating herself for years.”

Andy looked at Erin, who had pressed both hands to her mouth. The green in her cheeks had deepened, and she was blinking fast, as if refusing to let tears escape.

Marissa reached out, touched his arm, and then Erin’s. “She’s not the same girl, Andy. I doubt she even knows what she did.”

He thought about the walk through the gardens, the blank horror in Myra’s eyes when she realized she needed help to cross a patch of grass. How she’d reached for the light, how she’d asked him to describe the color of the ocean.

He thought about the hundreds of times he’d replayed the day of Laura’s ****, how it always ended with a blank space—a space he’d always filled with anger, with blame. It wasn’t enough to say it was an accident, or that Laura was too stubborn, or that maybe Andy himself hadn’t tried hard enough. There always needed to be a villain, and for sixteen years, that villain had been a faceless rumor.

Now it had a face, and it was sitting alone in a hotel room, waiting for him to decide if he would ever forgive her.

“I know all that,” he said, and it came out like a confession. “But it doesn’t help.”

Marissa hugged him then, hard and brief, but real. Erin joined, wrapping her arms around both of them. They stood that way for a long time.

When Andy finally let go, Marissa wiped her cheeks and said, “Do you want to know something?”

He nodded.

“Myra asked me, earlier today, if I knew why you were so angry at her,” Marissa said. “She asked Erin, too. She doesn’t know. She thought maybe you just hated her because she was a bitch to Laura in middle school.”

Erin snorted. “That’s not wrong, technically.”

Marissa shrugged. “Maybe not. But she thought that was the worst of it. She didn’t remember, or know, the rest.”

Andy tried to process it. “She built her whole life around being sorry for something she doesn’t even remember?”

“That’s what regret is,” Marissa said. “It’s a scar that keeps growing even after the wound is gone.”

He tried to picture Myra as a child. He remembered her as a ****—always in control, always the one to spin stories and pull the strings. But today, since her arrival, she’d seemed like a different species: ****, blank-eyed, haunted by things she couldn’t see.

Andy checked his watch. Eight eleven. “I should go,” he said.

Marissa squeezed his shoulder. “If you need anything—”

“I know,” he said, and meant it.

Erin pulled him down and planted a kiss on his lips. “Don’t be an idiot,” she said, almost like a threat, “But don’t hurt yourself either, okay?”

Andy smiled, despite himself. He stroked Erin’s cheek, and for a moment he forgot Myra, wondering instead how he could be so lucky as to have a woman like this in his corner. “Promise.”

Marissa nodded, apparently satisfied, and together with Erin, headed out towards the Banquet Hall.

Andy squared himself, rolled back his shoulders, and walked the last ten feet to the door.

He knocked, sharp and sure. There was no response. He waited a few moments and knocked again, this time with a bit more ****. The echo rang in the short hallway, but still, no answer.

He tried the handle. It opened with a soft click. Andy hesitated at the threshold, then pushed inside, careful to keep his voice level and low. “Myra?”

He heard the shuffle before he saw it: the soft skritch of bare feet against wood, a flurry of cloth, a thud as something—maybe a tote bag—hit the floor. “Sorry!” Myra blurted, then yanked the bedsheet up over her front. She was halfway into a long white gown with a black sash, the bodice twisted around her chest and one strap dangling off a shoulder. Her hair was tied into a ponytail, and there were streaks of pale makeup on both cheeks, like she’d tried and failed to erase some old mistake.

Andy turned away immediately, the old chivalry kicking in on reflex. “Sorry, I thought you’d be ready.”

She gave a strangled laugh. “I… I didn’t hear the door. I was… elsewhere.” He saw her clutching the fabric to her chest, the tail curled anxiously around her waist. Even now, even when caught half-naked and unguarded, Myra managed to hold herself together. He realized, with a sharp ache, that it must have cost her something to do it.

He kept his gaze on the window, the wall, anything but her. “Take your time,” he said, and meant it.

She fumbled with the straps, then tried to laugh it off. “Do you think I’ll ever get used to not seeing?” The voice was more brittle than funny.

Andy risked a glance, saw that she was decently covered now. He looked at her and saw not the popular girl of his memories, but a woman who seemed physically smaller, almost shrunk by the demands of the world. There were new lines around her mouth, and her hands shook as she tried to smooth the dress.

He reached for a spare hair tie on the bedside table and held it out. “Want a hand?”

She hesitated, then nodded. He stepped forward, handed her the tie, and waited. She held it between two fingers, then tried to gather her hair into a messy ponytail. It took her three tries; each time, her arms shook harder.

Andy watched her struggle, then, on impulse, took the band back from her and gently drew her hair into a loose bunch. He remembered doing this for Laura, remembered how calming she said it could be to have someone else just help you keep it together. His heart clenched at the irony. Myra’s hair was soft, slick with whatever hotel shampoo she’d used.

He tied it off, then stepped back. “There,” he said.

She laughed again, this time closer to real. “Thanks.” She adjusted the neckline of the dress, trying to feel if it was straight. “Does it look okay?”

“It looks fine,” he said, because it did. “You look fine.”

She didn’t move for a second, and he realized she had no idea what that meant anymore. “The color’s good,” he said. “white, with silver buttons. It suits you.”

She smiled, then turned away, tracing her hand along the dresser. “Thank you.” He could hear a small ache in her voice.

He waited until she seemed steady, then offered her his arm again. “Ready?”

She looped her hand into the crook of his elbow. Her grip was light, almost weightless. “Sorry if I smell weird,” she muttered. “I used three different things from the shower. I can’t tell which is which.”

He shrugged. “You smell fine. Like… lemon and a little coconut.”

She smiled, small and real. “I always wanted to be a tropical drink.”

He found himself smiling, too. “It works for you.”

They left the room. The door clicked shut behind them, the only sound in the hallway besides their footsteps. She moved carefully, counting the distance, tracing the edges of carpet runners and wall sconces with her free hand. She could sense the world, but not own it—not yet.

At the elevator, she paused. “I don’t know where the Suite is,” she admitted.

“It’s on the top floor,” Andy said. “We’ll take the elevator. I’ll get you there.”

She squeezed his arm, the briefest thank you, then waited for him to hit the button.

Inside the car, the silence was huge.

Myra cleared her throat. “I know you probably don’t want to do this,” she said, “but I’ll try to be good company.”

Andy thought about the millions of ways he could respond. He went for honesty. “I didn’t want to,” he said, “but I’m starting to think maybe I need to.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence, the only sound the slow whoosh of the elevator machinery.

The elevator opened with a low chime, spilling them into the Suite lobby. He led Myra out of the elevator car, her steps feather-light, one hand still hooked in his arm.

“Is this where it is?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Andy said. “Top floor. Master’s Suite.”

She nodded, then cocked her head. “Can you… describe it? The Suite, I mean.”

He paused, then tried to conjure a summary. “It’s big,” he said. “Like, movie-villain big. Lots of dark wood, velvet, overstuffed sofas. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Fireplace in the main room, ellipsoid bedroom with an enormous bed and a whole wall of windows facing the ocean. A sleek kitchen that looks like no one’s ever cooked in it. The lights are soft. There’s a floating staircase to the open observatory deck above, and another staircase descending to the study and den.”

Andy scanned the space. “The furniture’s all modern, sleek. There’s a rug, sort of paisley, mostly blue and brown. There are a few bookshelves, but they are only half full. There’s a painting above the fireplace: three children on a dock by Willow Run. Emi made it. And the windows… they look out over the whole resort. The ocean, the gardens, the lights on the paths.”

Myra’s lips twitched, just barely. “Is it… intimidating?”

He thought about it. “It’s not homey, if that’s what you mean. But it’s not bad. Arabella does the whole luxury resort thing, but once you ignore the performance, it’s just a house.”

She nodded again, a faint flush at her cheekbones. “Do you do this often?” she asked. “Bring people up here?”

Andy considered, then shook his head. “It’s not like that. There’s a schedule. Each of the contestants spends one night per round here. If you want, on your night, you can bring someone else too, but otherwise, that’s it. When a new round starts, the schedule changes. You’re on it tonight. After that… we see.”

She didn’t react, but her grip tightened, just a hair, on his arm.

He keyed in the door code, then let them into the Suite. Inside, the air was cool, and the ocean’s hush seeped in through the thick glass. Myra stood just inside the threshold, nose up, listening to the difference.

“Is it just us?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

He nodded, then remembered. “Yes. Just us. But… the Audience watches almost everything in real time.”

She flinched, but not much. “Are there cameras everywhere?”

“No, not visible cameras,” he said. “And I don’t think there are any in the bathroom, or in the bedroom.” He had reason to believe both statements were lies, but it felt ****.

She smiled, a relief so sharp it almost hurt. “That’s something, I guess.”

She wandered the edge of the entryway, hand tracing the seam where the wall met the door. Her tail swept behind her, a nervous banner.

After a minute, she said, “Is there a place to sit?”

“Yeah, plenty.” He guided her to the huge U-shaped sofa, then helped her find the edge. She sat, hands smoothing her dress over her knees. She looked up, not quite at him, but past him, as if listening to some frequency he couldn’t hear.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

He shrugged. “Go for it.”

“Erin said something earlier, something along the lines of being in the ‘harem’ made me ‘permanently bound’ to you—what did that mean?”

Andy hesitated, caught off-guard. “I don’t know. Arabella’s been vague by design.” He sat beside her, keeping a gap between their legs. “If I had to guess, it’s some metaphysical thing, but I don’t know what it might look like.”

Myra’s face was unreadable. “So I’m never… eliminated?”

He made a face. “I don’t know. The next challenge is the last one with an elimination at the end. But Arabella wants drama, not body count.”

She smiled, a tiny glint of mischief. “I’d almost prefer the axe. At least it would be quick.”

He tried to smile back, but the truth was, he didn’t know what he preferred anymore. “You really don’t want that, Myra. I’ve seen what happens to eliminated contestants. You remember how you said nothing could be worse than losing your sight? Trust me, there is much worse that could happen to you, if you were eliminated.”

Myra shivered and shifted, bracing her arms on her knees. “What happens, on these nights? Am I supposed to…” She trailed off.

Andy heard the edge in her voice, the fear of not knowing the script. “You’re supposed to spend time,” he said. “Talk, eat, maybe have a drink. If something happens, it happens. If not, that’s fine.”

She relaxed a bit. “I’m not very good at talking anymore.”

He shook his head. “Neither am I.”

She laughed, a soft and honest sound. “What about… the other thing? Are you supposed to sleep with us?”

Andy shrugged, feeling the old blush rise in his cheeks. “It’s not required. Only that we sleep in the same bed.”

She nodded, once, then fell silent.

He watched her take it in. It was almost clinical, the way she catalogued the situation and then filed it away. It made him think of what Marissa said, about regret growing bigger than the original hurt.

She folded her hands together, then glanced in his direction. “Thanks for telling the truth.”

He looked at her. “I always try,” he said, and it was true.

She smiled, and for the first time, he saw the ghost of the girl she used to be.

“So what do we do now?” she asked.

He stood. “We can eat. Or just sit here, if you want. I’m not the best host, but I can make coffee.”

She gave a small, real smile. “Coffee sounds good.”

He went to the kitchen, leaving her on the couch. He could hear her tail sweep the cushions, the tiny movements as she learned the territory by touch and sound. He thought of how much she’d changed, and how much he still needed to.

He poured two mugs, found sugar and cream, then brought them back. He handed her one, and she took it with both hands, the mug cradled close.

She sipped, then said, “It’s perfect.”

When the coffee was gone, Andy poured her a glass of wine. Myra’s hand trembled a little as she accepted it, but she raised the glass to her lips with the awkward motion of someone who’d lost all reference points.

He sat beside her on the couch, the Suite’s enormous windows looking like slabs of darkness pinpointed by hundreds of stars. The ocean beyond was just a sound, a steady hush, the absence of everything else.

“So,” she said after a while, “what happens now? I mean, am I supposed to ask you about your life, or…” She trailed off, the implication so old it needed no repeating.

He thought about it. “It’s just supposed to be a date,” he said. “We hang out. Talk. Eat. If you want, we can watch something, or you can tell me to leave you alone. It’s up to you.” He winced inwardly when he realized what he had just said. Thankfully, Myra didn’t seem to notice.

She considered this, tracing the rim of the glass with her thumb. “I don’t remember how to do that,” she said. “Hang out. Or talk.” Her voice was small, but not quite sad.

He tried to smile, but failed. He tried to summon resentment, but it came up empty. He felt hollow. “That’s okay. We don’t have to talk.”

She reached out with her free hand, fingertips finding and tracing the coffee table. She leaned forward and set the glass on it, careful not to spill the wine. “What do you look like tonight?” She asked.

He blinked, surprised. “Just… normal, I guess. Polo and slacks. Nothing special.”

She laughed, a dry, low sound. “You always did know how to pick an outfit. Even when we were kids.”

The memory hit him: a middle-school dance, Myra in a sequined top, him in a dress shirt too big for his shoulders. She had asked him to dance, but he had preferred Laura. He hadn’t thought about that night in years.

“You remember?” he asked.

She grinned. “I don’t forget the important things. Even if I want to.”

He poured himself some wine, and they sat in a hush. Outside, the ocean pushed at the night, relentless and calming all at once.

When the silence stretched, Andy said, “Are you hungry?”

She started to say no, but her stomach beat her to it, rumbling just loud enough to be heard.

He smiled, stood, and said, “There’s a kitchen. I can make something.”

She made a face. “You don’t have to.”

He shrugged. “I want to. What do you like?”

She paused, as if weighing the burden of having an opinion. “Anything. I’ve had hospital food for the last five days. But maybe… something easy?”

He nodded, then went to the fridge, found eggs and some leftover rice, and decided on a quick fried rice. He worked in silence, only the clatter of the pan and the sizzle of oil breaking the quiet. He could feel her watching, listening, learning the space by the echoes and the smells.

Halfway through, she said, “Can you tell me what you’re doing?”

He described the motions: chopping, stirring, the hiss of the hot pan, the scent of soy and ginger. She nodded along, sometimes asking for details—a color, a texture, the shape of the bowl. It was like teaching someone to paint with only your words. He could see the sorrow in her face, the longing for something that was no longer hers to claim. Shapes, edges, colors and patterns were all lost to her now, and as much as she tried to put on a brave face, Andy could see her eyes glistening with sadness.

He brought her the food, careful to set the bowl within easy reach, then guided her hand to the spoon. She picked it up, fumbled for a second, then found her bowl and her rhythm. “No chopsticks?” She said with a self-deprecating smile. “Probably just as well, now.”

They ate together at the kitchen island, side by side.

“Thank you,” she said after the first few bites. “No one’s cooked for me in years.”

He shrugged. “You’re welcome.”

She ate in small, measured bites, never in a rush. Between mouthfuls, she asked him to tell her about the day—what the others had worn, what the sky looked like, about the flowers in the gardens. He answered each question, sometimes with more detail than he thought possible.

Halfway through the meal, she set down her spoon. “Do you hate me?” she asked, and it was so sudden, so unguarded, that he nearly dropped his fork.

He looked at her, saw the lines at the edge of her mouth, the way her jaw was set, braced for impact.

“No,” he said. “I’m angry, but I don’t hate you.”

She nodded, then picked at her food.

A minute later, she said, “You don’t have to pretend, Andy. I can feel it, when you’re angry. It’s like burning pressure. But right now, it’s… less.”

He exhaled. “I guess I’m too busy trying to remember how to have a normal night.”

She smiled, a little sad. "It's okay if you need to be angry. I was awful to you back then."

He shook his head. "I think maybe you've paid enough, Myra."

She made a sound—almost a laugh, but softer. "For being a bratty kid? Maybe." Her fingers traced invisible patterns on the counter.

They finished their food, and he cleared the dishes. When he turned, she was still sitting there, her hands folded on the counter, tail wrapped neatly around her feet.