The Birthday, Part 2

Andy sat on the old stone bench in the Inner Gardens, feet flat on the path. Claire was to his left, not quite pressed to his side, but close enough that the static from her tail found his shin with every restless flick. Her ears were canted low—not the perked, curious posture she wore when decoding the world, but the flattened submission of something resigned to waiting. Erin sprawled to his right, one leg drawn up on the bench, the other splayed with tactical inattention. She wore nothing, not even a pretense of modesty, just the battered sneakers and her impossible geometry, which she weaponized by pretending not to notice the effect. Every so often, she’d look up at the sky, nostrils flared, then back to the ground.

No one spoke. The hush was not companionable, but neither was it tense. It was simply what you did when the world refused to move forward and you were unwilling to push it along yourself.

From behind, the sharp tap of footsteps—too regular, too buoyant for the mood—announced Sam a half-second before she barreled into view. She wore a shirt with a cartoon dinosaur that read “Tea Rex,” and a pair of cutoff shorts that barely survived the transition from sitting to standing. Her hair was a messy stormcloud, and she looked annoyingly awake.

She took in the scene with a single glance—Andy’s scuffed posture, Erin’s restless fidget, Claire’s blank stare—and grinned as if she’d just caught them in the world’s most embarrassing family photo.

“Wow,” Sam said. “Did someone spike the coffee with existential dread, or is this a private gloom party?”

Erin didn’t even look up. “Get bent, Collins.”

Sam saluted with her mug. “Already done. But seriously, this is pathetic. You’re all sitting here like someone just canceled the sun.”

Andy opened his mouth to fire back, but Claire’s hand moved first, scribbling fast in her notebook. She tore out the sheet, folded it in half, and passed it to Sam, who read it aloud with relish:

You are the emotional equivalent of a jet ski in a duck pond.

Sam whooped. “She’s still got it! Come on, guys, you can mope later. I need witnesses for the Thing.”

Erin eyed her. “What Thing?”

Sam made a show of checking her nonexistent watch. “The Official HH Water Olympics, Garden Heat. Riley’s already prepping the bracket. I drew you for Team Chaos.”

Andy blinked. “There’s teams?”

“There’s always teams,” Sam said, then pointed at Andy and Erin in turn. “You’re in. Claire, too, if she wants.” She reached down, grabbed Andy’s wrist, and physically yanked him up. He resisted, half-hearted, but Sam’s grip was unyielding. Erin grunted, then stood, letting the movement drag her out of inertia.

Claire hesitated a second, then closed her notebook and tucked it into the crook of her elbow. She glanced at Andy—not for permission, but for confirmation that, yes, this was happening and yes, it was fine. He nodded, and her tail relaxed enough to trail behind instead of coiling tight.

The four of them walked, not in step, but tethered by the shared momentum of someone else’s purpose. The path to the beach ran down the east side of the hotel, switchbacking through stands of jasmine and oleander, which this morning smelled less like perfume and more like headache. The walk was mostly silent, except for Sam, who narrated the upcoming events in the style of an over-caffeinated color commentator.

“…and then Riley said, ‘If I see one more granola bar wrapper in the pool, I’m going to make you eat the entire box and then swim the length with the wrappers taped to your face.’ So I told her, ‘That’s not a punishment, that’s just recycling in action.’”

Andy let the words wash over him, not really listening. He watched Erin, who seemed to be waiting for a punchline, and Claire, who had her head down and ears pointed at Sam, mapping every vowel.

Halfway to the beach, Sam slowed just enough to fall in beside Andy. She nudged him with her shoulder. “You hanging in there, man?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. Just… gray day.”

Sam squinted at the sky. “I don’t buy that. You get this look every time you’re about to pull a hero move. Don’t do that. Not today.”

Andy laughed, short and real. “No heroics, I promise.”

Sam nodded, then leaned in. “We’ll get through it. You’re not solo this time.”

He didn’t answer, but the words hit deeper than she knew. He let himself be swept up in the current of her energy, the way she could impose order on entropy by sheer volume.

When they reached the last curve before the dunes, Sam stopped and turned to face the group. She swept a hand grandly. “Ready?”

Erin snorted. “Born ready.”

Sam grinned. “Let’s go cause a scene.”

She bounded ahead, forcing the others to jog to keep up.

They broke through the scrub and onto the sand, the beach empty except for a half-dozen brightly colored floats and a line of cones marking an imaginary race course. The water was cold and sullen, but that didn’t stop Riley, already knee-deep and yelling instructions to Dawn and Norah, who stood at the edge, arms folded and looking like they’d rather be anywhere else.

Andy paused, looking at his hands, then up at the sky. He felt the weight in his chest—not gone, but lighter, as if the act of moving had reminded it that gravity was optional.

He turned to Erin, who stood beside him, arms crossed over her chest but lips twitching at the corners. “You going to win this thing?” he asked.

She snorted, then bumped her hip against his. “Only if you’re my anchor, dork.”

He let himself smile. The air was still thick, but the storm felt a little further away.

He looked back at Sam, already halfway to the water, then at Claire, who watched with a calm, clinical fascination as if mentally diagramming every possible outcome.

“Come on,” Andy said, and they followed Sam, feet sinking into the cold, damp sand, toward the makeshift joy riot unfolding by the water’s edge.

The beach was a party, even if the universe had decided to skip the sun.

Andy and his contingent were late arrivals. Near the surf, Norah was having a full-on showdown with the elements. She wore a black bikini designed to make her skin glow, but her main accessory was a pair of four-inch stiletto heels, black patent, which she had absolutely no business wearing on sand. She marched up and down the high tide line, each step an act of war against gravity and the geological record. Occasionally, she’d turn to see who was watching, then affect a look of total boredom.

Dawn and Emi were already in the water. Dawn, in a bright pink bikini with bows on the hips, bounced in waist-deep, her ears slicked to her skull by salt. Every few seconds, she’d disappear under the surface, only to pop up with a yelp and a fistful of seaweed or a shell. Emi trailed her, never quite keeping up. Her six arms each seemed to have a different agenda: one held her hair, two covered her chest when the waves hit, the rest alternated between swimming and throwing water at anyone within range. The effect was less “athlete” and more “panicked octopus.” Both of them saw him approach and emerged from the water, taking their places at his side, like a honor guard for a man preparing to wade into the sea.

The water was colder than Andy expected—some trick of the weather, or maybe just the Hotel's sense of humor. He braced for the shock, but Dawn plunged in without hesitation, bunny ears slicked to her head, shrieking as a wave crashed just above her knees. Emi followed, more tentative, but her six arms gave her enough leverage to skip the shallow altogether and hurl herself in with a flying leap. Andy caught up at the tide line, sand squelching between his toes, and tried to ignore the goosebumps that stitched up his arms.

Sam hit the surf last, doing a running cannonball that caught Norah by surprise and left both of them sputtering in the froth. Norah’s hair—pin-neat at breakfast—was already unraveling in long black curls down her back, but she refused to let go of her heels, even as she wobbled in the undertow.

“Don’t you ever take those off?” Sam yelled, then ducked a splash from Dawn, who howled with laughter.

Norah raised her eyebrows, chin tilted up in feigned disdain. “I take them off when I’m done winning,” she shot back, then hopped sideways as a sneaker wave nearly pitched her face-first into the sand. She made a show of regaining balance, wobbled on one foot, and immediately went down in a heap of limbs and curses.

The girls dissolved in laughter. Even Emi, who had barely spoken all morning, cackled as Norah righted herself, shoes now caked in silt.

Andy tried to hang back, but Dawn reeled him in, latching onto his arm with both hands. “Don’t even think about it,” she said, grinning. “You’re in this now.”

She pulled him deeper, her grip iron-strong. He feigned resistance, but the water was up to his thighs before he could protest.

Emi surfaced a few feet away, hair plastered to her cheeks and two of her six hands folded over her chest, the others treading water with furious precision. She looked at Andy, eyes bright, and said, “Are you going to float, or are you going to fight?”

He opened his mouth to reply, but Emi was already gone, vanishing under a breaker and reappearing further out, six arms spinning like windmills.

Behind him, Erin emerged from the waves, her mint-green skin almost ghostly in the flat light. She’d left her shoes on the beach, and the way she moved—deliberate, unhurried, body angled into the wind—made her seem more solid than anyone else, a pillar in the spray. She waded up to Andy, planted herself next to him, and said, “You gonna save me if I catch a cold?”

He grinned. “You’re immune to temperature extremes. I think you’ll outlive us all.”

Erin’s lips twitched. “Not the point. Save me anyway.”

He reached for her hand, but she dodged, pushing him backward with one palm square in the center of his chest. He staggered, slipped, and fell into the water with a yelp.

When he came up, Dawn was perched on his shoulders, whooping. “Steer, Captain!” she yelled, digging her heels into his ribs. “That way!”

Andy barely had time to catch his breath before Dawn yanked his hair like she was piloting a horse. “Left!” she called, then, “Right!” as if navigating a slalom. He nearly lost his footing, but managed to lurch forward, Dawn bouncing and giggling.

Emi joined the charge, flanking them, and all six of her arms fired off coordinated splashes. Dawn squealed, ducking behind Andy's head as the barrage soaked them both. Emi cackled, high and wild, then spun away, creating a spray pattern so intense it actually stopped Norah in her tracks.

Norah glared at her soaked outfit, face contorting with fury. "That's IT!" She bent down, yanked off her stilettos, and hurled them toward the dunes with such **** one embedded itself point-first in the sand. The moment her bare feet touched the beach, she dropped to all fours, her cheeks flushing crimson. She crawled after Sam with startling speed, fingernails digging trenches in the wet sand, hissing curses that made even Dawn's bunny ears twitch.

Sam, seeing the murderous look in Norah's eyes, retreated higher up the beach, lobbing fistfuls of wet sand in defense. "Direct hit!" she howled with each successful throw, voice cracking like a drill sergeant's. But Norah caught her ankle with one manicured hand, dragged her down in a single fluid motion, and stuffed a fistful of seaweed down the back of Sam's shirt, her triumphant laughter ringing across the beach.

Andy, tired of being Emi's target, suddenly pivoted. He scooped both arms through the water with inhuman strength, creating a wave that towered over his head before crashing down on Emi with such **** it sent her tumbling backward, all six arms flailing uselessly against the deluge. Dawn steered him to the shallows, where she leapt off and tackled Claire, who had been examining shells at the tide's edge. The two rolled, Dawn giggling maniacally, Claire silent but deadly: in seconds, she had maneuvered Dawn into a headlock, her tail flicking salt water straight into Dawn's face with surgical precision. Andy wondered if she had practiced.

Dawn wriggled in Claire's grip, trying to buck the catgirl off her back, but Claire was implacable, tail wound tight around Dawn's ankle for leverage, her ears flat and predatory. "Mercy," Dawn gasped, cackling even as her face went red with exertion. "Mercy, you little psychopath!" Claire didn't respond—couldn't—but she grinned, a sly flash of canine, and gave Dawn's head a gentle noogie before letting her up.

To the left, at the high tide line, Chloe and Riley sat side by side, the contrast so sharp it looked like a before-and-after ad for "got sun." Chloe was cross-legged, her enormous breasts so dominant they served as a personal flotation device, her pale skin blushing even in the wan morning. She wore a canary yellow one-piece, and her hair was swept up in a messy bun, except for a few rogue strands that tickled her cheeks. Riley leaned against her, arms draped with casual intimacy. Riley's hair was black-red and glossy and draped on the sand; a few loose strands already snaked around her wrists like living things. She wore a man's button-up—Andy’s, probably, although he couldn’t figure out how she got it—over a bikini, and seemed perfectly content to play lifeguard from a distance, shouting out insults and encouragement in equal measure.

Further down the shore, Marissa and Myra had staked out the single umbrella, although the sky didn’t warrant sun protection. Marissa wore a navy blue halter suit that barely contained her breasts—if anything, the new post-transformation "uniform" requirement had made her cleavage even more commanding. She’d managed to keep her hair dry, but only by holding the umbrella at all times like a royal scepter. Myra, for her part, sat very still, fox ears up and swiveling, her fluffy tail arranged carefully so it didn't get wet. She wore a plain black bikini, but her blindness was not the spectacle; it was the way she tilted her face into the wind, as if listening for some secret in the waves. Occasionally, Marissa would lean in to murmur something, and Myra would tilt her head, smile, and nod, letting the sounds carry her.

Emily and Liesa—an odd pairing—had found a patch of wet sand at the edge of the surf. Emily wore nothing, as always, but her hair did its usual magic, draping artfully to mask all but the suggestion of her nipples and the barest vee of her groin. She sat with her knees tucked up, digging little canals with her fingers. Liesa, beside her, wore a lavender wrap that might have passed for a dress if it covered any part of her thighs. She posed with one hip cocked, even when seated, and whenever a splash of cold water hit her, she gasped theatrically, as if her body were tuned for maximum sensual display. Sometimes, Emily would lean over, whisper something to Liesa, and the taller woman would laugh, then lean in so close their hair tangled together. It was hard to tell who was seducing whom.

Andy took it all in, dizzy with the richness of the scene. He didn’t feel like an observer, but a part of the action—one of the kids at the party, not the chaperone with a clipboard and a prayer for order.

Then Emi came at him, six-armed and shrieking, hands full of seaweed and foam. He braced, but she faked left, then spun around and draped a garland of wet kelp across his shoulders like a ceremonial lei. She stepped back, arms raised, and declared: “You’re crowned the King of the Pool Noodles!”

“Thank you,” Andy deadpanned. “I accept this grave responsibility.”

Dawn, embarrassed by her defeat at Claire’s hands, ran up and tried to knock the kelp crown off, but Andy caught her in a bear hug, spun her once, and deposited her directly into the path of an incoming wave. Dawn hit the water with a shriek, came up sputtering, and yelled, “Rude!” before charging after him again.

For the next hour, it was chaos. Emi invented a game called "Starfish Dodgeball," which mostly involved throwing wet sand at people and screaming when they retaliated. Claire and Riley teamed up to create intricate sand traps near the waterline, then baited the others into falling for them. Erin, who'd started by wading in with dignity, ended up wrestling Liesa into a headlock after the Belgian tried to throw sand at her as a joke.

Even Norah, after retrieving her stilettos, found herself swept up in the energy. She stalked the perimeter of the melee, arms folded, lips set in a sneer, but Andy caught her smiling more than once—especially when Sam roped her into a two-person "rescue" drill and insisted on practicing mouth-to-mouth, to much protest and even more giggling.

At some point, Andy found himself sitting on the cold, hard sand, legs stretched in front of him, the kelp crown still around his neck. The women orbited him: Chloe and Riley sharing a secret, Claire trailing a wet tail behind as she paced the beach, Dawn wrestling Emi for control of a battered float. Myra and Marissa sat in their shade, Marissa reading aloud from some book and Myra nodding along, content.

The ache in his chest had faded, replaced by a dull warmth. For once, there was no pressure to perform, to save, to fix. The air was cold, but he was not. The sky was gray, but the water sparkled with every splash, every shout. He let himself be still, and just watched.

Dawn, noticing him alone, broke from the group and plopped down beside him, shivering but happy. “Hey,” she said, elbowing his ribs. “You good?”

He looked at her, surprised by the question. “I am,” he said, and meant it.

Dawn nudged him, then rested her head on his shoulder. “You should smile more,” she said. “You’re allowed.”

He did, the smile small but real, and she grinned, satisfied.

For a minute, the world went quiet. The waves, the laughter, the cool wind—all of it blurred into a single, perfect memory.

He looked out at the ocean, at the women who’d become his strange, beautiful family, and let himself hope that, just maybe, the future was possible.

Then, from behind, a flying tackle: Claire, soaking wet, her arms locked around his chest. She dragged him backwards, yelling in silence but with her whole body, and for once, Andy let himself fall, hitting the sand with a thud and a splash of salt water in his eyes.

They all dogpiled, a tangle of limbs and laughter and soft, bright skin, and in the middle of it, Andy closed his eyes and held on.

They fell into a heap on the sand, the last wave of energy spent, and lay there for a while, eyes closed against the brightness that even a cloudy day could muster. Eventually, someone—Dawn, probably—suggested moving to the palm grove for shade and recovery. They migrated as a group, trailing towels and salt and the sharp tang of sweat, and collapsed in a lazy ring beneath the trees.

It took a few minutes for the breathing to even out, the laughter to subside. Marissa was the first to speak. “You know, if this were any other day, I’d make us do a gratitude circle or some team-building thing. But since I’m not wearing a bra, and the sand is about to invade every crevice I own, I’ll go with something easier.”

Sam groaned, already anticipating the cheese. “Please, not the marshmallow game. I nearly choked last time.”

Marissa ignored her. “I propose a round of stories. Specifically: your happiest birthday. Or the weirdest, if that’s easier. No rules except honesty.” She gave Andy a look that was both invitation and challenge.

Norah squared her shoulders, fixing her eyes on a point above Marissa’s head. “Sophomore year, my roommates tried to throw me a surprise party, but I walked in while they were setting up. Half the people were still naked because it was a—” she hesitated, then plowed through “—a body paint thing, and the other half were in the hall, trying to figure out how to spell my name on the cake. Someone left the oven on, the fire alarm goes off, and the entire dorm had to evacuate to the quad in nothing but towels and glitter. The campus police made us do roll call like that. Someone took a photo. My dad framed it.”

Norah’s voice stayed strong and sure, but as she spoke, her hands fidgeted with the hem of her beach wrap, twisting it into a tight rope. “My dad framed it,” she repeated, almost daring anyone to laugh. When no one did, she gave a sly half-smirk and shrugged. “Never got that cake, by the way. But I think I’m still picking glitter out of my scalp, so maybe it balances.”

Dawn, not to be outdone, propped herself up on one elbow. "That's good, but I can top it. My mom died when I was fifteen, and that first birthday after—I turned sixteen—my dad couldn't even get out of bed. So I made dinner for my three little brothers like I did every night, but when I went to the cupboard for plates, I found they'd hidden a pack of birthday candles behind the soup cans. No money for cake—we were barely keeping the lights on—so they stuck those candles in slices of bread." She paused, swallowing hard. "Seb, he was only seven. He insisted everyone got to blow one out and make a wish, even Dad. I carried a slice to his room." She smiled, the light catching in her eyes. "Best bread I ever had."

Chloe made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sniffle. “That’s adorable,” she said, voice thick.

Sam turned to the group, splaying her hands wide for attention. “Okay. Top this: my twenty-first, we went to this shitty little dive on Clark. My friends said it was a ‘costume’ bar. I wore a full-length mermaid tail—like, legit, I could not walk, had to be carried. Turns out the only ‘theme’ was ‘poor life choices.’ I spent the entire night perched on a barstool, did at least seven body shots, and ended up riding a Roomba around the dance floor. Next morning? I woke up in my own bathtub, with the mermaid tail still on, and an actual goldfish swimming in the tub with me. No clue how it got there.”

The circle broke out in laughter, but it was Claire’s muted, breathy snicker that caught Andy off guard. She didn’t even try to hide her amusement, but instead angled her notebook at him, showing a sketch of Sam on a Roomba, being chased by an angry goldfish with a kitchen knife in its fin. Andy nearly choked, snorting so loudly that even Riley did a double take.

Chloe, who’d been hiding behind a towel and her own hair, peeped out. “Best birthday for me was probably sixteenth. My friends got me a sheet cake, but spelled my name C-H-O-L-E and made the L a little birthday candle. We sat on the swings at North School Park and ate the whole thing with our hands. The next day, everyone was sick, but we still said it was the best ever. I’ve never had a party like that again.”

Riley shook her head, bemused. “That’s beautiful, but also disgusting.”

Chloe blushed, but nodded. “We were pretty gross.”

Emi was next, though she hesitated, staring out at the surf as if the right words might wash up on a wave. “I never liked parties,” she said, voice thin and shy. “But once, when I turned fourteen, my mom got me a set of colored pencils from France. They had real gold leaf on the box, and the colors were so bright. I filled a whole sketchbook that summer. It was the last birthday before…” She trailed off, fingers tracing silent shapes on her thigh. “…before I started staying home all the time.”

There was a hush, but it wasn’t the heavy kind. Andy watched as Emi’s six hands found their way to each other, linking up in a strange, elegant gesture. He wondered what it felt like to be so fractured and still manage to hold yourself together.

Marissa steered the circle back to energy with her own entry: “My parents always worked late, so I spent birthdays with my sister. She couldn’t walk, so we did everything on the floor. One year, I snuck into the kitchen and made a picnic from whatever was in the fridge—strawberries, deli cheese, pudding. We pretended the living room rug was a field, and I read her stories from a medical encyclopedia. I think that’s why she started calling me Doctor Holt even before med school.” She smiled, her lips quirking in what passed for nostalgia. “Best birthday ever.”

Andy watched as the group reacted, each story drawing the circle tighter, every laugh or wince or shy smile making the web between them more real. He knew he’d be next, and the anticipation made his neck go stiff.

Claire, notebook propped on her knees, scribbled something, then paused, tapping her pen to her lower lip. She tore out the page and passed it to Andy with a flourish. He braced himself, expecting a joke, but instead found a single line:

If you need to pass, it’s okay.

He looked at her, grateful and a little stunned, and gave her a silent nod. He was about to take the out, but Erin nudged him, her voice low. “Come on, Andy. What was your best?”

He looked down at his hands, splayed in the sand. “I guess… it’s this one. Today. I never thought I’d…” He trailed off, struggling for words. The women didn’t rush him; even Sam, who usually filled every pause with noise, just listened.

Andy drew in a slow breath. “This is the first birthday of Laura’s in years that hasn’t felt empty.”

No one moved. The air changed—got tighter, not just around his throat, but around the whole little circle. Erin’s hand went to his, not quite squeezing but just anchoring him. Claire shifted closer, her shoulder warm against his. Sam nudged him from the other side, a comfort you could pretend was just habit, if you wanted.

No one rushed him. The tide did all the work of moving time forward; the group lay in a loose, lazy circle, gathering their breath.

“I guess…” Andy started, and then stopped, throat closing. The silence was not patient, but it wasn’t hostile. He tried again. “I guess I just thought I’d be more grown up by now. That I wouldn’t feel like this every time the day came around.”

Dawn, next to him, made a small “mm” of understanding and rested her head on his thigh. Her hair was still damp, her temples beaded with sweat and salt. He let her have the contact. Across from them, Claire sat with her knees drawn up and her tail curled around her toes, her arms folded around her notebook like a floatation device. She didn’t write, this time. She just watched.

Sam, not known for silence, let the moment settle. “You think it’s just you?” she said, voice pitched so low it barely reached him. “You know I still flinch when my phone rings on my grandfather’s birthday? Like, what’s going to happen—ghosts, or an audit, or maybe nothing at all?” She didn’t say more, but the grin she shot him was half apology, half solidarity.

Riley stretched out, arms overhead, and spoke to the sky: “Grief’s a second skeleton. You can let it walk around with you, or you can bury it, but either way, it’s yours.” She rolled to her side, hair sticking in streaks to her shoulder. “You know what I remember? Laura never wanted her own birthday party. She always wanted it at your house.” Her eyes found Andy’s. “That was the only time she let anyone sing to her. Remember?”

He did. The memory was so vivid it punched the air out of his chest: Laura, perched on the kitchen counter, refusing to sit at the head of the table, her face lit up by the candles but blushing as soon as the chorus started. “She’d make us sing twice,” he managed, “because the first time we always missed the harmony and she’d claim it didn’t count.”

Chloe, who had been all but invisible behind Riley’s sprawl, piped up. “She did the thing with the frosting, too. Dipped the end of her finger in, then made a dot on everyone’s nose.” Chloe mimed it, her own nose pink with the memory. “It made a mess, but… it made it feel less like a party and more like a sleepover.”

Emi nodded, smiling a little. “She let me braid her hair that one time. The blue ribbons, for space. She said it was the closest she’d ever get to zero gravity.”

The details blurred together for Andy, but he remembered the sense of it—how Laura had always orchestrated the mess, never the show. He remembered the way her laughter used to fill up the kitchen, bouncing off the cabinets and sticking to the linoleum like spilled soda. The way, after the cake, she’d always get weirdly quiet and ask to go outside, even if it was freezing. He remembered standing together on the back steps, counting stars, and how she always made him promise—every year—that they’d do this again, even if the world fell apart.

It had. And still, here he was, remembering her.

Marissa, who had been quietly cataloguing the group’s moods from her towel, spoke up. “It’s strange,” she said, “how remembering makes it hurt less, but also more. Maybe that’s how you know it’s real.”

Andy nodded, unsure what to say.

Myra, who had sat through all of this with her fox tail wrapped around her ankle and her blind eyes fixed in the vague direction of the group, cleared her throat. “I was only ever at one of Laura’s birthdays,” she said. The words came out brittle, but not unkind. “I think it was eleven? I didn’t know her well, but she let me sit next to her when the other girls wouldn’t. She made sure I got the first slice of cake, even though it was chocolate, my least favorite flavor.” She paused, smiling. “I don’t think she remembered my name then. But she called me ‘doctor’ because I brought band-aids to school.”

There was a hush, longer and heavier than before.

“I’m glad you remember her,” Andy said, and he meant it.

He looked at the group: the cluster of women he’d somehow accumulated, each holding their own broken pieces together with tape, glue, or the sheer willpower not to let the world win. He felt a warmth spread through his chest, a feeling he couldn’t name.

But underneath, there was still the hollow. The place Laura had lived, and the way her absence had shaped every other relationship he’d ever had. He thought about all the things he’d never get to say, all the birthdays that would come and go without her. He wondered if it would ever stop hurting, or if the point was to learn how to let the hurt coexist with the joy.

He tried to put this into words, but the best he could manage was, “There’s a part of me that died with her. I’m sorry if that means I can’t give you all of me.”

The admission hovered, and it didn’t drift away. Erin was first—she let her hand find his again, but this time not as an anchor. It was just there, their palms pressed together in the sandy gap between them, neither pulling nor squeezing, just skin on skin. The mint-green of her fingers made his look ghostly by comparison.

Claire drew closer. She’d been sitting prim and upright, knees hugged to her chest, but she shifted so her shoulder touched Andy’s, warm through the fabric of his shirt. She didn’t write anything, not even a single word. Her tail curled up, the tip flicking nervously against his calf.

Sam snorted, a little too loud, and nudged him with her hip. “Welcome to the human race, Andy,” she said, her voice softer than she ever let on. “Pretty sure nobody’s running on all cylinders here.” She raised her eyebrows at Riley, as if to invite a quip, but Riley only gave a tight-lipped smile and a shrug.

Chloe, always the barometer for awkward, blinked twice and said, “I think Laura would have liked today.” Her voice wavered, but she plowed through. “She always said her favorite part was the bit after the candles, when everyone just sat around and made fun of each other. She’d be happy you’re not pretending everything’s fine.”

Riley gave a little humph, not quite a laugh. “She’d tell you that it’s okay to keep some of your heart for the dead. She’d also say ‘get your act together, Andy, you’re surrounded by babes and you’re still the saddest person at the party.’” The impression was dead on, and Andy barked a laugh in spite of himself.

Myra's fox tail twitched against the sand as she shifted forward, blind eyes somehow finding Andy's face. "I wish I had known her better," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "She never showed me anything but kindness, and I..." Her voice cracked. "Laura used to leave half her sandwich by my desk when the other girls wouldn't let me sit with them. She never mentioned it, and I never thanked her." Her fingers trembled as they traced patterns in the sand. "Why would I—how could I ever hurt someone like that? How could I be so hurtful? What kind of person does that make me?"

Andy reached across the circle, his hand finding hers in the sand. "You were a child, Myra," he said softly. "We all were." The words felt inadequate, but he kept his hand there, steady against her shaking fingers. The group fell into a delicate quiet, the kind that follows something unfixable, the breath you take before trying to move on.

Emi broke the stillness, her six hands working at knots of seaweed she’d gathered from the shoreline. She didn’t say a word, but she set about braiding the strands into a little green circlet, then, after a moment’s hesitation, gently set it atop Andy’s head. The gesture was so earnest, so fundamentally Emi, that he felt the pressure behind his eyes again, hot and stupid.

Andy left the seaweed crown where it landed. “Thanks,” he said, but the words were so small he wasn’t sure anyone heard.

They must have, because one by one the women closed ranks around him. Claire, still not writing, looped her arm through his. Erin pressed her thigh to his, unapologetically. Dawn, not content to simply be near, draped herself across his back, chin digging into his shoulder. Chloe scooted forward, until her knees touched Andy’s shin. Riley, unable to manage sincerity without the mask of sarcasm, rolled her eyes and tossed a handful of sand at his feet, saying, “If this turns into a group hug, I want my lawyer present.”

Even Norah, who’d spent the last twenty minutes pointedly not participating, uncrossed her arms and let her hand land on the sand near his, pinky finger extended just close enough that if he reached, he could graze it. He didn’t, but it mattered anyway.

For a minute, or maybe ten, they stayed like that. Andy couldn’t have moved if he wanted to, pinned as he was by the lattice of bodies and voices and silent, stubborn love. He let himself be the center of gravity for once, and did not apologize for it. He wasn’t okay—not really—but the ache in his chest felt a little less like drowning and a little more like something he could swim through.

Finally, Sam stretched her arms overhead and groaned. “Okay, enough emotional growth for one day. If I stay still any longer I’ll fuse to this towel.”

The spell broke, gently. The circle dissolved, and the girls filtered away in ones and twos—some back to the water, some to the shade of the palms, some just to walk it off. Dawn lingered a moment, squeezing Andy’s shoulder before she scampered off to help Emi dig a canal in the wet sand. Erin, always last to leave, pressed her lips to the crown of his head and whispered, “You’re allowed, you know.” She didn’t wait for a response, just stood and walked toward the high tide line, her footprints sharp and clean behind her.

Andy stayed where he was, letting the sun and the salt and the sound of the sea work on him. He watched the women he’d failed, the women he’d tried to save, the women who had somehow ended up wanting him anyway. He wondered how much of this was real, and how much he deserved.

The clouds had gotten darker by the time the mail arrived.

It came in the arms of Mildred, who moved so quietly that even Claire didn’t register her until she was practically in the middle of their circle. She wore the same funereal black, but with a flash of gold at the lapel, and she carried a heavy stack of envelopes in her left hand, each one a different color or size, as if she’d collected them from the far corners of a very odd world. Her expression was somewhere between bored and funereal, but when she looked at Andy, her eyes flicked once, sharp as a thrown dart.

“Delivery,” Mildred said, the word as flat as a ruler.

No one rushed to meet her. The girls, post-confession, seemed spent—Erin sprawled in the sand, Dawn picking at the edge of a towel, Sam half-dozing with an arm over her face. Only Riley bothered to sit up. “What’s the occasion, Grim?” she asked.

Mildred’s lips barely moved. “Letters for the Contestants. Per request of Management.” She pronounced “Management” as if it tasted like rotten fruit.

She began to read from the stack, calling each girl’s name in turn, voice precise and unhurried. When Mildred finished her deliveries, she was left holding a stack of five envelopes.

She stared at Andy with the intensity of a traffic camera. “For you, Master,” she said, but the word sounded hollow, as if she was reading from a script written by someone who didn’t know how language worked.

Andy took the envelopes. He was about to thank her, but Mildred hadn’t moved.

Instead, she took two steps closer, crowding the small gap between him and the rest of the group. For a moment, her face was so close he could see the tiny cracks in her lipstick, the faint powder dust on her cheekbone.

She put a hand on his shoulder. It wasn’t a squeeze or a comfort—just a gesture, as if confirming he was, in fact, a solid and real thing. Her hand was cold and very strong.

“You are doing better than you think,” she said, voice pitched so low he wasn’t sure the others heard. “But you are running out of time.” She didn’t blink. “The next part is always the hardest. That is why most people break.”

Andy couldn’t look away. “Is this about the challenge?” he asked, but Mildred’s expression didn’t change.

“This is about the end,” she said. Then, softer: “You don’t have to be like the others. But you have to want it more than you want to lose.”

He had no idea what that meant. It wasn’t a threat, or a warning, or even advice. It just was.

Mildred let go, then stepped back, already fading into the background. She left the gray envelopes in his hand.

Then she was gone, moving back up the beach in long, precise strides, leaving a neat trail of heel prints that the tide would erase before noon.

Andy stared at the envelopes, turning it over in his hand. There were no return addresses, no markings, nothing but his name and the weight of them. He felt the gaze of the girls on him, but none of them spoke.