Bridges in the Sand, Part 2

The trick to walking the beach with Riley was to let her set the pace. Chloe figured this out within a hundred meters: never stay more than a foot ahead, never more than two behind, and keep conversation strictly optional until Riley herself decided to break the surface. They’d left the main lawn together after lunch, the two of them loaded down with paper cups of hibiscus tea and a pair of towels in case the breeze got sharp. At first, Chloe thought the walk would be a lap—down to the farthest lifeguard stand and back. But Riley, face shaded by her battered ballcap and hair flowing behind her like a red-black cloak, steered them off the well-worn path and onto a quieter run of shore, where the only footprints were their own.

At this hour, the sun was high and hard, flattening all color into pure white and blue. Riley kept her hands stuffed in the kangaroo pouch of her hoodie; Chloe, dressed in her default maxi-dress and cardigan, clutched the warm cup in both palms, breathing in the steam for courage. They didn’t speak for a long time, and it wasn’t awkward. Riley liked quiet. Chloe liked quiet people. She’d always said that was why she did well with children—little ones didn’t mind sharing a silence, so long as you made it a safe one.

It was Riley who first broke it, when they reached a patch of sand littered with the collapsed skeletons of ghost crabs. “You ever think about how everything that washes up is just a corpse, or a shell?” Riley nudged a claw with the toe of her boot, then squatted for a closer look. “There’s this whole life under the surface, but above it—just debris.”

Chloe squatted too, careful to keep her dress from the wet sand. “Sometimes, if you look long enough, you find one that’s still alive. You have to be gentle, though, or they burrow right back in.”

Riley smiled, the faintest twitch at the left corner of her mouth. “That’s a very kindergarten-teacher answer.”

Chloe felt a flush start at her chest and bloom up her cheeks. “Well, that’s what I am.”

“I know.” Riley rose, dusting sand from her hands. “But not all of them make it back in, do they?”

They walked on, the wind coming stronger now, making Riley’s hair whip like a flag behind her. Chloe found herself watching Riley’s stride, which was long and slightly pigeon-toed, and the way her hips moved—understated, but deliberate. Riley didn’t seem to care about the way she looked, except when she suddenly, sharply did. It reminded Chloe of her mother, or of herself, in certain mirrors.

A sandpiper darted in front of them, tracing the edge of the water, and Chloe pointed it out. “I read once that some birds mate for life. But with sandpipers, it’s year to year. At the end of each season, they’re free to find a new partner, or stick with the old one if it worked.”

Riley nodded. “Efficient.”

Chloe pressed her luck. “What kind of bird would you be, do you think?”

Riley was quiet so long Chloe thought she might not answer. Then: “A shrike. They’re pretty but they impale things on thorns for later.”

The image, brutal as it was, made Chloe giggle. “I was going to say an owl for you.”

“That’s generous.” Riley’s gaze stayed on the horizon. “What about you?”

Chloe had never considered herself a bird before. Maybe a finch, or a dove, but that felt too on the nose. She thought for a minute. “A robin,” she said. “Because they never stop nesting, even after the eggs are gone.”

Riley looked at her then, with those mismatched eyes—one green, one brown, both piercing. “You want kids?”

Chloe nearly tripped on a stone. She felt her heart lurch into her throat. “I—yes. I always have. I mean, I teach kindergarten. But it’s more than that. I just… I want to take care of someone.”

Riley’s face softened a little, but she didn’t smile. “That’s a good reason.”

They walked in silence again, the sound of the tide filling every gap. After a few minutes, Riley stopped at the water’s edge and dropped her shoes, stepping barefoot into the foam. Chloe did the same, her feet sinking into cold, wet sand.

Riley was the one who kept her gaze on the sea, but Chloe knew, somehow, that this was the spot where talk was allowed. She watched as Riley tilted her face toward the sun and let the wind flatten the fabric of her hoodie tight across her chest.

For a minute or two, they only watched the tide, a ragged white lace at their ankles, salt mist on their lips. Neither spoke; Chloe waited, expecting Riley to walk away from the subject, or else double back with another joke about shrikes. Instead, Riley said, “Has it always been like that for you? Wanting kids?” She said it with her head turned, as if she was embarrassed for Chloe and would spare her the scrutiny.

Chloe found herself nodding, even though Riley wasn’t looking. “I don’t remember a time when I didn’t want them,” she admitted, surprised at how easy it was to let the words go. “When I was little, I’d borrow my friends’ baby dolls. Not to play house—just to run my own daycare. I’d make up rosters. Assign them names, birthdays. I’d line up the strollers and pretend to take attendance. And at nap time I’d tuck each of them in and go around to check they were breathing. I even made a star chart for the good sleepers. My parents thought it was weird, but I guess I was training for the job.”

“Full immersion,” Riley deadpanned, the corner of her mouth ticking up.

“It’s silly,” Chloe tried to say, but Riley overrode her.

“It’s not,” she said, quietly but firmly. “I think it’s nice.”

Chloe swallowed, suddenly aware of the way her throat constricted when she felt seen. The silence between them this time was softer, as if the shimmer of sun on water filled in the awkwardness. She stared at the horizon and tried to frame something new, something honest.

The foam hissed and retreated from their feet. Riley glanced down at her own toes, half-buried in the sand, and then, almost as an afterthought: “You ever try?”

Chloe’s grip on the cooling tea tightened until the cup flexed. Did she mean try to have kids, or just try in general? “No,” Chloe answered honestly after a beat. “Not really. I never got that far with anyone—it never felt like an option.” She hesitated, then added, “And then, right before I came here, I found out it wouldn’t even be possible. Not in the normal sense.” Chloe tried to laugh, but her voice caught. “My eggs don’t work. Nothing does. Some kind of unexplained infertility. I got the diagnosis the day before my birthday, which felt like a very on-brand cosmic joke.”

Riley’s head snapped to her. “That’s brutal.”

“Yeah.” Chloe let her feet sink deeper into the wet sand, willing herself not to cry. “I always thought that if I tried hard enough—if I just waited until I was in the right place, or with the right person—it would happen. But I’m not even broken in a dramatic way. Just… empty. Like a robin, after all the eggs are gone, but you keep building the nest anyway.”

Riley looked at her, really looked, with both eyes. “That’s a hell of a thing to carry.”

Chloe smiled a little, then shrugged. “Not the worst thing in the world, I guess. But then, when I got here… Arabella told us—told me—contraception is impossible. But for me, it’s because the problem’s been fixed. Like, whatever this place does, it can undo that kind of brokenness. And I should be happy, right? But now I’m just scared. Because what if it’s not true? Or what if it is, and it’s still not enough?”

Riley studied her, then squatted down, arms loosely around her knees. “I get that,” she said. “It’s easier to hate a certainty than to be jerked around by hope.”

Chloe nodded, grateful for the unvarnished phrasing. “That’s exactly it. I used to think I’d spend my life teaching other people’s kids, and that would be enough. And maybe it still is. But I don’t know how to let go of wanting it. I don’t know who I am if I’m not… hoping.”

A gull cackled overhead, and both of them looked up. Chloe’s cup was empty now, fingers cold. She let herself sit, not minding the wet, and watched Riley trace concentric circles into the sand with one finger. The silence was newly companionable, not distant.

After a moment, Riley said, “I used to hate talking about it. Everyone wanted me to move on, or ‘try again.’” She made air quotes with two fingers. “That annoyed the shit out of me. Like I’d lost keys or a credit card, and it was just a question of getting a replacement. But it wasn’t even the baby.” She stopped, and Chloe waited, sensing the pivot to something deeper. “It was my husband. John. He was—” She frowned, as if searching for a precise word. “He was the only person who could make me feel safe. Like, if I walked into a room and didn’t know anybody else, but he was there? I was fine. Even happy.”

Chloe felt the ache of it, and for a minute she was small again, hiding behind her mother’s legs at the grocery store, searching the crowd for the one familiar face.

Riley looked up at the sea, face blank. “He died when I was two months pregnant. And I was scared.” She blinked, hard. “I found out about the pregnancy at the hospital, less than a month before he was shipped out to Syria. And then John was dead, and there was this heartbeat on the monitor, and for exactly five months I was alive again. Then it stopped, too.”

Chloe’s breath left her in a single heavy pulse. “I’m so sorry,” she said, knowing it was inadequate.

Riley nodded. “Yeah. I was, too.” Her eyes were shiny. She dug her heels into the sand. “I never held him. Never knew what color his eyes were. Never got to kiss him before he left. Never heard his voice when he would cry. And… after that, I didn’t know how to be a person. My world… contracted. I’d visit the baby’s grave. I’d get drunk and pass out in the kitchen. I’d cry myself to sleep in JJ’s nursery, holding the lovie I had bought for him, next to his empty cradle.” She sniffed. “I didn’t know who I was anymore. I mean, I still don’t, most days. But here—” She swept her arm at the blue, the sunlight, the glaring health of it all. “Here it’s like I can feel it, sometimes. The wanting.”

They watched the sandpipers for a while, following the spidery prints they left in the wet. Chloe realized that Riley’s voice had grown gentler, and that her own heart no longer felt like a stone in her chest.

After a long interval, Chloe said, to the sky more than to Riley: “Do you think it’s possible, after all that? To just want something, and not be afraid of it?”

Riley shrugged. “It’s possible. I think you have to want it more than you’re afraid of losing it.”

Chloe thought about this, about cycles of grief and hope, and about the tiny, invincible urge that always revived itself no matter how crushed she felt. “Maybe that’s what makes us human,” she said.

Riley’s hand found a flat skipping stone, which she set spinning over the surface of a shallow pool. “Maybe,” she agreed. “Or maybe it just means we’re stubborn.”

They laughed, and it sounded, to Chloe’s ears, like a real laugh and not just a release of pressure.

The wind shifted, saltier and cooler. Chloe got goosebumps, and Riley noticed, teasing, “You’re not much of a beach bum, are you?”

Chloe grinned. “I’m more of a library person.”

“Explains a lot.” Riley was looking at her again, the soft side of her mouth quirked up. “You know, you remind me of my sister.”

“Should I be flattered?”

“She’s the most determined person I know. She runs a shelter in Baltimore, for runaway kids. She never gave up on me, even when I was impossible. If she were here, she’d probably hug you.”

Chloe laughed into her hands, the sound muffled and shy. Then, emboldened by the image, she looked up. “Would you?”

Riley seemed startled by the question. Her face went still. “I haven’t hugged anyone in a long time.”

Chloe thought maybe that was the end of it, but then Riley shrugged once and stepped over, arms open—not quite sure how to proceed, but sincere. Chloe let herself lean in, feeling the rough warmth of the hoodie, the sharp edge of the necklace at Riley’s throat. It was not a proper hug, not in the way she would have hugged a child, but it was good, and she felt some of the coldness inside her melt away.

When they broke apart, Riley’s eyes were wet. She looked at Chloe, then away, and wiped her sleeve across her face. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Chloe said, and meant it.

They stood that way for a while, staring out at the water. After a time, Riley picked up her shoes, tossed one expertly in the air, and said, “Should we head back?”

Chloe hesitated, looking down at where their footprints had already started to wash away. “Can we stay a little longer?”

“Yeah,” Riley said. “We can.”

So they did. They walked the edge of the tide, not talking, and every so often their hands would brush, and neither of them flinched. After a while, Riley said, “You know, I don’t talk about this much. John. JJ. It’s easier to joke, or act like I’m made of scars instead of… whatever it is.”

Chloe stared at her own hands. “I like the way you talk about them. Like you’re letting them live, just by telling the story.”

“That’s the point, right?” Riley tilted her head. “Otherwise the memory just… dies. Becomes another washed-up shell.”

Chloe wiped at her eyes, embarrassed. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Riley sat up, reached over, and wrapped Chloe in a side-hug. “I’m not.”

Chloe stiffened, unsure, but Riley’s arm was warm, and after a second she let herself lean into it. They watched the water together, the line of the sea blurring into sky.

A little later, Riley said, “I think you’ll be a good mom, if you ever get the chance.”

Chloe felt her heart skip. “You think so?”

“Yeah.” Riley’s voice was certain, no poetry or metaphor. “You care. That’s all that matters.”

Chloe swallowed. “What about you?”

Riley sighed, low and rough. “I don’t know. I think maybe I’d be a mess of a mom. Too much anger, too many bad words. But I had my chance, and I lost it. I can’t imagine myself trying again.”

Chloe squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry.”

They sat until the sun slipped down and the breeze picked up, nipping at their bare ankles. Neither woman seemed in a hurry to move. The grief, Chloe realized, didn’t go away. But it felt smaller now, something she could hold in her pocket instead of her whole chest.

As the first hint of cold chased in off the water, Riley pulled her hoodie tighter and stood, offering Chloe a hand up. “Ready?”

Chloe nodded, tucking the towel under her arm and brushing sand from her skirt. They started walking back, this time side by side, shoulders bumping occasionally but neither pulling away.

At the turn in the path where the main hotel came into view, Chloe felt Riley squeeze her hand, just once, before letting go.

“I liked this,” Riley said. “We should do it again.”

“Yeah,” Chloe said, smiling. “I’d like that.”

The Dance Hall had transformed. Not just decorated, but totally subsumed by the vision Sam had described and Claire had mapped in her color-coded notebook: hand-cut banners arched overhead like party streamers in a cathedral; lanterns the size of volleyballs hovered above the tables, their paper skins glowing soft white and gold; every inch of floor polished so it reflected the movements of the women as they passed, an echo of their focus and momentum.

Gone was the frantic energy of the early build. Today, rehearsal ran like a machine—a living, sweating, giggling machine, but a machine nonetheless. Norah and Marissa were at the epicenter, occupying the wide, empty floor with an intensity that made the space seem smaller. Norah had a stopwatch, a legal pad, and a pen she clicked with a fencer’s reflex; Marissa paced slow, counting off steps, her hands folded behind her back in a pose equal parts therapist and drill sergeant.

They were deep in debate about choreography for the entrance. “He comes in here, right?” Marissa pointed to the double doors, her blouse already unbuttoned to a line that would have gotten her fired at any university in the Midwest. “If he walks clockwise, he’ll see the memory wall first, but that’s too soon. Better to draw him left, get the emotional buildup before the reveal.”

Norah eyed the notepad. “Counterclockwise is longer. We’re not timing a wedding march. I want him at the memory wall right at the music swell.” She drew a squiggled line, then circled it twice. “Trust me, it’s cleaner this way.”

Marissa arched a brow. “I trust you. I just don’t want him tripping over all the chairs.”

“He’s not that clumsy.”

“He’s exactly that clumsy,” Marissa replied, and Norah, with a rare flash of humor, grinned in acknowledgment.

Hovering behind them, Claire took silent notes on a pad that was already half-filled with microscopic script. She wore a skirt with deep pockets for stashing highlighters, and a faded tee that, in another life, might have advertised a rare books convention. Her tail—still an object of fascination for several contestants—swished in a tight arc each time she noticed a crooked banner or a tilted centerpiece. When Norah and Marissa drifted too close to an askew table, Claire sidled up, set her notepad on the surface, and nudged it a perfect inch into line, all without breaking eye contact with the rehearsal.

At the entrance, Sam ran a tight ship. She’d set up her own command post on a bench, clipboard propped against her knee, ticking off a list as deliveries came in: a tray of glassware from Mildred (her service badge gleaming, expression both bored and faintly threatening); a final batch of party favors from Emi, who’d repurposed some of her own origami menagerie into giftable “spirit animals”; a pack of extra batteries for the lanterns, hand-carried by Erin, who moved with the wary vigilance of a woman not quite used to being the center of attention.

“Can we get a ten-minute warning before the dry run?” Sam called across the room, voice just this side of professional wrestling announcer.

Erin, holding the batteries like a prize, said, “Ten and counting. You want me to double-check the playlist?”

“Please,” Sam said. “And flag the tracks that are above ninety decibels. We don’t need to blow anyone’s eardrums this time.”

Emi, on the other side of the room, was already bent over the sound system, her six arms a blur of cables and dials. She’d taken to her new appendages with what looked like joy; she could wire up an entire stereo system in thirty seconds, then use two hands to adjust the treble while another two folded a crane and the last two stacked cups for tomorrow’s punch bowl. The only problem was that, once every few minutes, she’d get distracted and start stacking origami birds in the punch bowl, or draw a little mustache on a party favor. Still, when she called out “Ready!” everyone believed her.

Marissa and Norah circled back to the entryway, pantomiming Andy’s expected arrival. “He’ll see this first,” Marissa said, gesturing at a wall plastered with photo memories: Andy as a kid, Andy at college, Andy from every possible angle and age. “That’s the emotional gut punch. Then, the card wall.”

“Where’s the cake in the sequence?” Norah asked, scanning the notepad.

After the mingling and the toast, wrote Claire, who had circled the words ‘cake reveal’ on her own schedule and was now holding it out like a citation.

Norah squinted. “Is that… ‘cake at zero plus seven’?”

Claire nodded.

“Damn,” Norah muttered, a note of admiration in her voice. “You really are a machine.”

Claire’s cheeks pinked, but her tail flicked fast, betraying pleasure at the compliment.

Sam rose from her bench, clapped her hands once. “All right! Entrance rehearsal. Let’s do it. Norah, Marissa—you’re entrance. Claire, memory wall. Erin, lights and sound. Emi, you’re everywhere.”

“Can I have a title?” Emi asked, hands already busy unspooling streamer from a can.

Sam considered. “Chaos Coordinator.”

Emi bowed, then promptly tripped over her own foot and scattered a flurry of confetti across the main aisle.

Everyone took their positions. Norah and Marissa by the door, arms linked like a pair of prom chaperones; Claire, standing sentinel at the memory wall, notebook in hand; Erin at the control station, holding her phone aloft and ready to cue up the playlist; Emi, in perpetual motion, weaving in and out of sight, testing every variable as she went.

Sam gave the signal, and the practice run began. The door opened, and Norah led Marissa through with a flourish, narrating in a deadpan, “Now entering: the Guest of Honor and his unfortunate harem.” Marissa snickered but stayed in character, glancing at every detail as if seeing it for the first time.

Claire stepped forward, miming the unveiling of the memory wall, then flipping through the script as if searching for a lost page. Her tail, perfectly timed, flagged each photo as she scanned the wall: childhood, adolescence, adulthood.

Emi, at the soundboard, cued up the first track—something soft and jazzy—and then, with two spare hands, began refilling the candy bowls and untangling streamer from the light fixtures.

Erin, clipboard under her arm, checked the lights in sequence: soft white, golden, a brief strobe to test for motion sickness (Emi giggled and ducked under the table).

The whole run took five minutes and thirty-eight seconds. At the end, Norah raised her arm, Marissa toasted with an imaginary glass, and the group gathered around the fake cake, which was for now just an upturned salad bowl with a napkin draped over it.

Sam called out, “Feedback?”

“Lighting at the reveal is too harsh,” said Marissa. “We need to dial it down by, what, thirty percent?”

“Noted,” said Erin, already tweaking the settings.

“The wall’s too close to the windows,” Norah said. “He’ll see it before the music. Can we swap the table and the wall?”

Claire, in answer, had already started moving the table, shoulders squared and tail held high.

“Chaos Coordinator?” Sam called.

Emi poked her head out from under the buffet. “All snack bowls are go! Also, Mildred is bringing more cups.”

Sam made a mark on her sheet, then said, “Let’s do it again.”

They ran the sequence three more times, each tighter than the last. By the end of the third run, Marissa had perfected her toast, Norah could hit her mark without looking, and Claire’s cat tail never so much as brushed a crooked chair. Emi’s origami animals multiplied in the corners, each perched like a silent cheerleader, and even Erin—who had started the morning looking haunted and half-sleep—was grinning by the time Sam called, “That’s a wrap!”

The women high-fived, hugged, and then started to break down the setup for the next day. Sam watched them for a moment, a small knot of pride forming in her chest. This was what she liked best about the world: when the pieces fell together, when the mess turned into something beautiful because people gave a damn and refused to quit.

As the others swept up, Sam crossed the room and tapped Claire on the shoulder. “You killed it,” she said, voice low so only Claire could hear.

Claire looked down, embarrassed but pleased. She scribbled in her notebook, then turned it to show Sam:

Teamwork makes the dream work.

Sam laughed, genuine and loud, then gave Claire a hug.

They all filed out into the hall, the air full of static and confetti dust and the expectation of something big about to happen. In the empty Dance Hall, the lanterns floated on, waiting, the room alive with the echo of what they’d made together.

Claire and Erin tackled the memory wall in the lull between rehearsals. The space was already hushed, the light filtered through sheer curtains, dust motes floating in the crosswind of the ceiling fans. All the other women had scattered—some to nap, others to finish last-minute prep, a few wandering the grounds to burn off nervous energy. In the quiet, the wall loomed: a blank expanse of pale birch paneling, bare except for the blue painter’s tape marks Claire had measured out with mathematical precision.

They worked in sync, neither needing to instruct the other. Erin’s hair was tied back in a rough bun, the faintest green at her temples now visible as the sunlight found her. Her skin was an unreal, leaf-toned mint, and the slight translucency around her wrists and throat made her look both impossibly alive and a little haunted. Claire, in contrast, seemed carved from glass—her pale blue eyes magnified by round spectacles, hands delicate as a surgeon’s as she unwrapped the stack of birthday cards and photos.

They started at the leftmost edge, working chronologically. The early years first: Andy as a toddler, gap-toothed and muddy, clutching a toy fire truck; a grade school photo where his hair stuck out in cowlicks and his ears looked even bigger than they did now; a fifth-grade science fair snapshot where Andy stood beaming, his volcano model mid-eruption.

Erin snorted at that one. “Some things never change,” she said, voice soft. “He’s always been a disaster magnet.”

Claire wrote on her pad, careful and slow: He looks a different kind of happy here. Not like he does now.

Erin’s smile flickered. “Yeah. That was three years before… well, you know.”

They didn’t say the word, but both knew it—before the river, before the fracture that ran through Andy’s entire story. They mounted the photos with double-sided tabs, Claire aligning each print with perfect verticality, Erin smoothing the corners so they wouldn’t catch on a stray draft.

The next set was from high school: Andy in a group shot at the homecoming dance, gawky and clearly uncomfortable in a suit, while a younger Claire stood in the background, watching him; Andy on the roof of a school building, hair mussed, arms thrown wide as if daring the world to stop him; a candids series where he mugged for the camera at a Halloween party, fake vampire teeth and all.

“How does she even have these?” Erin asked, pausing to examine the homecoming shot. “Some of these were never online. I never posted them. He never posted them.”

Claire shrugged, scribbled, She must have access. Or she made them. Then, after a second, she underlined: Or she studied him for years.

Erin read it and nodded, expression caught somewhere between admiration and unease. “Wouldn’t put it past Arabella.”

The college era came next: photos of Andy at Billy’s, the legendary dive bar, pool cue in hand, eyes half-lidded with the beer smile; Andy with Liesa, heads together at a campus food truck, the affection between them almost palpable; Andy and Erin, walking together in the Quad, wrapped in heavy jackets; Andy and Sam sitting on a couch, laughing and throwing popcorn everywhere; Andy alone, staring out over Lake Michigan, the city lights behind him, a look on his face like he was seeing a secret nobody else could guess.

They worked silently for a while, hands moving with care. Erin stepped back once to assess the arrangement, folding her arms. “You know, it’s like we’re building his whole heart right here. I wonder if he’ll even notice, or if he’ll just be embarrassed.”

Claire wrote, I think he’ll notice. I think he’ll feel it. It’s impossible not to, when you see your life like this.

The later years were harder to arrange. Fewer photos, more distance in the eyes. Andy at work parties, stiff and a little lost. Andy on vacation, always with a book or a coffee in hand, never really smiling for the camera. Andy at a wedding, his tie askew, holding a champagne flute like it might explode if he let it go. Andy at The Harrington in Chicago, dressed sharply in a suit and tie, but with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Dawn was there, in her consierge’s uniform, in the background, behind the front desk. She wasn’t looking at the hidden camera.

Claire stared at one image, then at Erin. She wrote, He got so good at hiding. I never realized how much until now.

Erin hesitated, then reached for Claire’s hand and squeezed it. “Yeah. But he’s not hiding anymore.”

They added the most recent photos last—the ones from the hotel, and a few from the earlier days of the contest, where the harem was smaller and the air was full of possibility. There was a candid of Andy and Emi, both doubled over in laughter at something just out of frame; Andy and Norah, heads bent together over a strategy game; Andy and Claire, sitting side by side in the library, discussing a book Claire held in her hands; Andy and Marissa, walking the shore at sunset, the distance between them smaller than ever.

Erin stepped back, pressing her palms to her hips, and let out a breath. “It’s weird,” she said. “You see it all together, and it’s like—he lived a thousand lives before we even showed up.”

Claire wrote, That’s why it matters. We’re part of it, now. Even if it’s just a chapter, for now.

Erin grinned. “I think we’re a little more than a chapter.”

The last envelope Arabella had provided was marked "Private." Erin's fingers trembled as she tore it open, her breath catching. The single photo inside punched the air from her lungs. Claire's gasp was audible beside her.

There they were—Andy and Laura—frozen in time on the hood of a sun-bleached Chevy, their thirteen-year-old bodies pressed together as if they shared a single heartbeat. He was already tall, and Laura was smaller-framed, but they fit against each other as if they had been made to complete each other. Andy wore a polo shirt that was slightly too big for him, a pair of jeans with green grass stains on the knees, and battered sneakers; Laura wore a t-shirt that had seen better days, incongruous pink shorts, and white canvas shoes stained with grass and mud. Andy's hair caught the light in golden-brown waves, his limbs all awkward angles but his smile—God, his smile—it cracked something open inside Claire's chest. Laura's raven hair whipped across her face, one strand caught in the corner of her mouth, those electric blue eyes burning into the camera with such ferocious joy it felt obscene to witness it. Andy's arm wasn't just around her shoulders; his fingers dug into the fabric of her shirt like he was afraid she might evaporate. Her head wasn't just leaning against his; it was burrowed into the space that seemed carved specifically for her. In his eyes lived something that made Claire's chest ache with jealousy and grief: absolute certainty, a boy who knew exactly where he belonged in the universe.

Erin's voice broke. "Jesus Christ. He was whole once."

Claire couldn't speak, couldn't nod, couldn't breathe. The photo vibrated with life in a way that made the wall of memories behind them seem like pale sketches.

For a long, suffocating moment, they stood transfixed, the weight of what they were seeing crushing down on their shoulders—the knowledge that everything they'd built here was scaffolding around the crater this girl had left when she vanished. Every laugh, every touch, every moment they'd shared with Andy sat in the hollow left by the **** of this bright, impossible girl.

"We've helped him," Erin whispered, tracing the edge of the photo with her fingertip. "I know we have. He smiles now. He lets people in. But this—" she gestured at the image of the two children, "—this was different. This was foundation, not repair work." She swallowed hard. "If we put this up, it might destroy him all over again."

Claire's eyes filled with tears as she stared at the photo. She knew Erin was right. They could build a thousand beautiful moments with Andy, create years of joy and connection, but the void would never close completely. It was there, in the photo, the connection between the two children visible even to her. The Andy in this photo—complete, unbroken—was gone forever. The man they loved now carried that absence like a phantom limb, something that would ache even on the happiest days. It didn’t mean what they built with him wouldn’t matter: it mattered more than anything. Together, they had given him a life back, something to look forward to. He loved them as they loved him, maybe he’d marry some or all of them, and he’d live the rest of his life with them, happy, even content. But the wound would never scab, and he would carry it, bleeding, until the day he died.

Claire wrote: It hurts either way. But maybe it will help, too. If he sees he was happy once, he might remember how to be happy again.

Erin was silent for a moment, then nodded. “You’re right. Let’s do it.”

They found a place for the photo—not at the end, not at the beginning, but in the center, the axis around which all the other memories spun.

When it was done, they stepped back to admire the wall. The story it told was complicated, but also beautiful: a life marked by scars and losses, but also by the stubborn persistence of joy.

Erin nudged Claire, then pointed at the last photo. “You know what I think?”

Claire shook her head, expectant.

“I think if anyone deserves a happy ending, it’s him.”

Claire smiled, slow and wide. She wrote one last thing, then held it up for Erin to see:

Or maybe just a new beginning.

They stood, shoulder to shoulder, and let the silence say the rest.

The Dance Hall emptied in stages, like a tide going out. The last burst of laughter faded down the hall, followed by the squeak of shoes and the distant echo of a door. Emily waited, perched on a folding chair near the window, watching dust motes sparkle in the late afternoon sun. She’d planned her approach, rehearsed a dozen openings in her head, but when the room finally went still she just sat there, twisting a lock of hair around her finger and listening to the sound of her own heartbeat.

Claire didn’t notice her at first. She was at the memory wall, adjusting a crooked photo with both hands, tail flicking a precise metronome behind her. When she stepped back to assess her work, she finally spotted Emily, and her eyes went wide with something between welcome and worry.

Emily waved, then stood, suddenly aware of her own nudity. She knew Claire didn’t mean to make her feel self-conscious, but those pale blue eyes seemed to bore into her soul. A tiny part of Emily wondered what the catgirl saw there.

Claire crossed the room, a question already half-formed in the crease of her brow. She paused a respectful distance away, hands folded at her waist.

“Sorry,” Emily said. “I just needed—um, do you have a minute?”

Claire nodded, then produced her ever-present notebook and pen. She scrawled something, then held the pad out:

Of course. Is everything okay?

Emily took a shaky breath. "I think so? I just… I wanted to ask you something, and it's kind of personal, and I didn't want to bug Sam with it, and Erin's a little—well, you know how she is."

Claire's tail swished faster, but she stayed silent.

Emily hesitated, then blurted, "Do you think I'm broken? I mean, do you think Andy thinks I'm broken? Because of the whole… boundaries thing?"

Claire tilted her head, confusion evident in her eyes.

"Oh, right. You weren't there." Emily's cheeks flushed pink. "So um, my first transformation, in the other season—the suggestibility one? I basically turned into this... person who can't say no to anything. It makes me want to obey orders, and… it gives me a jolt of pleasure when I do." She twisted a lock of hair around her finger so tightly it whitened. "Please don’t tell anyone about it. Only Andy knows. Anyway, Andy took me aside after our last date. We were alone in his room, and I was trying to... well, I was being really forward. And he stopped everything."

Claire's expression softened. She wrote in her notebook:

What happened?

Emily stared at the floor. "He told me—really gently, actually—that I should be careful. That my transformation might be making me say yes to stuff I don't actually want, just because I think he'll like it. He made me promise to figure out my boundaries, and always have a safe word, and to use it." She swallowed hard. "I was so embarrassed. Like he thought I couldn't make my own decisions or something."

Claire wrote again:

He was being considerate. That's good, right?

"I guess. But the thing is..." Emily's voice dropped to a whisper. "I don't want a safe word. Or, like, I want to need it, but I want to surrender so hard that I don't ever have to use it. Is that bad? Does that make me... damaged somehow?"

Claire considered, then wrote:

No. He doesn't think that. I don't think that. But why does it bother you?

"Because," Emily said, fidgeting with her thumbs, "the whole point of my transformation is that I'm supposed to be suggestible. That's literally what Leah designed me to be. And I got to like it. I want him to have me. Like, really have me. I know it sounds... God, I can't believe I'm saying this out loud... it sounds **** or whatever, but I want to be his pet, his toy, his everything. Even if that means I do things that scare me."

Claire's mouth quirked, not quite a smile. She tapped the notebook with her pen, as if searching for the right words.

Emily barreled ahead. "I think he wants it, too. Or he could. I can tell, when we're alone, or when he looks at me a certain way. But after last time, I think he's scared he'll hurt me. Or maybe I'm the one who's scared, and I just want him to take the responsibility for it."

She risked a glance up, meeting Claire’s gaze. “Does that make sense?”

Claire nodded, then wrote, carefully:

It does. But I think it is a good sign that he is worried he might hurt you. That he wants to make sure you are safe.

She stopped pacing and sat, pulling her knees up to her chest. “Can I tell you a secret?” she said.

Claire nodded, eyes gentle.

“I used to be so good at saying no,” Emily said. “When I was little, if my mom or dad asked me to do anything, I’d ask why first. Or I’d make a list of conditions. I got in trouble for it all the time. But then I got here, and the game, and the transformations, and suddenly all the reasons I ever said no just… disappeared. I like it. I really do. But I’m terrified that if I set a single boundary, Andy will think I’m faking it. That it’ll mean I don’t really love him. Or worse, that I’m not really me anymore.”

Claire wrote, then held the pad close so only Emily could see:

If you have boundaries, it doesn’t mean you’re not real. It means you trust him to honor them.

Emily stared at that for a long time. She felt tears welling up, but she didn’t let them fall. “I just want to be enough for him,” she whispered.

Claire set the notebook aside and took Emily’s hand, squeezing it.

You are, she wrote, then underlined it. Boundaries don’t change that.

Emily let out a slow, shaky breath. She didn’t trust herself to speak, so she just nodded, holding tight to Claire’s hand. The silence stretched, not uncomfortable but heavy with everything unsaid.

Finally, Claire wrote one last thing:

You could try making a list, just for yourself. Not for him. See how it feels. Maybe there’s nothing you wouldn’t do. But maybe you’ll surprise yourself.

Emily thought about it. “Will you help me?” she asked, voice small.

Claire gave her a smile—wide and bright—and nodded. She held up the pen, as if ready to start right there.

Emily grinned, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s do it.”

They bent over the notebook together, heads close, the sound of pen on paper the only thing filling the room. Outside, the sun dipped low, painting the Dance Hall gold and pink. Emily felt, for the first time in a long while, like she wasn’t alone in her weirdness.

By evening, the Hall had settled into a kind of comfortable inertia. The sky outside went the color of old rose, and the last of the prep crew for the day trickled out, leaving behind an aftermath of clean linen, folded chairs, and a hush that felt both earned and a little sad.

Sam was the last to leave. From just inside the doors came the soft scratch of her pen on the clipboard and the low murmur of her lips reciting headcounts and delivery times. Myra hesitated in the hush, listening for the steady breathing that marked someone still working. After a moment’s pause to gather courage, she padded forward, her fox tail brushing the floor with each careful step.

“Hey, Sam?” Myra said, keeping her tone light. “You sound like you’re running a whole state from that thing.”

Sam’s pen stilled. She gave a quick, pleased chuckle without looking up. “Just making sure the place doesn’t implode before the guest of honor arrives. Reputation and all that.”

Myra hovered at arm’s length, uncertain how to move closer without a guide. In the silence that followed, Sam tapped the clipboard twice, set it aside, and shifted her weight. Her voice softened. “Need something?”

Myra swallowed, the board beneath her fingertips familiar but still foreign. “I… just wanted to thank you. For today. For everything.”

A gentle click of Sam’s pen and a soft breath of acknowledgment. “Go on, sit.” The bench creaked as Sam patted the spot beside her. Myra let herself down, tail curling into her lap.

“I don’t think I’ve ever said it out loud,” Myra ventured, her fingers tracing the edge of the wood. “But it’s nice. Being included. It’s not—” She exhaled, searching for words. “It’s not what I’m used to.”

Sam nodded once, quiet encouragement.

Myra continued, voice dropping. “You didn’t have to let me help. Or treat me like… a regular person.”

A soft smile laced Sam’s words. “You are a regular person, Myra.”

“Not always,” Myra admitted, drawing her hands together. “Sometimes I feel like I’m just… extra. Or a reminder of something ugly.”

Sam was silent a moment, then spoke in a low, even tone. “If you mean what happened with Andy and Laura, I know. He told me.”

Myra stiffened at the name, but Sam’s voice remained gentle, almost weary. “Look—I don’t waste energy on drama I can’t fix. If Andy’s forgiven you, that’s enough for me.”

Myra turned the thought over, uncertain whether to feel relief or dismissal. “You’re really okay with it?”

Sam shrugged, the sound of fabric brushing. “I’m not your judge. None of us are. You know Andy is my best friend, right? But really, he’s my family. He’s closer to me than my own brother. And Andy said you belonged—so you belong. That’s how families work, found or otherwise.”

A warm hush settled. Myra listened as her tail brushed the bench, then risked shifting her ears toward Sam. In that quiet, she sensed nothing but plain acceptance.

“You ever resent it?” Myra asked softly. “That I’m here?”

A snort. “If I resented every person who made a bad choice, I wouldn’t have time to run this circus. Besides, I know what it’s like to want a do-over.”

Myra blinked, surprised by the shared understanding in Sam’s tone. “Really?”

Sam tapped her clipboard once more. “Everybody’s got regrets. Some of us just get lucky enough to move past them.”

Myra released a long-held breath. “Thank you,” she said, voice steady.

Sam bumped her shoulder against Myra’s—a friendly click of contact. “Anytime. And if anyone else gives you a hard time, come find me. I’m ruthless, but fair.”

Myra laughed softly, a short, relieved sound. “I bet you are.”

They remained there a while longer, listening to the faint hum of the building settling for the evening. Myra felt something shift inside her—a weight lifting, or a piece finally clicking into place.

When she rose to leave, Sam called gently, “You know you’re one of us now, right?”

Myra tilted her head toward Sam’s voice, ears pricked. “Yeah,” she said, surprised by how true it felt. “I really do.”

“Good,” Sam said quietly. “Want to come to the Banquet Hall for a coffee?” She touched Myra’s hand, and Myra took hers. Guided by Sam, Myra left the Hall with her spine straight, tail swishing—not from nerves, but from something like pride.