Tides of Grief, Part 2

The Dance Hall was nearly finished. In the soft pre-dusk light, the long windows caught every movement and doubled it: a dozen women in orbit, each assigned to her planet, every gesture mirrored on the polished blackwood floor.

Sam wore her STAGE BOSS badge, running the clock and keeping the Hall on a tight, invisible schedule. “Lighting check, three minutes,” she called, scribbling on a page already warped with corrections and circled deadlines. She offered low-fives to anyone who passed; the effect was less drill sergeant and more coxswain, but the energy kept everyone moving forward.

Norah, self-appointed second-in-command without Riley around to pretend otherwise, managed the choreography from the main entrance. Her tape measure extended and snapped back with gunshot efficiency, eyes sweeping the space for any defector. She checked chair spacing, table alignment, the height of each balloon cluster. When she barked, “West buffet’s a quarter-inch off,” Sam didn’t even look up from her clipboard; she simply nudged the whole table with one sneaker, then raised a hand in salute.

Claire hovered in the liminal space between micro and macro. She floated from centerpiece to candelabra to the high arch where the Dance Hall’s glass dome curved, adjusting tiny details. Her tail twitched with every success, and her notebook hung open from a lanyard around her neck. She made all her requests in ink: Move these votives two inches left, swap gold for silver at Table Four, never permit an uneven cake stand to see the light of day. Sometimes, if someone made the right tweak on the first try, she’d offer a rare, quick smile—a flash, then gone.

Erin ran the sound system, bare feet gripping the blackwood as she crouched over the console. She could have asked anyone for help, but preferred to work alone, splicing cords and testing speakers by blasting low, thrumming bass into the empty space. “We get one shot at ‘Happy Birthday,’” she explained to Chloe, who was passing by with a tray of glassware. “If it feeds back, we’re doomed.” Chloe offered a nervous giggle and a thumbs-up, which was exactly the right response.

Liesa had claimed the flower station: six buckets, four shears, a small army of stems in various states of undress. She built arrangements with one hand and sipped a mineral water with the other, her hips swaying to music only she could hear. Each bouquet was a little story—some wild and asymmetrical, some rigid as soldiers, some drooping and bashful. She spoke to her flowers in Flemish, murmuring secrets to the tulips as she bent their heads into place.

Chloe, perpetual caretaker, was stationed at the far end of the Hall, fine-tuning chair heights and fussing with the padding on each seat. She kept a stack of microfiber cloths looped in her apron and stopped every ten minutes to check the “memory wall” for fingerprints. Whenever she caught someone watching her, she’d blush and look away, but there was a satisfaction in her work—a tiny, proud smile as she polished each surface to a flawless gleam.

Dawn darted, quite literally, from station to station. Her bunny ears, black and velvety, bounced with each step, and she seemed happiest when she could help two people at once. She hopped from stringing lanterns with Emily to re-sorting dessert plates with Liesa, then doubled back to assist Sam with a last-minute tape run. Dawn’s energy was the yeast in the room: without her, everything would have felt flat.

Emily, nude as always, trailed through the Hall in a state of kinetic joy. Her hair swirled behind her as she wove between the tables, arms loaded with napkins, bunting, confetti, or whatever new errand Sam assigned. The other women were mostly used to her body by now; the only sign of her chronic nudity was the way her hair would, by some supernatural logic, always fall to cover her at just the right angles.

Marissa was the one person who didn’t appear to be moving at all, though in fact she was everywhere at once. She stood near the entrance, scanning the space with her psychologist’s gaze, making small, deliberate notes in a blue leather planner. If a spat broke out (“Gold is not a winter color, Norah!” “Then don’t use gold, Liesa!”), Marissa would materialize at the epicenter, voice smooth as honey, and dissolve the tension in three sentences or less. She coordinated with Sam, mediated for Claire, and kept an eye on Myra, who lingered at the margins of every group but never quite entered.

Presents began to appear on the designated table, each stacked with care. The arrangement itself became a kind of meta-gift: every time a new box arrived, Chloe or Dawn would adjust the pile, making space, admiring ribbons, congratulating the wrapper on their technique. Liesa’s was wrapped in matte black with a pink bow the size of a cantaloupe. Norah’s was a flat, heavy rectangle, no wrapping paper, just a single red string tied with mathematical precision. Riley’s was a paper bag with a Post-it note: “Open at your own risk.” Emily’s gift, a bright, hand-painted box covered in cartoon bunnies, was accompanied by an origami flower she’d made with Emi’s help at the last minute.

The pace of the afternoon did not slacken; it grew more precise. As if time itself, in the final hours before a deadline, sharpened its edge and dared anyone to slow down.

With every circuit through the Hall, Norah’s tape measure snapped and retracted with sharper punctuation, her corrections going from whole inches to half-centimeters, driving wild anyone who couldn’t convert by heart, until even the napkins on the dessert table seemed to stand at attention. Every so often, she would step back, arms folded, and survey the room with the air of a general—never satisfied, but never doubting that the battle would be won. She called out a command: “Rotate the fruit bowl, thirty degrees. It’s off-axis.” Dawn, halfway up a ladder on the other side of the room, gave a salute and did as told.

Sam, not to be outdone, began counting down the rest of the day in ten-minute blocks, orchestrating rehearsals for the surprise dance and running lights cues with the energy of a Broadway stage manager. She’d stop people in the hallway, reassign them, or—if she sensed a flagging spirit—slip in a quick joke or a protein bar. “Nobody dies on my shift,” she said at one point, passing out little bottles of electrolytes, “not unless we can resuscitate you in under five minutes.”

In the far corner, Myra sat at a round table with her fox tail curled protectively around the chair leg. Before her were three large bowls, each filled with party favors: enamel pins shaped like tiny animals, mini puzzles, strips of metallic stickers. Her hands hovered over the bowls, fingers brushing the edges until she could distinguish each item by touch alone. She plucked one from each, then lined them up on the table, double-checked the sequence, and packed them into clear cellophane bags. Every completed bag gave her a small jolt of satisfaction; she had found, in the rhythm and tactility of this work, a rare reprieve from the drift of her mind. No one had to check on her, or offer to help, or talk her through the steps. She had this. She was doing her part.

The table of presents expanded with every hour. Each new gift prompted a micro-ceremony: Chloe would smooth the tablecloth, Dawn would fluff the bows, and whoever delivered the package would set it down with a shy or theatrical flourish, depending on her style. Sometimes the gifts would be repositioned, stacking heavier ones on the bottom and lighter, more decorative boxes on top, so that by late afternoon the table resembled a small, improbable monument.

With the final gift in place, the table was complete. Sam pronounced it “aesthetically optimal,” and even Norah didn’t argue.

Elsewhere, the finishing touches multiplied. Claire, having solved every major problem, roamed the Hall correcting micro-misalignments with a fervor that bordered on the mystical: she’d adjust a chair by the width of a thumb, rotate a charger plate, re-tie a bow so its loops matched to the millimeter. Every so often, she’d stop, squint at the whole arrangement, then nod to herself and move on. Her silence was as effective as any voice.

Erin, behind the sound system, put the finishing touches on the playlist. She queued the tracks, tested every volume setting, and ran “Happy Birthday” at four different tempos to see which one felt best. She wrote the optimal sequence on a note card, making little notes as to why Andy liked one song or another so Norah could introduce them, then taped it to the control board. Her job done, she drifted away from the console, her mint-green skin glowing softly in the reflected lights, and joined Liesa at the flower station. They compared bouquets for a few minutes, critiquing each stem’s alignment and debating which blooms best matched the “energy” of the room.

Dawn, whose bunny ears never flagged for a second, zipped from corner to corner, delivering last-minute instructions, checking on Chloe, and hopping up to replace a slightly askew paper lantern near the entrance. At one point she paused to sip water, then powered through the rest of her tasks with a runner’s focus.

Chloe and Emily, tasked with setting the sweets table, worked in perfect, if slightly chaotic, tandem. Chloe arranged platters and trays, each lined with tissue and doilies, while Emily flitted in and out, replenishing supplies and sneak-tasting anything with sprinkles. Chloe allowed herself a tiny, secret smile each time Emily gave a thumbs-up or a mumbled, “So good,” mouth full of sugar. The cookies were just for the group; Dawn and Chloe would bake for the party starting tomorrow.

Marissa drifted through the center of the Hall, checking on everyone, lending a hand wherever needed but never lingering long enough to become an obstacle. She caught minor conflicts before they could erupt, offered words of encouragement in her low, calming voice, and, every so often, would pause to simply watch the others work—her presence as steady as the central pillar of the dome overhead.

As the sun dipped lower and the shadows stretched across the floor, the work reached a kind of steady state. The Hall was no longer in flux, but ready. Every chair, every plate, every flower was exactly where it needed to be. The present table glimmered. The party favor bags were stacked in a neat grid, each a small, tactile promise of joy.

Sam called out, “That’s a wrap!” and, for a brief, hilarious moment, every woman in the Hall applauded herself and everyone else. The applause was ragged but genuine, a release of tension more than a celebration.

Chloe, cheeks flushed with the pride of a job done right, looked at the room and whispered, “He’s going to love it.” Dawn, bouncing on her heels beside her, agreed: “Best birthday ever.”

They gathered their things, made last check-ins, and drifted out in small, comfortable clusters. Sam and Norah lingered to double-check the lock on the catering fridge. Liesa wiped her hands, surveyed the blooms one last time, and left with a lightness in her step.

At the edge of the Hall, Myra hesitated. She found her way back to her table, ran her hands over the remaining party favor bags, then sat for a moment, letting the echo of the day settle in her chest. She was tired, but the kind of tired that felt honest—earned, not imposed. She traced the seam of the last bag, smiled to herself, and then got up and left.

Tomorrow, Dawn and Chloe would start in the kitchen at six. But for now, the Hall waited—still and perfect, the sum of a hundred small labors, a room alive with the anticipation of laughter and light.

The sun outside was almost gone, but the windows held onto the last of it, and for a while the Dance Hall glowed as if with its own secret dawn.

---

After the Hall had emptied and the echo of applause faded, Norah retreated to the solarium. It was her favorite room in the evening—quiet, never crowded, and always a few degrees cooler than the rest of the hotel. She liked the geometry of it: the grid of frosted windows, the rows of plants in their crisp ceramic pots, the glass-topped tables spaced in a precise, almost mathematical pattern.

She was sorting a new deck of cards—removing the jokers, smoothing the edges with her thumb—when Myra entered, guided by the graceful sweep of her fingertips on the wall. Norah watched her navigate the room, each step measured, as if the floor might shift underfoot without warning.

“Room’s empty,” Norah called, just loud enough to register. “You want the couch or a chair?”

Myra paused, orienting to the sound. “Couch, please,” she said, a hint of relief in her voice. She found her way to the nearest one and settled, folding her hands on her lap, tail tucked neatly at her side.

Norah shuffled the cards with an efficiency born of repetition, then reluctantly put them aside. She’d once trained herself to shuffle a new deck perfectly in under forty-five seconds; now, with Myra waiting across from her on the solarium’s low couch, she felt compelled to show off a little, even if her audience couldn’t see it. Still, cards definitely weren't the right play for this crowd.

“This one’s called Hive,” Norah said, pulling out a box from a shelf and placing it between them. “You don’t need sight, just decent pattern memory.”

Myra traced the edge of the table, then the tiles. “You’re sure it’s not rigged?” There was no bite in her voice, only the faintest echo of her old mischief.

Norah grinned. “If it was, I’d be winning every round.”

Myra cocked her head, ears swiveling in Norah’s direction. “Didn’t you already do that, earlier? In the Dance Hall?”

Norah raised both hands in mock surrender, then caught herself. “Okay, yeah. But I’m turning over a new leaf. Equal opportunity bloodbath from here on out.”

They set up the board, Norah narrating each step: the tactile ridges of the tiles, the bumps marking each insect, the order of play, and the logic behind every rule. “You’re white. I’m black. The hive is made by how the stones touch each other - they must always be in contact, but they can be arranged in any way. If you want to double-check a move, just ask. No shame.” She paused, watching as Myra felt out the arrangement with the tips of her fingers, tail wrapped tight around one ankle for extra balance.

“Ready?” Norah asked, and Myra nodded, her hands resting palms-up on her thighs. Norah explained the abilities of the different insects, letting Myra feel each shape with her fingertips as Norah explained.

The first round was slow. Norah narrated her choices as if she were streaming to a roomful of nerds: “I’m moving the Ant here—feel it?” She realized, halfway through the explanation, that she was enjoying herself. Not just the game, but the way Myra listened—really listened, the way people used to before everyone was three screens deep at all times.

Myra played with caution, double- and triple-checking each piece before committing. But her confidence grew, especially when she caught Norah in a trap two turns early. “You’re about to walk into a bottleneck,” she said, voice rising with glee. “If I cut you off here, you can’t get to the last node.”

Norah grinned. “Who’s the hive queen now?”

The round ended with a near-tie, Norah eking out a win by a single tile. She resisted the urge to gloat—barely. Myra sat back, a smile ghosting her lips, then let her tail thump against the leg of the couch. “I haven’t played anything this fun in ages,” she admitted. “You’re not… holding back for my sake, are you?”

Norah shook her head, then realized that Myra would never see it. “Hell no. You’re legitimately scary.”

Myra laughed, not the thin, hesitant giggle of someone afraid to take up space, but a real, body-deep laugh. “Good. I want to win the next one.”

So they played again. This time, Myra was faster, and called Norah’s bluffs before Norah even realized she was bluffing. Norah found herself enjoying the challenge: she had to speak her moves aloud not just to be fair, but because it **** her to be smarter, more deliberate. She explained her logic, her false trails, even her mistakes, and Myra countered each one with surgical precision.

Between turns, they talked—not about feelings, exactly, but about the mechanics of strategy, about pattern recognition and risk. Myra confessed to memorizing chess openings as a kid (“I was a prodigy until I turned eleven, then a fraud after”), and Norah admitted to counting cards in Vegas for one glorious, unrepeatable weekend. “You don’t seem like someone who takes risks,” Myra teased, running her finger along the edge of a hex.

“I take calculated risks,” Norah replied. “There’s a difference. You plan for every variable, then hope the world doesn’t spit in your eye.”

Myra considered this. “You sound like you’d be a great doctor.”

Norah paused, surprised. “Why?”

Myra shrugged, her face softening. “You narrate everything. You make sure I know what’s happening before it happens. That’s what good doctors do. They don’t keep you in the dark.”

Norah felt something warm twist in her chest. “Maybe in another life. I was supposed to be an actuary, you know.” She let the confession hang, then picked up a tile and made her move.

The game wound down, the final turns coming faster, more ruthless. Norah realized she was losing—actually losing, and by a wide margin. Myra had figured out a tactic Norah had never considered, and with each turn, she drove the point home with surgical glee.

When it ended, Myra clapped her hands once, triumphant. “You’re toast, Rahman.”

Norah threw up her arms and let herself laugh. “How did you do that? I thought I had you boxed in at turn five.”

Myra’s tail wagged, the tip curling in pleasure. “You got cocky. Left a gap. I took it.”

Norah stood, stretched, and circled the table. “Rematch next time?”

Myra nodded, but this time she reached for Norah’s hand, anchoring herself. “Next time, I want to play as black. It’s a better color for me.”

Norah grinned, squeezing her hand before letting go. “Done.”

They packed up the pieces, Myra running her fingers over each one before returning it to the box. When the last tile clicked into place, she exhaled, slow and content.

“That was good,” Myra said, her voice softer than before. “It’s nice to just… play. Not worry about what’s next.”

Norah nodded. “I get that.”

They sat in companionable silence, the last gold of the sunset filtering through the solarium glass. Norah looked at Myra, really looked, and saw not the vulnerability, not the lostness, but the mind underneath—all sharp angles and cleverness, hungry for any challenge the world would throw.

“You ever want a rematch,” Norah said, “just find me.”

Myra smiled, tilting her head toward the warmth of Norah’s voice. “I’ll hold you to that.”

They stayed a while longer, talking in circles, until the last light vanished and the solarium filled with shadow and the promise of tomorrow.

---

Liesa arrived first, towel-wrapped and wide-eyed, scanning for a rule or a sign but finding only a polished, marbled silence in the hotel spa. The Mildred desk attendant didn’t speak—just nodded, took her name, and pointed to a rack of slippers with a single, theatrical eyebrow.

She followed the corridor, heat blooming with every step. Sam’s voice echoed off the tiled walls, a lazy drawl of, “Hey, Eurostar!”—and there, in the next chamber, Sam was already sunk to her shoulders in the big pool, hair floating around her like a blue corona.

“Come in, it’s perfect,” Sam called, then lowered her voice as Liesa approached. “Marissa’s in the next room. She’s doing a float tank. Says it’s for research.”

Liesa set her towel aside, slid into the pool, and found the temperature just shy of a hot bath—comforting, never scalding. Sam drifted closer, chin on the tile edge, eyes soft with the kind of focus that only came with absolute disconnection from the rest of the world.

“It’s good, right?” Sam asked, letting the question bob in the air.

Liesa nodded, then realized that with Sam’s face pointed away, she’d need to say it. “I think I could live here.” Her voice surprised her, so casual, no effort to polish away the accent.

Sam grinned. “It’s better than group therapy. Or, like, anywhere I’ve been in the last two years.”

They floated, side by side, not touching but held together by the rules of proximity, until Marissa padded in, robe cinched tight except for her mandatory cleavage, hair slicked straight back and eyes shining with a tranquility Liesa hadn’t seen on her before.

“Am I late?” Marissa asked, slipping her feet into the water at the shallow end.

“Not unless you missed the secret handshake,” Sam replied. “Or the part where I just set a new world record for holding my breath.”

Marissa gave a rare, honest laugh and glided in. “Float tanks. You’re not supposed to compete with them, Sam.”

“I compete with everything. Even the air,” Sam replied.

Liesa settled her arms on the rim, watching the water blur her skin to a moving halo. The air was dense with minerals and the faint, sharp trace of eucalyptus. For a while they just breathed together, letting the steam close out the world.

“Do you miss it?” Sam asked, after a long stretch of nothing. “Regular life, I mean. The jobs. The noise.”

Liesa considered. “I miss drawing in cafes. The random conversations. But I don’t miss the stress.” She hesitated, then added, “I never knew how much stress until it stopped.”

Sam nodded. “I miss my brother’s bad jokes. And real pizza. But otherwise? Not really. I like having a routine. Even if it’s…” She gestured at the water, at the suite existence, at all of it. “Weird.”

Marissa tilted her head back, eyes closed. “I don’t miss being in charge of other people’s trauma. But I do miss having a schedule, a plan, a sense that time matters.” She cracked one eyelid open. “This place is outside of time.”

They all laughed, not loud, but real. The echo swirled in the steam, lingering after the sound itself died.

Sam said, “It’s weird, right? How we just became… us. I mean, Arabella picked this group, but the goal was just to maximize drama. But it fits.”

Marissa nodded. “Sometimes, you end up with the right people. Even if it’s by accident.” She looked at Liesa. “You’re quieter than usual.”

Liesa shrugged, tucking a knee to her chest under the water. “I was just thinking. If I’d met either of you outside of here, I’d probably have thought you were out of my league.”

Sam laughed, flicking water at her. “You’d be the hot mystery in the cafe. And Marissa would be the person everyone tries to impress.”

Liesa smiled, letting the warmth of the water seep into her bones. “And you’d be the person who brings me out of my shell. Forces me to do karaoke or learn to play poker.”

Sam feigned scandal. “You’ve never played poker?”

“I never had the money to lose,” Liesa replied, and the moment the words were out she realized how **** it sounded.

Marissa caught it, but didn’t pounce. “It’s a game of psychology,” she said. “I think you’d be better than you think.”

Liesa tried to imagine it. Sam at her side, whispering strategy. Marissa, silent across the table, reading every move. The Belgian girl smiled. “Maybe you’ll teach me. After all this.”

“Deal,” Sam said, then stuck out her hand, pinky finger extended.

Liesa hesitated, then hooked her pinky with Sam’s. The gesture felt childish and honest all at once.

Marissa smiled, the corners of her eyes creasing with the rarest softness. “I think this is what the world is supposed to be like,” she said. “Everyone just helping everyone else float for a while.”

The silence that followed was not empty, but full. Liesa let herself lean into it, feeling the heat loosen every tightness in her muscles. She let her mind drift to the future—not to what she feared, but to this: small moments, no agendas, friends who made the impossible seem routine.

When they finally stood to leave, the air outside felt sharper, the world a little more in focus.

“I don’t know about you,” Sam said, wrapping a towel around her shoulders, “but I feel ten pounds lighter.”

Marissa nodded, her smile lingering. “Me too.”

Liesa followed them, grateful for every step.

---

Erin wasn’t a fan of beaches, as a rule. Too much glare, too much sand, not enough privacy. But the evening light was low, and the only company for a hundred meters was Emi, perched cross-legged beside her, sketchpad propped against one knee.

For a while, neither spoke. They watched the gulls wheel and scream over the surf, the foam tracing letters in a language neither could read. Emi’s six arms worked in slow tandem: one hand steadying the paper, two more shading and blending, the others fussing with the hem of her shorts or absently tying knots in the ends of her own hair. Erin wanted to stare, but caught herself and instead picked up a flat shell, turning it over and over in her palm. She realized she had rarely spoken with Emi, one-on-one, since this show began. In many ways, Andy’s oldest friend was still a mystery to her.

Emi broke first. “You’re not going to ask?”

Erin glanced sideways, not sure which question Emi meant. “Ask what?”

Emi’s smile was crooked. “How I do anything with all these arms. Or if I ever get tired of having six hands but only one mouth.”

Erin snorted, not unkindly. “I was going to ask how you draw without getting graphite all over yourself.”

That got a laugh. Emi held up her forearms, all six, palms out—every one was smudged, as if she’d been fingerprinted by an overzealous cop. “I stopped worrying about it,” Emi said. “It just happens. Like laundry. Or breathing.”

They sat with that for a while. Erin wanted to say something comforting, or clever, but the truth was, she didn’t know how to comfort anyone, least of all herself. She dug her toes into the sand, watching as the tiny grains stuck between her mint-green skin.

After a minute, Emi said, “Andy was never into beaches, either. He used to say he’d only go if someone was dying or there was free ice cream.”

Erin smiled, surprised. “He told me that, too. The dying part, not the ice cream.”

“He liked rivers better,” Emi said. “Less drama. Easier to see what’s coming.”

“Not always,” Erin muttered, thinking of the day on the riverbank that changed everything. Emi’s expression grew sad.

“No, not always.” Emi asked, “When did you two meet?”

“Junior year,” Erin replied. “He was the only one who actually understood the material. I thought he was a snob, at first. Then I realized he just… didn’t care about impressing anyone.”

“I always liked that about him,” Emi said. “He was honest. Even when it hurt.”

Erin turned the shell in her fingers, feeling the ridges dig into her thumb. “Do you think he’s happy? Here, I mean. Or just playing along?”

Emi set her sketchpad down, folding her arms (all of them) across her knees. “I don’t know. I think he wants to be. But it’s hard, when you can’t turn your brain off.”

“Or your body,” Erin added, then immediately regretted it. But Emi just nodded, eyes glinting in the light.

“It’s not just you, you know,” Emi said, voice soft but clear. “Sometimes I wish I could go back. Don’t get me wrong, I like this version of me. I wouldn’t undo it, exactly, but… just try being normal for a while.”

“Normal’s overrated,” Erin said, but even she didn’t believe it.

Emi smiled, letting the silence fill the space again. “Do you ever think about after? Like, when this is all over?”

“Every day,” Erin replied. “I can’t wear clothes. I can’t go outside without getting stared at. If Andy wasn’t here, I’d probably just—” She stopped herself, not sure what the end of that sentence was supposed to be.

Emi reached over, one hand landing lightly on Erin’s calf. “It’s not so bad, being seen. You just have to decide what to do with the attention.”

Erin looked down at the hand, then back at Emi. “Easy for you to say. You make it look… artistic.”

Emi laughed, a real, unguarded sound. “I make it look like a disaster, but it’s my disaster. I used to be terrified someone would see me. Now, I kind of hope they do.”

They watched the waves for a while, side by side. The sun dropped lower, the air going from gold to blue, the world shrinking to just the two of them and the endless hush of the surf.

Emi said, “He misses her, you know. Laura.”

“I know,” Erin replied. “I don’t blame him.”

“I don’t either,” Emi said. “But I hope he can move forward. I hope we all can.”

Erin wanted to argue, but found she didn’t have the energy. Instead, she looked at Emi, and saw the way the evening light traced her face, the way her six hands folded together, always touching, always moving.

As the last light faded, Emi packed up her sketchpad. “I drew you,” she said, holding out the page. “You look like you’re about to take on the whole world.”

Erin took the picture. It wasn’t flattering—her breasts were comically enormous, her hair wild, her posture hunched and wary. But there was something fierce in the eyes, something defiant.

“I like it,” Erin said, and meant it.

---

Chloe arrived at the rec room carrying a tray with two cans of soda, a bowl of popcorn, and a nervous flutter in her chest. She’d sent Claire a message via Mildred—just “Want to race?”—and Claire had replied with an artfully rendered cat emoji and a blue shell, which Chloe interpreted as a yes and a warning.

She found Claire already seated on the floor in front of the TV, Switch controllers lined up in a perfect grid. Claire wore her usual racing uniform: oversized hoodie, shorts, and a determination that made her look like a champion about to defend her crown. Her tail swished, almost amused.

Chloe set down the snacks and dropped cross-legged beside her. “No mercy today?” she asked, grinning.

Claire shook her head, ears pricked high, pushing up her glasses with a practiced flick. She picked up a controller, selected Dry Bowser without hesitation, and tapped in a string of custom settings so quickly Chloe almost missed it. The race was on.

From the first corner, Chloe knew she was doomed. Claire didn’t just play; she mapped every shortcut, every drift, every item box. Her tail flicked with each tight turn. Chloe struggled to stay in the running, but within two minutes she was chasing Claire’s dust.

“Where did you learn to drive like this?” Chloe laughed, after being lapped for the second time.

Claire shrugged, then scribbled a note and held it up:

I like games where the rules make sense.

Chloe cackled, loving it. “I like games where I don’t immediately crash into the wall, but I’ll take what I can get.”

Next round, Chloe picked Peach and went full chaos, deploying banana peels everywhere just to see if she could trip Claire up. For a moment it worked—Claire spun out, and Chloe whooped—but Claire recovered in seconds, overtaking her with a brutal triple red shell finish. The match ended, Claire the clear winner, Chloe a happy wreck.

“Best of three?” Chloe suggested, already queueing up the next Grand Prix.

Claire nodded, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. She was enjoying this, Chloe realized—not just the victory, but the company. After each race, Claire jotted sticky notes: Nice block on Rainbow Road, or You almost got me with the triple green shells. Chloe stuck them to her arm, a sleeve of compliments.

They played for an hour, the sun slanting through the windows, popcorn kernels crunching underfoot. The room filled with Chloe’s laughter, the kind that doesn’t need a reason.

On the last round, Chloe tried a **** shortcut and fell off the track, spiraling into digital oblivion. Claire paused the game, looked at Chloe, and—very gently—leaned over and gave her a quick, awkward hug.

Chloe hugged back, surprised but delighted. “You’re the best, you know that?”

Claire’s ears twitched with pleasure. She took one of her post-it notes, folded it into a tiny origami star, and handed it to Chloe.

Rematch anytime, it read.

---

Dawn hit the water first, launching herself with a hop and a whoop that echoed down the empty beach. Emily followed, more hesitant, but as soon as the first wave caught her hips she squealed and ran in after. The water was cold enough to shock but not so cold as to hurt. Dawn dove under, popped up ten feet out, and flung her arms wide. “Come on, Em! It’s perfect!”

Emily waded in, hair swirling around her like a cape. She hated cold water, but Dawn’s excitement was infectious, and within seconds she was up to her chest, laughing as the current knocked her off balance. “I feel like an ice cube,” she gasped, shoving hair out of her eyes.

“You’re a very cute ice cube,” Dawn said, then dunked herself again for emphasis.

They swam parallel to shore, no destination, just the need to move. Dawn alternated between strong, clean strokes and frantic splashing, like a puppy that had learned to swim by instinct. Emily, despite her perpetual nudity, moved with surprising grace, limbs long and elegant, hair always seeming to find its way back to cover just enough.

They took turns racing, but Dawn always won. Emily started making up rules to level the playing field: “You have to hop on one foot,” or “no arms for the last ten meters.” Dawn accepted every handicap, never letting the competitive edge outweigh the fun.

After a while, they floated side by side, letting the waves rock them. Dawn stared up at the sky, bunny ears flat against her head. “If you could have any wish, right now, what would it be?”

Emily considered. “To have this every day. Not just the swimming, but—” She trailed off, unsure how to finish.

Dawn turned, ears perked. “But what?”

Emily shrugged, sending ripples across the water. “But the feeling that it’s okay to be myself. That I’m not waiting for someone to tell me to put my clothes back on, or stop laughing so loud.”

Dawn’s eyes were kind. “You can, you know. Be yourself, I mean.”

Emily blushed, but the warmth of it fought the chill of the water. “You say it like it’s easy.”

Dawn shook her head. “It’s not. I just pretend it is, until it is.” She grinned, then splashed Emily in the face. “Come on. Last one to the buoy has to carry the towels!”

Emily shrieked and took off, hair streaming behind her. Dawn let her get a head start, then powered through, catching up in seconds and letting Emily win by half a body length. They clung to the buoy, panting and giggling, then turned back toward shore.

By the time they waded out, the sun was low, painting the sand pink and gold. Emily flopped down on her towel, still dripping, hair fanned around her like a sea anemone. Dawn shook herself off like a dog, then plopped down beside her, bunny ears askew and water still beading on her cheeks.

A little ways up the beach, Emi and Erin sat watching, legs stretched out in front of them. Emi waved with all six arms at once; Erin just lifted a hand, but her face was soft, almost peaceful.

Emily rolled over to face them, chin in her hands. “How long have you been spying on us?”

Emi grinned. “Long enough to see Dawn lose most of the races.”

Dawn stuck out her tongue. “She cheats.”

Erin smirked. “I believe it. She’s very competitive.”

Dawn tilted her head. “What about you two? Secret plotting session?”

Emi giggled, a sound that always seemed too big for her body. “More like existential crisis, but we’re on break now.”

Emily scooted over to join, and within minutes all four of them were huddled together on the sand. Dawn towel-dried Emily’s hair with surprising gentleness, Emi kept building increasingly weird sand creatures, and Erin leaned back on her elbows, letting the setting sun warm her skin.

The conversation drifted, as it always did: favorite memories, dumb pranks from childhood, what they’d do if they could be “normal” for a day. Emily confessed to wanting to go to a comic con in cosplay, just once, and not worry about anyone staring. Dawn wanted to run a bakery and eat all the pastries without caring about carbs. Emi wanted to have a picnic in a park, no cameras, no one looking twice at her arms. Erin, after a long pause, said she just wanted to sleep in, once, and wake up to someone who actually wanted her there.

No one laughed. Dawn just said, “Andy wants you,” like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Emily nodded, her eyes bright, and Emi patted Erin on the back with two hands at once.

They sat in silence for a while, the four of them, watching the tide inch higher up the shore. The sky was streaked with orange and purple, and the first stars blinked on overhead. It was quiet, and safe, and for the first time all week, none of them were in a rush to move.

Eventually, Dawn stood, stretching her arms high and ears even higher. “We should get back before the bugs come out,” she said, but made no move to actually leave.

Emily rolled over onto her back, hair splayed out. “Let’s just stay a little longer,” she said.

So they did.