What They Choose to Be

The gardens were almost suspiciously quiet that afternoon. Andy sat on a sun-dappled bench in the heart of the hedges, the only company a handful of persistent honeybees and a single book of sudoku that he’d found via Mildred and never once opened. The bench was still cool, the cold was bracing and real. He let the chill seep in.

He’d been there for maybe ten minutes—long enough to start regretting the decision, not long enough to pretend he had found enlightenment—when Sam found him. She didn’t clear her throat or call his name; she just appeared at his three o’clock, then circled around to take a seat next to him, knees splayed, hands jammed between her thighs for warmth.

“Mildred told me you’d be out here,” she said, like the gardens were a known hiding spot for sad men and Sam was doing her twice-daily rounds.

Andy smirked. “Figures she’d sell me out.”

“She said you were ‘hunting the rare melancholy bee.’” Sam’s eyebrows did a dance. “Her words, not mine. Though you look more like you’re solving the world’s slowest sudoku.”

He glanced at the battered paperback, then set it aside. “It’s supposed to help with stress.”

“How’s that working for you?” She nudged his foot with her own, a gentle collision.

Andy shrugged. “I’m still here.”

“Solid metric,” Sam said. She let the silence spool out between them, neither rushed nor awkward.

When she spoke again, it was softer. “I know you’re worried about Laura and the others. I know you spoke to Erin and Claire, too.”

He didn’t answer, but she could see the truth in how he twisted his hands together, the motion as familiar as a tic.

Sam leaned back, stretched her neck to catch the last rays of sun. “It’s not going to be a train wreck,” she said. “I talked to Emi, Chloe, Myra, all the usual suspects. They’re fine. Shocked, but fine.”

Andy looked at her. “They’re all scared, though.”

“Sure,” Sam said. “But they’re scared of the idea of Laura, not Laura herself. The two aren’t the same, you know.”

He made a noise, not quite a laugh. “You met her. She could break this place with a look if she wanted.”

“She doesn’t want to,” Sam said. “I think that’s the part you keep missing. Laura’s not a bomb—she’s more like, I don’t know. Gravity. Everyone orbits around her, even if they think they’re free. It’s not malicious. Just how the universe works when she’s in it.”

Andy ran a hand over his face. “It's my fault too. I've been reeling, and I haven't thought things through. I keep trying to think of a way to explain it to Erin. Or to Claire. Earlier, we spoke, but I know they still wonder where they stand, compared to her. If they're replacements, not the real thing. And every time I start, it sounds like I’m demoting them.”

Sam watched him. “Is that what you’re really worried about? Or are you afraid they’ll think less of you, or pull away? You’re still scared to lose people, but at least now I know why.”

He bristled, then relaxed. “That’s a shitty way to put it, but yeah.”

Sam grinned. “Shitty is my specialty.”

Andy exhaled, slow. “I don’t want to hurt them. Either of them. Or the others, for that matter. Nothing has changed about how I feel there. I told Laura that, yesterday. But I also don’t want Laura to feel like she’s just… an artifact. Something I dug up to put on a shelf.” He let the words trail off, and Sam watched the space where his gaze went—down the dirt path and past the hedges, where the air started to darken and the bees were getting slower.

For a while she didn’t say anything, just let him twist the idea around in his head. Then she nudged him with her elbow, the touch as light as the rest of her wasn’t. “So what’s the real problem? That you’re not sure what she is to you, or that you are, and it freaks you out?”

Andy smiled, the lines tight. “I’m not sure what freaks me out.” He glanced at her. “You’re good at cutting the bullshit, Sam.”

Sam shrugged. “Comes from never having the energy to build it up in the first place.” She kicked at the mulch, sending a whorl of cedar toward the bees. “Look, the last thing I want is to tell you how to feel. But if you’re worried about Laura going nuclear, don’t. I got a read on her. She’s not here to blow up your life. She’s just trying to live in it. She has to figure out where she stands.”

He looked at her, searching for a catch.

Sam nodded at his expression. “I mean it. I watched her in the Banquet Hall after Arabella left. I spoke with her earlier. She’s not posturing. She told Chloe she’s pissed off that Chloe slept with you, but also that her being pissed off is mostly at the situation, not Chloe. She hugged Emi like they had survived a plane crash, and they looked like long-lost sisters. She even asked Norah if it was hard for her to swallow how important she is to you, and Norah didn’t even have a comeback for it. She’s not trying to break the harem. She’s hurt, yes, but that’s understandable.”

Andy barked a single, surprised laugh. “That’s a hell of a thing to hear.”

“I know, right?” Sam leaned back, balancing with her palms on the edge of the bench. “She said she promised Emi she’d be better, if she had a second chance. And that she promised you she’d try. You’re not the only one with weird loyalty issues, you know.”

He nodded, slow. “Laura did always do her best to keep her promises. I’m just… it’s not the same as before. I want to be all-in for Erin and Claire. But it’s like there’s this parallel track in my head, and every time I try to line them up, it just—” He snapped his fingers. “Breaks.”

Sam glanced sideways. “Have you told them that? Not just the words. The ugly, inconvenient truth of it?”

Andy shook his head. “No. I tried to, but I couldn’t really explain it.”

Sam exhaled, a sound halfway between sympathy and amusement. “You ever think about just calling the whole thing what it is? That there’s no ranking, because you can't compare apples with oranges? That your love for Laura isn't more, or less. Just different.”

Andy wanted to object, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he picked at a splinter on the bench, not meeting her eye.

She pressed, gentle now. “You ever tell anyone about the thing? The trick you and Laura did, back in the old days? How you could find each other, even in the dark?”

His head jerked up.

Sam shrugged. “She told us before the gazebo. The knowing-where-he-is thing. The knowing when you’re sad, or scared. That’s not ordinary stuff in the normal world. Even for us, here, it isn't.” Her voice softened. “She didn’t make that up, right?”

“No,” Andy said, and it surprised him how much the word ached. “We’ve had it since we were kids. Not psychic, not magic—just this sense. Sometimes I think it was just trauma, or how much time we spent together, but it was always there.” He let the memory settle. “When she died, I felt it go. Not just the loss—there was a physical hole. Like someone cut the lights in the house and you had to learn to walk around blind. It never left me, never filled up, even after sixteen years.”

Sam was quiet for a long time. “You never told Erin or Claire.”

Andy shook his head. “Never seemed fair. They already carried more than their fair share of my problems. And it’s not something you can offer to someone else. Not even if you want to.”

Sam nodded, watching his face. “Then don’t try to. Don’t play like every bond has to match.” She squinted at the hedge, then back at him. “Erin and Claire and all the others... You love them for reasons that don’t need to stack up against Laura. That’s why it works. That’s why you don’t have to pick.”

Andy tried to breathe around the knot in his chest. “You make it sound easy.”

Sam grinned, no mockery this time. “It’s never easy. But pretending it is only makes it worse. If you want the real math, I figured it out, and it’s this: Laura is primordial. She’s baked into your bones. But the rest of them? They’re chosen. They’re the ones you fought for, the ones you decided to keep. There’s no comparison, because the equations aren’t the same.”

Andy stared at her, then exhaled, the sound half relief, half regret. “That’s actually—fuck. That helps. How did you… ?”

“I’m full of surprises,” Sam said, bumping his shoulder with hers. “Next time, I’ll solve world hunger.”

He laughed, tension bleeding out of him for the first time in days.

Sam let the moment breathe, then said, “You should tell them. Erin and Claire. And everyone else who is worried about their rankings in your head. Not the specifics, unless you want to. But the truth. That you’re not building a pyramid. That loving Laura doesn’t make you love them less.”

“I will,” Andy said. He meant it.

A bee landed on Sam’s knee, hung there a moment, then buzzed off. “Good. Because I was worried you’d burn yourself out trying to make everyone ‘equal’ when all they want is real.” She hesitated, then: “You do that thing, you know. The one where you try to fix everyone’s feelings before your own. But it doesn't work when the problem is with yours.”

Andy smiled. “Takes one to know one.”

Sam snorted. “Okay, that’s fair.” She held out a fist.

He bumped it, then covered her hand with his own. “And Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“I appreciate the help, really. You're the best friend anyone could ask for. But you don’t have to carry all the weight, all the time. If you need to, you can drop it with me.”

Sam went silent. Not like she didn’t have an answer, but like no one had ever said it before.

“Same,” she said, voice soft but sure. “But if I ever start using you as a therapist, just punch me.”

“I’d never punch you,” Andy said.

“Then at least order me to sit down and shut up for a minute.” Her eyes were wet, but she laughed anyway.

He squeezed her hand, gentle. “Let’s take a day sometime soon. Just us. No support roles. No fixing.”

Sam thought about it. “I’d like that,” she said, and smiled like she meant it.

They sat in silence, the good kind, until the sun started to slip behind the roof of the hotel and the bees finally quit their shift.

After a while, Sam stood, stretching out her arms. “You’re going to be fine, you know,” she said, grinning. “Just stop worrying about being the bad guy. Most of us already like you too much for that.”

He watched her go, the blue in her hair bright against the green. The gardens felt warmer after she left, or maybe it was just the first peace he’d felt in days.

He let himself sit there, not thinking, for a while. Then he stood and walked back toward the hotel, feeling—if not fixed, at least less alone.

Room 143 was colder than the corridor, which felt like a setup. The windows were shut tight, but the hotel AC worked overtime, forcing a draft that pooled around the ankles and kept the smell of ocean sharp in the air. Laura took a slow survey: king bed, big enough for three if they didn’t mind touching; three low-slung dressers; one ridiculous velvet fainting couch in a corner. A glass panel set into the floor overlooked the water below, and even now, she could see a blur of fish circling the pylons.

She walked the perimeter, not touching anything, just memorizing the new terrain. Her room. Her territory. Shared, yes, but hers, too. She opened the dressers. One was completely empty, other than for a pink odalisque outfit. The second had clothes that, based on what little she had seen of Claire, fit her to a T; she lifted a pair of jeans and saw the slit cut for the tail. The third dresser surprised her: it contained a full set of clothing in her size, exactly in the styles she liked. As if Arabella had predicted what she’d need. Which in hindsight seemed like the least of her tricks.

Laura stopped by the bed, palmed the edge. The linens were cool, high thread count, some pattern that looked custom but wasn’t. She wondered who would claim which side and if there was any way to avoid a contest. A two-tailed fox plushie was propped in the middle.

The door clacked open. Erin came in first, utterly unbothered by her own nudity. The green of her skin was less shocking in the hotel’s relentless blue-white light, but her body was still impossible to ignore: slender, lean, and so aggressively sexual it felt like a dare. Claire followed, dressed in a hoodie and skirt, glasses pushed up on her nose and notepad already open in her hand.

Laura had done her best to predict this encounter, but as usual, the reality was both weirder and sharper-edged than her mental rehearsal.

Erin didn’t pause after entering; she scanned the room, taking Laura in with a look that was absolutely, one-hundred-percent not for show. It was the kind of look that got girls suspended in eighth grade: raw, assessing, not even pretending to be kind. She found Laura’s eyes, held them, and said, “This is it, huh?”

Her voice was quieter than Laura remembered from the Banquet Hall, but just as steady.

Laura waited for Claire to finish shutting the door, then nodded. “Looks like.”

Claire’s presence was a puzzle. Even as she moved in, Claire’s body language radiated uncertainty, like she was still measuring the angles. She offered a small wave, then wrote: Hi. Roommates, now.

Laura almost smiled. “Yeah. Hope you don’t snore.”

Erin’s lips twitched, but she didn’t relax. “You have any plans to kill us in our sleep, or should I just ask later?”

The words hit Laura like a slap—mostly because they didn’t come with the leavening of a joke, or a wink, or even a trace of irony. She saw it then: Erin wasn’t trying to be a bitch. She just didn’t see a point in pretending everything was okay.

Laura opened her mouth, then closed it. “No **** planned,” she said. “I promised Andy. And someone else.”

That made Erin pause. “Who?”

Laura looked at Claire, then back at Erin. “Emi. I told her I’d try to be better. So… no stabbings.” She gave it a second, then added, “I’ll keep my headphones in if I need to have a breakdown.”

Claire’s tail flicked—was that sympathy? amusement?—then she scribbled: What do you need from us?

The question took Laura off guard. She scanned the room, then shrugged, trying to play it off. “Don’t take my stuff without asking? Don’t ambush me when I come out of the shower? Maybe don’t sabotage my side of the bed.”

Claire’s response was immediate: I would never. I have no interest in sabotage. (She underlined the last four words twice.) She held Laura’s gaze for a solid beat, then set the notebook on the dresser.

Laura found herself searching Claire’s expression for anything that felt like rivalry or jealousy, but found only a mild, blue-eyed curiosity.

Erin, for her part, crossed her arms and leaned against the window, utterly on display and utterly unashamed. “I just want to know where we stand,” she said. “I don’t do passive-aggressive. If you want something, say it. If you hate me, say it. Otherwise, let’s not play games.”

Laura wanted to rise to it, to snap back, but the words caught in her throat and curdled. She thought about what Sam had said—about not pretending. “I don’t hate you,” she said. “I don’t even know you. But I don’t love that we have been put in here together and just… left to work ourselves out.”

That, at least, seemed to land. Erin nodded. “Welcome to the club.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the only sound the faint hum of the AC and, below that, the distant wash of the sea. Laura realized, with a cold clarity, that this was the new normal—three strangers with a single orbit, trying not to collide.

It was Erin who moved first. She walked to the bed, sat on the edge, and looked up at Laura. “You can have the left side. I get the window. Claire sleeps in the middle or in the reading chair, depending on the night. Is that going to be a problem?”

Laura blinked. “No. That’s fine.” She watched as Erin flexed her toes, then added, “Do you always sleep naked?”

Erin’s eyes flicked down, then up, completely deadpan. “I can’t wear clothes anymore. It’s a transformation thing.”

Laura filed that away. “Right. Sorry.”

She expected a zinger in return, but Erin just shrugged.

Claire picked up her notebook and wrote: It bothers you. Her being naked. Why?

Laura considered lying, then didn’t. “It doesn’t bother me. It’s just… you’re so comfortable. Most girls would at least blush.”

Erin’s mouth curved, but her eyes didn’t. “I’ve been naked for weeks. You get used to it, or you go crazy.”

Laura tried to imagine that, then failed. She couldn’t even bring herself to change in a locker room after sixth grade gym class. “Well, you’re doing a good job.”

Erin caught the compliment and held it in the air, neither accepting nor rejecting it. She looked at Laura with a flat, unreadable stare. “You’re jealous.” Not of the nudity, but of the confidence, she meant.

Laura didn’t bother denying it. “Yes. Wouldn’t you be?”

That surprised Erin. For the first time since entering, she looked less like a soldier and more like a girl who’d been caught out after curfew. She glanced at Claire, then said, “Yeah. I would.”

Claire’s tail thumped against the dresser. She scribbled: I’m not. But I understand if you are.

Laura tilted her head. “How can you not be? You and Andy are… something, right?”

Claire nodded. She wrote: We were friends, then more. But jealousy isn’t my default. I don’t want to fight over him.

Laura studied the lines on the page, then at Claire herself. “That’s—actually impressive.”

Claire smiled, a small, real thing. She tore out the page, handed it to Laura, and went to unpack her clothes.

Erin watched the exchange, then sighed. “We’re not going to fight, are we?”

Laura looked at her. “Not unless you want to.”

Erin shook her head. “I don’t.”

“Me neither.”

They both looked at Claire, who was already arranging her cardigans in color order, tail swinging behind her as she worked.

After a moment, Erin said, “You’re not what I expected.”

Laura shrugged. “Neither are you.”

Erin’s lips twitched. “Good. I hate predictable people.”

Claire, having finished her little display of organizational prowess, wrote on a new page: Can we agree to just be honest? No alliances, no secrets, just—say what you mean, and we’ll work it out.

Laura stared at the note, then at the girl who wrote it. She thought about how badly she’d wanted to be Andy’s only orbit, how she’d imagined herself coming back to a world that would drop everything to meet her where she left it. Then she looked at Erin, and realized: she wanted the same thing. They all did.

“Okay,” Laura said. “No lies. No backstabbing.”

Erin nodded, then extended a hand. “Truce?”

Laura hesitated for only a second, then shook.

The handshake was awkward, but neither let go first. When they finally did in unison, the room felt lighter, even if only by a notch.

Claire wrote: I brought snacks. Would anyone like chocolate?

Laura almost smiled. “God, yes.”

Erin said, “Is it dark chocolate?”

Claire nodded.

Erin grinned. “Then I want all of it.”

They laughed—just a little, just enough.

For the first time since entering, Laura felt like she might be able to survive this.

She sat on the edge of the bed, took the fox plush in her lap, and waited as Claire broke the chocolate into neat squares. Erin stretched out on the window seat, her body a perfect study in lazy defiance. Claire sat cross-legged on the floor, back to the dresser, and passed the squares around, each piece handed over with deliberate care.

They ate in silence at first. Then, slowly, the talk began: little questions, small stories, nothing earth-shattering but all real, and all theirs.

As the light faded from the window, Laura watched her new roommates and thought: This isn’t what I wanted. But for now, it would have to be.

The rec room’s lights were set to a twilight dim, which, Chloe suspected, was a favor to anyone still avoiding the hard truths of the day. Even so, the pool table at the room’s center glowed under a green lamp like a monument from a friendlier era. That was where Emi led her, hand-in-hand, as if the idea of playing billiards was both urgent and revolutionary.

Chloe didn’t resist. Much. “I haven’t played in years,” she said, tugging at her cardigan. She wore it over a tank that was straining at the seams, her breasts so disproportionate now that even the softest sweater couldn’t camouflage the physics involved.

Emi grinned, eyes glinting. “Neither have I,” she lied. With six arms, Emi could probably run the table without breaking a sweat, but she chalked a cue with the innocence of a toddler and held out another to Chloe like it was a baton in a relay race.

Chloe took it. The tip was already worn down to wood, which seemed like an omen.

They racked the balls in a loose triangle, Chloe’s hands trembling more than she’d have liked. “You break,” Emi said, leaning across the table with three hands bracing her and another three forming a little fan, just because she could.

Chloe watched Emi line up, the movement so coordinated it was almost surreal. Emi’s upper arms set the cue, middle arms leveled her, and the bottom pair drummed lightly on the felt, as if calibrating a seismograph. The break was clean, balls scattering with a satisfying clatter.

Chloe whistled. “Okay, that’s… not fair.”

Emi beamed. “But you get style points for trying.”

“Style points won’t help me,” Chloe said. “Physics is the enemy here.”

She meant her chest, which nearly swept the cue off the table when she bent forward to shoot. The first time she tried, she misjudged and hit herself in the left tit so hard she let out an involuntary yelp.

Emi’s hand darted out—top right, always the quickest—to steady the cue. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Chloe muttered. Her cheeks were scarlet, but she made herself smile. “Didn’t expect pool to be a contact sport.”

Emi’s face lit up, pure delight. “I can hold them for you if it helps,” she offered, not a hint of sarcasm.

Chloe snorted, the laughter popping out before she could stop it. “I’m not sure there’s enough hands in the universe, Emi.”

“Wanna bet?”

Chloe hesitated, then leaned in again, positioning herself awkwardly but determined to make contact this time. She struck a solid, but the cue ball curved and barely grazed a solid before finding the nearest pocket.

Emi clapped, all six hands at once. “You got one!”

“I scratched,” Chloe said, but she was grinning. “At this rate, I’ll win by default when you foul out.”

“Possible,” Emi allowed, gently. “But unlikely.”

They played in a rhythm—Emi running the table with an artistry that managed not to feel like showing off, Chloe missing by mere centimeters and laughing every time the table demanded more flexibility than she had. Every time she lined up a shot, her breasts squished against the edge, warping her aim and her dignity. At first, it was mortifying. Then it got funny. Finally, it was just reality.

Between turns, Emi flitted around the table, sometimes taking shots left-handed (or lower-right-handed) just to keep it interesting. Her hair hung in a shining black bob, always neat, always in place, and her face wore the relaxed contentment of someone in the exact right place in the universe.

On Chloe’s fourth turn, she paused and said, “I thought not being eliminated would mean I’d stop feeling anxious.”

Emi set her cue on the felt, leaning on it like a staff. “And did it?”

Chloe lined up her shot, took a deep breath, and fired. The ball hit the rail, wobbled, and stopped dead. “No,” she said. “It just means I have more time to think about how guilty I feel.” She looked up at Emi, expecting to find disappointment or judgment. There was only curiosity.

Emi nodded, considering. “It’s strange, right? We’re safe, but it doesn’t feel safe. It just feels… longer.”

Chloe exhaled, feeling the tightness in her shoulders ease. “Exactly.”

Emi circled the table, the motion almost a dance, and prepared for her next shot. “I think,” she said, lining up with impossible elegance, “it’s because none of us really know what to do with ourselves if we’re not running for our lives. We forget how to just… be.”

Chloe watched the shot, which was—of course—perfect. She considered the words. “I don’t think I was ever good at that,” she admitted. “Even before. I always thought, if I could just get through the next day, or the next challenge, then I could start being the kind of person I wanted to be. But now it’s like—if there’s no deadline, what’s left?”

Emi potted another ball, slower this time, like she was stretching out the game to fill the conversation. “You get to decide,” she said. “No one else.” The words had a weight Chloe hadn’t expected from gentle Emi, but they landed like a comfort.

“I want to talk to her,” Chloe said, after a beat. “Laura, I mean. I keep telling myself I’m ready, but I don’t know what I’d say.”

Emi looked at her, all six arms resting on the rail, the picture of focus. “Start with anything. Even if it’s just ‘hello.’”

Chloe nodded, feeling the possibility open up. “You make it sound easy.”

Emi smiled, the kind that was both sad and kind. “It’s not easy. But it is simple.”

Chloe stepped up for her turn, determined now. She leaned in, let her body do what it wanted, and took the shot. The cue ball ricocheted, missed the target by a hair, but then caromed off the rail and—miracle of miracles—sent the seven ball straight into the side pocket.

She straightened, stunned. “Did you see that?”

Emi clapped, loud enough to draw the attention of a group of girls at the other end of the room. “Champion!” she said, and the word made Chloe glow in places she hadn’t known could glow.

Chloe turned, hands on her hips, no longer embarrassed about the way her shirt rode up over her belly or the fact that her boobs jutted out like a cartoon. “I’d like to thank the laws of physics for occasionally being on my side,” she said. “Also, my opponent, who is clearly going easy on me.”

“Never,” Emi said, with mock gravity. “I just want the game to last.”

“Me too,” Chloe said, and she meant it.

They kept playing, neither keeping score, the game as much about the space between shots as the shots themselves. They talked about everything except the show: old friends, favorite movies, whether sticky buns were superior to lemon muffins, and whether or not pool was a real sport. Sometimes the talk lapsed into silence, but it was comfortable now, like an old hoodie, frayed but perfectly worn in.

At the end, Emi missed a shot on purpose, and Chloe grinned. “You did that for me.”

Emi winked, not denying it.

Chloe took her last shot, missed, and then Emi tapped the eight ball in with a flourish that made even the watching girls at the end of the room cheer.

They shook hands over the table. Emi’s grip was soft but steady, and Chloe let herself hold on a second longer than necessary.

“Thank you,” Chloe said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“For what?” Emi asked, but her smile said she knew.

“For making me feel… here,” Chloe said, patting her own chest. “Even if I still don’t know what to do with all of it.”

Emi nodded, solemn. “We’ll figure it out,” she said. “That’s what comes next.”

They walked out together, shoulders bumping, and Chloe let herself believe it.

At this time of evening—an hour past sunset, lanterns burning low, steam curling off the surface in slow white spirals—the mineral pool in The HH Spa felt more like sanctuary than spa. Even the lighting was gentle, the water illuminated from beneath so it glowed milky, like the inside of an oyster.

Norah had insisted on the time slot, and she was the first one in. She entered with the calculated poise of a queen on a recon mission: black bikini top, high-cut briefs, a gauzy silk wrap around her waist, and—true to her transformation—sky-blue stiletto sandals that gleamed even in the damp. The walk from the changing room was less a strut than a deliberate act of will; she’d rather have died than let anyone see her crawl.

Liesa arrived next, in a sleek navy one-piece that hugged her figure while revealing almost nothing. The high neckline and modest cut at the thighs seemed deliberately chosen, a stark departure from her modeling days. For a woman who once made her living out of being seen, the conservative choice spoke volumes. She still moved with practiced awareness of her body, but there was something different now—a quiet dignity in how she kept her hair knotted high, shoulders relaxed rather than displayed. When she slid into the pool, she did so with the deliberate care of someone who had chosen, for once, not to be the spectacle.

Marissa was last, having lingered to make sure the path was clear. Her swimsuit was the most conservative of the three—a wine-red one-piece, cut high at the thigh but with enough compression to keep her G-cup breasts contained despite the mandatory cleavage. She brought a tray with three cups of herbal tea and set it on the stone ledge before slipping into the warmth. For a few minutes, the three women just floated, arms draped on the edge, steam rising between them. The silence had a weight to it, but not a hostility—more the hush of strangers waiting out a thunderstorm in the same bus shelter.

Eventually Norah broke it, the words slicing through fog with all the subtlety of a lawyer’s cross. “You ever think the hotel makes it cold out there on purpose, just so this feels better?”

Marissa sipped her tea, lips parting just enough for a slow inhale of steam. “I’d believe it,” she said, voice pitched low and soothing. (Which, as always, meant both other women felt a tickle of arousal—Norah’s pupils dilating, Liesa’s face going faintly pink, her nipples pebbling under the water.)

“Sadism in the thermostat,” Liesa said, her accent barely touched by the steam. “Is the oldest trick.” She flicked water off her fingers, avoiding Norah’s gaze.

Norah allowed herself a smile. “It’s not a bad one.” She sipped her own tea, then set it back on the stone lip. “Did either of you sleep after… the Garden?”

That got a reaction: Liesa’s face closed down, and Marissa’s gaze flicked up, sharp. “Barely,” Marissa said. “But that’s normal after a challenge.”

“Not like this,” Norah said, rolling the rim of her cup between two fingers. “It’s been days, and I still see that place every time I blink. I keep thinking about what I saw. What I heard.”

Liesa gave a little shrug. “Nobody saw the same thing, I think.”

Norah nodded. “What did you see?” The question was simple, but she held it like a weapon—softened only by a thread of genuine curiosity.

There was a moment, after Norah’s question, when no one answered. The steam rose higher, the hush inside the spa so complete it felt like a new law of physics had been declared: three women, three stories, and the first to speak would have to break something in herself to do it.

Liesa was the first to blink. She wet her lips, watched her hand slice the surface of the pool, then said, “I saw what I expected. Only, more.” She caught Norah’s gaze, then dropped it. “Is not something I want to talk about.” A beat. “I saw things that did not belong to me, also.” She said it as if it were an apology, or maybe a confession.

Norah nodded. She’d known what she was asking. “Some of it was… a lot,” she said. “The rest—I don’t know. Maybe it was what we were afraid we’d see.”

Marissa’s silence wasn’t passive. She kept her eyes on the water, every line of her body telegraphing “no comment.” But her voice, when it arrived, was sanded smooth by the years of learning to comfort without promising anything. “I saw what people wanted to hide,” she said. “And I don’t want to talk about it. Not now, not ever. I’m sorry if I… if my face gave away what I saw. That was a mistake.”

Norah's smile vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. "Wait," she said, setting down her cup with a small splash. "If we all saw different things—" Her eyes widened. "Andy must have seen everything. Not just what I saw. All of it."

Liesa's hand went to her throat. "Twelve women," she whispered. "Twelve different... series of visions." Her accent thickened with emotion. "All that pain, all at once."

"Laura," Marissa said, the name barely audible over the bubbling water. "He would have seen her too, before he knew she was coming back." Her fingers trembled against her cup. "God, the things he must have witnessed."

Norah's throat worked visibly. "And not just that. Our nightmares. Our secrets. Our worst moments." She glanced at Marissa, then back at Liesa. "How is he even standing after that?"

"I would be destroyed. Twelve people's worth of pain..." Liesa pressed the heel of her palm to her eye, and for a long, long moment, nobody said anything. The only sound was the gentle slosh of mineral water against the pool tiles and the faint, musical tapping as Norah clicked the base of her cup against the stone lip.

Marissa imagined Andy looking into that world, in that endless fracture of glass, **** to relive every moment each of them had suffered, each moment he had suffered. As though he were the only one who was doomed to see it all.

“It’s over,” Marissa said, her voice softer than she meant it. The other two tensed anyway—she could see the flush climb Norah’s cheeks, watch Liesa’s breath hitch. Even in this context, her words curled hotly around the air. She saw the way Liesa’s posture shifted, the way Norah’s toes curled on the pool floor, both of them aroused by the sound even as it soothed them. She lowered her voice another octave, trying to minimize the effect. “Whatever happened there, it’s over. Arabella’s not going to throw us back in.” A pause. “Not unless we’re stupid enough to ask.”

Norah huffed. “That would be a real Masochism Round.”

A minute passed. Liesa stared at the rippling ceiling above, her body drifting in the mineral warmth. Norah tucked her knees to her chest, hands folded over them. Even here, even now, Norah’s arousal flared and faded with every shift in the conversation—Marissa could almost track it by the dilation of her pupils, the way her fingers flexed.

Marissa reached for her tea, sipping it slow, giving them space.

Norah was the one who broke the silence, as usual. “You know tomorrow’s the transformation ceremony,” she said, voice matter-of-fact. “After that, Fifth Round starts.” She swirled her cup, watching the steam curl off the top. “No eliminations this time, right?”

Marissa nodded. “Arabella said as much. VP only. If we make quota, we’re all safe.”

Liesa glanced at Marissa, then at Norah. “But we are not all the same, now.” The words were slow, heavy. “Laura is here.”

That landed. Norah set her cup down, hard enough to splash her wrap. “Right. The wildcard.”

Liesa laughed, low and a little hollow. “You think she is a threat?”

Norah’s eyes sharpened. “I think they didn’t pull her out of a hat for nothing.” She shrugged, the movement oddly delicate. “Maybe she’s just another Contestant. But you saw the way everyone looked at her.”

Liesa ran a hand through her hair, squeezing the wet into a sleek tail. “I don’t want to fight her. Not really.” She hesitated, then, softer: “I think she has already lost more than any of us.”

That drew another silence. Marissa felt it settle differently this time—softer, more companionable.

“I do wonder,” Norah went on, “if I am only building her up in my head. Making her into an opponent because it is easier than making her a… what is the word, not victim?”

“A sister?” Marissa offered.

Norah snorted. “That would be a miracle.” But there was no bite to it. “You think Andy’s going to pick her?”

“I think it doesn't matter,” Liesa said, and for the first time she sounded certain. “He picked us as well. He does not want to lose the rest of us, either.”

Marissa nodded, a pulse of something sympathetic and sharp moving through her chest. “He’s not going to,” she said. “That’s not how he’s built. He's going to flail a bit... who wouldn't, in this situation? But he is not going to vanish.”

The words landed, and for a long time, none of them moved. The surface of the pool stilled, and the lanterns overhead sent shadows flickering across the wet tile.

Marissa broke the silence, her voice gentle. “You know, I never wanted to be a therapist,” she said, surprising herself. “I just wanted to understand why people did the things they did. Why it was always the ones who cared the most who ended up hurting the most.” She let her head drop, chin to chest. “Turns out the answer isn’t pretty. Most of the time, we just want to matter.”

Liesa blinked at that. “And do you?”

Marissa looked up, blue eyes shining. “I do now.” She took a breath. “But it doesn’t mean I want to stop.”

Norah watched Marissa, then shook her head, a dry chuckle escaping her lips. “You’re scary when you get honest, Marissa. You know that?”

“It’s the swimsuit,” Marissa said, flicking the strap and sending a little arc of water toward Norah’s shins. “You try hiding these monsters and see how honest you get.”

Liesa’s face went red, and Norah actually laughed—short, sharp, but real. The sound echoed off the tile and sent a flock of small, black birds scattering from the roofline outside.

For the first time, Marissa felt the tension bleed out of the air.

Norah, emboldened, said: “So what do we do about her?”

Liesa shrugged. “Treat her like we treat each other.” She paused, then, with deliberate humor: “With suspicion, empathy, and baked goods.”

Marissa grinned. “And see if she can handle the dress code.”

Norah smirked. “I give her one round before she’s transformed into something impossible. It’s basically tradition now.”

Marissa studied the way Norah’s jaw tensed, the way her fingers whitened on the rim of her cup. “You worried she’s going to take him away from you?”

Norah’s laugh was brittle, but honest. “I worry she’ll take him away from all of us.” She watched the steam rise from the pool. “And I’m not even sure I want him. Not in the way she does. But I want to be wanted. I want to win.”

“That’s not what this is,” Liesa said. “Not anymore.”

Norah didn’t answer, but she didn’t deny it.

Marissa let the hush return. She watched the little rivulets running down Liesa’s neck, the way Norah’s heels clicked against the tile even when she was barely moving. All of them so different, all of them wired for the same impossible math.

She set down her empty cup, letting it tip and roll along the stone. “You know,” she said, “if we ever get out of this, I’m going to miss it.”

Liesa cocked her head. “The pool?”

Marissa shook her head. “The game. The feeling of knowing exactly where you stand, and still being scared of it.”

Norah stared at her. “You think we’ll ever get out?”

“I do,” Marissa said, and she found she actually meant it. “Maybe not the way we want. But eventually.”

Liesa’s eyes glittered. “And then what?”

Marissa thought about it. “We rebuild our lives, together. Maybe we get to keep something from here. A piece of ourselves that didn’t exist before.”

Norah rolled her eyes, but the edge was gone. “Sentimental as hell.”

Marissa shrugged. “Maybe that’s what it takes.”

They sat there, longer than planned. The lights dimmed, the water cooled, and the steam got heavier as the air outside dropped. Eventually, Norah pushed herself out, water streaming from her calves and feet, she tied her sandals on, heels clicking on the stone as she stood.

Marissa lingered in the pool, alone for the first time that evening. She closed her eyes, letting the warmth seep deep. When she finally surfaced, the mineral water had cooled to the temperature of skin.

She climbed out, grabbed her towel, and padded toward the locker room. She felt clean, lighter. She wondered if it would last.

Outside, she could hear Norah and Liesa’s voices, low and conspiratorial, as they navigated the narrow hallway. Liesa was telling a story about her first time in a sauna, Norah occasionally tossing in a snort or a sharp question. Marissa followed, not rushing, letting their laughter lead her home.

When she reached the changing room, she found the other two waiting for her, wrapped in towels, hair dripping. Norah held out a mug of tea—newly refilled, piping hot. Liesa patted the bench beside her, and for a moment, it didn’t feel like a contest at all.

Marissa sat, taking the mug. The three of them sipped in silence, together, until the world outside the spa faded away.

Dawn found Laura in the liminal zone between gazebo and beach, where the deck’s shadow just started to give way to the raw, open brightness of the sand. Mildred had dragged a half-dozen storage tubs out, lining the planks with heaps of pillows, folded throws, and picnic blankets in every color of the hotel’s weird spectrum. Laura sat on the lowest step. She had changed into black leggings and a white t-shirt, one sneaker braced against the rail, her elbows locked to her knees. She was staring at a cushion in her lap like it might have secrets, or at least an explanation.

Dawn hovered a few feet behind, unsure whether to announce herself. The evening air was alive with the slow build of party prep—someone setting up a portable grill by the bar, the clink of glassware, the rare laughter of women who had survived one more elimination round. It would be easy to pretend not to notice Laura at all. But Dawn didn’t want easy.

She cleared her throat, soft. “Hey.”

Laura didn’t jump. She just looked up, expression flat, then registered who it was and managed a small, real smile. “Hey.”

Dawn inched forward, careful not to crowd. “You, uh, helping out?” She nudged the nearest tub with her foot, sending a slow-motion landslide of fleece and fringe across the step.

“I guess.” Laura patted the cushion, then let it drop to the pile. “I’m not sure what the system is. There’s, like, a billion of these.”

Dawn laughed, surprised. “Welcome to the hotel. Everything’s a test of endurance.” She dropped to a seat on the opposite end of the step, close enough to see Laura’s hands but not close enough for accidental knees. “Want to sort them with me? I think they want the big ones on the benches and the little ones in the baskets.”

Laura’s shoulders, which had been somewhere near her ears, relaxed a centimeter. “Sure,” she said.

For a while, the only talk was practical. Dawn unfolded the largest pillows, shook out the stuffing, then handed them down the line. Laura stacked them against the gazebo rail, forming a wall of lemon, turquoise, and a shade of coral that did not occur in nature. Smaller cushions went into woven bins, which Laura lined up with engineer-level precision along the deck’s perimeter. Neither mentioned the color coding, but by the third bin they had both started grouping by hue.

The silence wasn’t awkward, but it wasn’t companionable either. It was the silence of two people who wanted to make the right move, but hadn’t yet decided if moving was allowed.

Dawn glanced sideways at Laura, then at herself, fingers brushing the base of one soft, ridiculous bunny ear. “This is going to sound dumb,” she said, “but… if you want to ask about them, it’s okay.”

Laura blinked, caught. Then, cautiously curious: “Do they… feel weird? Or do you forget they’re there?”

Dawn laughed, relief spilling out. “Both. Mostly I forget. Until someone looks at me like they’re trying not to stare, and then I remember I look like I escaped from a very wholesome nightmare.”

That got a quiet huff of laughter from Laura. “They suit you,” she said, then added quickly, almost defensive of her own sincerity, “I mean that in a good way.”

Dawn smiled, ears twitching just a little. “I’ll take it.” She hesitated, then tried again. “So. You survived your first day as the new kid.”

Laura glanced over, her mouth half-twisted. “I feel like I skipped a bunch of grades and now everyone else is in on the joke.” She folded a blanket, then unfolded it, smoothing the edges so they lined up. “You ever get that feeling?”

“All the time,” Dawn said, honest. “Especially here. The first week I kept thinking everyone else had it together, and I was the only one pretending.”

Laura eyed her, skeptical. “You don’t seem like you’d need to pretend.”

Dawn shrugged, tucking a blanket under her arm. “I’m good at acting normal. Doesn’t mean I am.” She flicked her gaze at the sand, then back at Laura. “You don’t have to try so hard, you know. Nobody’s expecting you to run the place on day one.”

Laura considered this, then: “I think if I stop trying, I’ll disappear.” The words landed hard, but she didn’t apologize for them.

Dawn sat with that. She wanted to say something comforting, but instead she said, “That’s not going to happen.” It sounded blunt, even to her, but Laura nodded, as if blunt was better than nothing.

They worked. Laura found a rhythm—shake, fold, stack, repeat—and Dawn matched her pace, careful not to crowd but also not leaving her alone with the task. Every so often, Laura would make a small sound when a blanket refused to square up, and Dawn would echo it, the two of them sighing in unison like synchronized swimmers.

At some point, Dawn said, “I was worried you’d be mad at me.”

Laura blinked. “Why?”

“I don’t know. I thought maybe I’d be too much, or you’d think I was trying to replace you.” Dawn bit her lip, then went for broke. “I was scared you’d hate me for being here.”

Laura blinked again, but slower. “I don’t hate you,” she said, and Dawn knew it was the truth.

“Thanks,” Dawn said, letting herself smile. “I don’t hate you either.”

Laura laughed, and the sound was ragged but honest. “We should get t-shirts made.”

Dawn grinned. “Front: ‘I Don’t Hate You.’ Back: ‘Ask Me Again Tomorrow.’”

Laura folded another pillow. “That’s a little too real.”

Dawn liked this version of Laura. She’d expected something colder, sharper—maybe the legendary tempest everyone else had braced for. Instead, what she saw was a girl with too many shields and nowhere to put them. A girl who wanted to help, if she could just figure out what help looked like.

Dawn decided to say something she’d been rehearsing for an hour. “I’m glad you’re here, you know. It’s kind of a miracle.”

Laura’s hands stopped. She looked at the pillow in her lap, then at Dawn. “I don’t feel like a miracle.”

Dawn shrugged. “Miracles never do. That’s why nobody trusts them.” The words barely left her mouth before Dawn froze. “—I didn’t mean—” She flushed, ears going pink. “I mean, not you. I mean—God, I’m so sorry, that came out wrong!”

Laura stared at her for a long second. Then she exhaled. “It’s okay,” she said quietly. “I don’t trust me either. Not yet.”

That seemed to hurt Dawn more than anger would have. She nodded, subdued. “Still. I’m glad you’re here.”

After a few minutes, Laura spoke again, softer. “Can I ask you something that might suck?”

Dawn straightened a little. “Okay.”

Laura didn’t look at her. “You… like Andy. Don’t you?”

The silence stretched, thin and honest. “Yes,” Dawn said finally. “I do.”

Laura’s throat tightened. The old reflex—the jealousy, the possessive heat—flared, sharp and familiar. She pressed her thumb into the seam of the blanket until it faded. “Okay,” she said, voice steady but not cold. “Thank you for telling me.”

Dawn swallowed. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I know,” Laura said. She glanced over, searching Dawn’s face, then added, almost surprised by herself, “And I don’t want you to stop feeling what you feel. I just… need time to catch up to it.”

Dawn nodded, eyes bright. “Take all the time you need.”

They finished the last bin of pillows, then moved to the blankets. Dawn fluffed them out, shook the sand away, and folded them into rectangles. Laura rolled them and tied them with little bands, making each one perfect. It was stupid work, but Dawn could see how much it helped—the focus, the tactile calm, the sense of control in a world that had given Laura almost none.

After a few minutes, Dawn said, “You ever need space, just ask. I’m a pro at disappearing.”

Laura set a blanket on the stack, then squared it so it matched the others. “Or you can just ask me to help sort more crap,” she said, but there was warmth in the words now.

Dawn grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The sun dropped lower, casting the last light across the water. The grill master at the bar called out an order, and a burst of voices drifted over. Inside the gazebo, someone had already set up a portable speaker; the first strains of a summer playlist bled into the air, soft and nostalgic.

Dawn looked at Laura. “You ready for this?”

Laura took a breath, then nodded. “I think so.”

They stood, side by side, not quite touching but not avoiding it, either. The work was done, the cushions lined up like tiny, private victories. It felt good, and Dawn said so.

“It’s not much, but we did something,” she said.

Laura picked up the last, smallest pillow—a ridiculous thing in the shape of a star—and tossed it to Dawn. “We did,” she said. “That’s better than nothing.”

Dawn held the pillow to her chest. She wanted to hug Laura, but didn’t. Instead, she just smiled, letting it be enough for now.

Sundown crept over the gardens with a heavy, humid insistence, the air so thick with scent and shadow that it felt like the island was holding its breath. The koi pond had the look of a dream someone forgot to finish: round as a coin, ringed with too-neat stones, the water so clear the fish looked like they hovered over glass. Here and there, the koi flickered—orange and gold, white and glossy black—flashing in the strange underwater light.

Myra sat at the edge, knees pressed to the mossy stone, one palm hovering just above the surface. Her fox tail curled beside her for balance. She dipped her fingers into the water, waiting for the koi to find her. The cup of feed was balanced on her knee, the label half-peeled, as if she'd been rolling it back and forth for an hour.

Liesa stood to Myra's left, just out of reach, arms folded and posture tense. Her hair was wet—she'd come straight from the spa and hadn't even tried to towel it all the way dry. Every so often, she scattered a handful of pellets and watched the koi mob the food, her face unreadable. She wore a simple dress, all green and blue, nothing at all like the wildness of her old artist days, but her legs were bare, feet still damp from the walk over.

Riley was a step behind them, half-perched on a flat rock, her boots pressed into the mud. She tossed the fish food like she was skipping stones—overhand, not delicate, sending a little shower of pellets every time. When the wind caught the feed, it scattered across the pond, and the koi chased it like a living, surging question mark. Riley’s hair hung loose around her face.

For a long time, none of them spoke. Myra let the koi nip gently at her fingers, the sensation light and sharp at once. Liesa’s face was drawn, her jaw set like she was holding in a mouthful of regret. Riley’s eyes moved constantly, never quite meeting the others, her expression the wary stillness of someone who’d lived through the aftermath too many times to expect anything better.

When Myra spoke, it was barely louder than the water. “They’re selective,” she said. “If the food’s bland, they don’t bother.”

Riley huffed. “Story of my life.”

Liesa gave a short, brittle laugh. “Speak for yourself.” She paused, then added more carefully, “Sorry. I’m—still wound too tight.”

Myra shook her head, the fox ears giving a small twitch. “That’s okay,” she said. She set the cup down and rested both hands on her knees. “I think we’re all still a little… raw.”

Riley plucked at the label on her own feed cup, peeling it off in one perfect spiral. “We all saw things in there, didn’t we.” She didn’t say ‘the Garden of Glass,’ but the phrase hung in the air anyway.

Liesa watched her own reflection shiver in the water. “I think that was the point,” she said. “To see what others went through.”

Myra’s tail twitched, the motion sending a ripple over the water. “Or both,” she said, and this time her voice had a tremor. “I witnessed so many things. Some were Andy’s. Or—” She paused, struggling. “Or yours.”

Liesa didn’t ask which ones. She focused on the next cupful of pellets, wrist flicking the food in a thin arc. "I saw you," she said. "At the hospital."

Myra’s tail went still, tip flicking once, alert.

Riley hunched forward, a twist in her posture. "I saw you, too," she said, voice flat but not unkind. "When they told you. About the blindness." She exhaled hard. “You didn’t scream. That was worse.”

A silence, wide as the pond itself, blanketed them for three, maybe four, heartbeats.

Then Riley added, not unkindly, “You looked like you wanted it to end.”

Myra nodded. "I did." There was no deflection, not even a blink. "Until coming here." She sat back on her heels, letting the sensation settle. "But I don’t. Not anymore."

Liesa’s hands curled. “You were working yourself into the ground,” she said. “Night after night. Like if you just stayed upright long enough—”

“—something would balance out,” Myra finished. “Yes.”

Riley scoffed softly. “Guilt math.”

Myra turned her face slightly toward Riley’s voice. “I was there, with both of you, and with Andy. You taught me something,” she said softly. “I didn’t know how loud silence could be until I felt you hear the words.”

Riley stiffened.

“You didn’t cry at first,” Myra continued. “The room did it for you. Like the air collapsed.” Her voice dropped. “The house knew before you did.”

Riley’s jaw clenched. She didn’t argue.

“And Liesa,” Myra went on, slower now. “Your apartment was cold. Not emotionally. Physically. Wet coats. A drip you couldn’t ignore.” Her breath caught. “The sound you made when you found her—”

Liesa made a sharp, involuntary sound and turned away.

“I’m sorry,” Myra said immediately. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” Liesa said, rough but steadying. “It’s fine.” She paused. "What about Andy?" she asked, not quite daring.

Myra’s voice softened. "He was alone. The afternoon before Arabella brought him here. I couldn’t breathe, in the apartment. The despair…” She shivered. “He was dead, you understand. He existed, but inside, he was dead. He had nothing left to live for. He’d given up on himself."

A ripple moved through the pond, sending the koi scattering, then reassembling into a new pattern.

Liesa looked down, fingers rubbing one thumb raw. "I never knew that," she said, so faintly Myra almost missed it.

"I did," said Riley. "I saw it in him. I just never put it together. Not all of it."

Myra waited for the hurt to come, but it didn’t. Instead, a strange peace unfolded inside her: the sense that she was not alone, that even her worst moments were shared by others—different scars, but the same shape.

Liesa bent to scoop another cup of feed, the movement deliberate. "I always thought," she said, "that people like you only ever suffered once, and then it got easy. But it doesn’t. You just get better at pretending." She exhaled, a line of tension unwinding from her voice. "Or you work harder. That’s what I saw: you never stopped. Even when you should have."

Myra’s mouth pulled into something almost like a smile. "That’s the only thing I know how to do."

"I get it now," Liesa said. "Why guilt turns into labor."

Riley considered this. "I don’t. I think guilt just makes you tired. But that’s okay. It’s not the worst thing to be tired. Or guilty."

They sat, the three of them, in a new kind of silence—one that didn’t ache, but breathed.

Riley reached for her feed, scattering the last of it in a fast, almost angry gesture. "I saw things I wish I could forget," she said, but the words were lighter than they should have been. "I don’t know what to do with any of it."

"You don’t have to do anything," said Myra. "Not right away."

Liesa brushed a strand of hair from her face, then smiled—small, tired, but real. "Is strange, yes? That we are all broken in the same places, but think we are so different?"

Riley made a noise, half laugh, half snort. "I guess we’re supposed to talk about our feelings now."

Myra shook her head, the motion almost playful. "No. But we could talk about tomorrow. Fifth Round. It’s coming."

Riley’s hand tensed. "I need a break. The Garden stripped something out of me. I thought I’d be fine, but I’m not. I keep… I keep thinking about the day he died, and how I just shut down. I can’t afford to shut down again."

"You won’t," Liesa said, firm. "You are strong, Riley."

Riley gave her a look, then looked away. "You’re a terrible liar," she said, but there was gratitude in it.

Liesa set her cup aside, wiped her hands on her dress, then stood. "You know, I am happier now than I have ever been. I don’t know why. Maybe because I know I am not the only one. Is bad to say? Or maybe because it means something." She looked at Riley, then at Myra. "I want to keep being better. I want to see what comes next."

Myra nodded, then said, "I’m going to ask Andy for another date."

That drew both heads up, surprise in their faces.

"Even if Laura objects?" Riley asked.

"Even then," Myra said, calm. "She belongs with him, yes. But so do I. So do all of us."

Liesa laughed, and it was real this time. "That is the bravest thing I have ever heard you say."

Myra smiled. "It's not bravery. I... After seeing how much he hurt, I... Feel like I understand him."

Riley flicked a last pellet into the pond, then stood, shaking out her arms. "Well, if it makes you feel better, I’m rooting for you."

Liesa turned, her hair drying into frizz in the evening breeze. "What about you, Riley? What will you do next?"

Riley shrugged, the motion raw and unfinished. "I think I’ll try to be honest with myself. That’s all I’ve got left."

When the cups were empty, the three rose together—no ceremony, no last words. Liesa slung her arm around Riley’s shoulders, and Riley let her. Myra found Liesa’s hand, the warmth grounding her, and the three walked back toward the hotel in the half-light, steps out of sync, but together.