What I Couldn't Say

They left the hotel grounds by a footpath, following the contours of the bluff down toward the water’s edge. The air was dense with the last heat of the afternoon, every exhale from the sea bringing the tang of salt and old wood. Riley moved ahead, steps steady but tight, as if each stride cost her something invisible. Andy held Laura’s hands and kept pace behind her, letting Riley set the tempo, not wanting to crowd her before the time came.

The dock came into view like a ghost. It jutted into the inlet, its planks stripped to bone-white by sun and spray, the far end humped where the old posts had sunk. Moss clustered in the shadowed seams, but someone had gone to the trouble of scraping the worst of it away, sanding the splinters and bracing the railings with new, raw timber. Andy remembered the place vividly, but not here: the ruined dock along the Willow Run riverbank, where he, Emi and Laura had spent entire summers playing by the river. He felt the memory rise sharp and uninvited, like biting into fruit you’d forgotten was bruised. He realized Riley must have recreated this place as part of the Walk of Remembrance, last round, but now, it almost looked alive. Or maybe: alive and haunted.

They reached the dock and started down. Riley led the way, boots sounding out a hollow rhythm that vibrated up Andy’s spine and into his skull. He remembered other days—Laura’s feet slapping the boards as she ran, the screech of her laughter as she shoved him toward the edge. He and Laura followed Riley, Andy reading the initials as he went: “L.A. & A.C.,” a heart with a crack drawn through it. He remembered carving that one, a week after Laura died. He’d been thirteen, and the knife had been dull, and he’d cried so hard he couldn’t see what he was doing. Laura’s attention stayed fixed on Riley, intent and unblinking, as if the dock were a narrow bridge she was determined not to misstep. She didn’t notice the carvings.

At the very end of the dock, Riley stopped. She sat on the last intact plank, knees drawn up, arms braced around them, her boots dangling over the water. Her hand caressed the initials, “R.A.”, etched on the plank. She stared out, unblinking, at the churn of the current.

Riley didn’t look up. She kept her chin on her knees, her hair blown forward over her face, hiding everything. For a long minute nobody spoke, not even a word of greeting, as if the last day had run them all out of small talk.

Then Riley broke the hush, her tone low and steady. “You want to sit?” She didn’t lift her gaze; instead, she swept a hand toward the aged board beside her. The wood looked sun-bleached and grooved by countless footsteps, and tiny grains of sand clung to its cracks.

Laura hesitated just long enough for Andy to feel it in his chest, then sat down in perfect synchrony—one self sliding to Riley’s right, the other leaving a careful space between them. Andy settled in that space, legs swinging free above the dark water, the hems of Laura’s jeans brushing the edge on either side. He wasn’t sure whether to mediate or simply exist, so he chose the latter, his arms resting loosely on the plank.

For several long moments, the only sounds were the gentle slap of tide against pilings and the soft creak of wood. A tern descended onto a distant piling, cocked its head at the trio with wary eyes, then lifted off again in a rush of wings. The sky overhead brightened and dimmed as the sun paused behind drifting clouds, sending fractured ribbons of light dancing across the water.

Finally, Laura’s twin forms spoke in quiet unison: “Did you build this?” Her question carried curiosity threaded with something older—fondness, perhaps, or regret.

Riley shook her head. “Not from scratch. There’s a lot of you left in it.” She tapped a hand against a roughly carved groove, where initials and doodles curled across the board’s surface.

Laura pressed her lips together, a faint shrug rippling through both figures. “I don’t remember leaving anything,” she said. A fact, laid down gently, as if it might bruise if dropped.

Riley’s jaw clenched, and she swallowed hard. She stared at the distant horizon, then **** her eyes back to Laura as if resisting the urge to spill something she wasn’t ready to share.

Andy cleared his throat to break the mounting tension. “I used to think you carved the initials,” he said, nodding toward the scarred wood nearby, where the initials L.A., E.K. and A.C. were in a circle, together. “But Emi always insisted it was her.”

Warmth bloomed on Laura’s faces. Both expressions softened, eyes crinkling at the corners. “It was Emi,” she admitted, voices gentle. “I just held her hand steady.” She paused, blinking once. “I was always the steady one.”

Andy smiled, small but sure. Laura said nothing more, her gaze fixed on the band of molten gold where sea met sky. The three of them watched in silence as dusk deepened, the light thinning until it felt like something you could step through and disappear.

At length, Riley cleared her throat, the sound sharper now. “Thanks for coming, L. I— I needed you here.” She glanced sideways, vulnerability flickering in her eyes.

Laura nodded again, both bodies mirroring the movement with impeccable symmetry. She didn’t rush the question. When she spoke, it was measured and calm. “What do you need, Rye?”

Riley drew in a shaky breath, exhaling it like a sigh threaded with tension. “Nothing—yet. Can you give me a minute? I have to figure out how to start.” Her voice trembled despite her attempt at composure.

Laura looked at Andy, offering Riley a small, encouraging nod. “Take your time.”

Riley rose to her feet and moved to the far edge of the dock. She hunched forward, hands gripping the railing so tightly that her knuckles went white. Andy’s pulse quickened; for a moment, he feared she might step off, letting the dark water swallow her.

Laura didn’t move. She watched Riley the way you watched weather—alert, steady, refusing to look away.

After a stretch that felt longer than it was, Laura spoke, voices aligned but tentative. “Andy?”

Andy blinked. “Yeah?”

Laura’s mouths curved into the smallest, uncertain smile. “I don’t want you to think I’m pretending you’re not here.”

Andy reached out. Two open palms met his hand, warm and waiting. He closed his fingers around one and let the other rest against his wrist. “I know,” he said.

Laura’s shy smile blossomed into something genuine. “It’s just… everything changed for you after I was gone. I don’t want to make it worse.”

“You make it better,” Andy said, earnest. “You have no idea how much your stupid pranks helped.”

A spark of laughter brightened both of her faces. “You like them?”

He grinned, leaning closer. “I love them. Yesterday’s was great.”

She laughed, the sound light and brief but real. “Good. Because I’ve been holding back.”

“I had a feeling,” he teased, and squeezed her hand.

Behind them, Riley turned at last, tears carving clean tracks down her cheeks, her voice steadier than it felt. “You two done with the flirting?”

Andy and Laura both flushed, the moment snapping back into place. Laura gave a short nod. The tension didn’t vanish—but it loosened, just enough. Riley stepped back to Laura’s side, shivering slightly with residual nerves. She looked at Laura, then at Andy, and finally back out toward the endless ribbon of water. “There’s something I need to say,” she began, her voice deliberately calm. “It’s for you, L. And Andy… you should be here, too. I think it’s about both of you.” She inhaled, jaw set with determination. “I don’t want to screw this up.”

Laura’s twin bodies shifted, not in alarm but intent, sliding closer on the board. One self reached for Andy’s right hand, the other for his left, enclosing him without urgency, without pressure—just asking for presence. The warmth of her palms grounded him, a quiet claim that didn’t ask permission.

They waited while the dock creaked beneath them and the sun slid lower. Riley inhaled, exhaled, and spoke again. “Okay. Here it is.” Riley’s gaze stayed on the horizon, as if looking away would break her.

The sun had dipped low, the sky bruised in purples and molten gold. They stood on the old wooden dock, each plank creaking beneath their feet. The air was heavy with summer humidity, thick with the faint tang of algae and distant cicadas droning in the reeds.

Riley’s knuckles whitened as she gripped the weathered railing. She exhaled, voice trembling. “I spent most of my life trying to figure out why it hurt so much after you died, L. I told myself it was grief, but it wasn’t just grief. For a long time, it felt like a raw nerve under my skin, pulsing with every heartbeat—something I couldn’t shut up, no matter how hard I tried.”

Laura went very still. Careful, as if any unnecessary movement might knock something loose. Her grip on Andy didn’t tighten, but it didn’t ease, either.

Riley drew in another breath. “At first I needed someone to blame. I blamed Andy. Blamed Chloe, too. You don’t know this, L, but I made it my mission to hate him. And when I was brought here, every time he reached out, I twisted the knife deeper. I was a bitch, lashing out so I’d feel something—anything.”

Andy winced, recalling how Riley had been, that third round of the game. He remembered: the way her words landed sharp, her refusal to accept any comfort, the time it took before she’d even look him in the eye. Laura, for her part, sat silent, two bodies tensed on either side of Andy, hands closed around his so tight it almost hurt. The way her heads tipped slightly toward him was as if she could read his thoughts and wanted, for once, to shield him from what came next.

Riley’s voice steadied as she pressed forward, her words raw enough to sting the air. She looked at Andy. “It wasn’t just that you were there, or that Chloe was there, or that L was gone. I blamed you because you lived. I thought if you’d just—” she sucked in a breath and bit down on the rest. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

Laura spoke before Andy could. Her voices were even, careful. “It matters if you say it.”

Riley let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Fine. I thought if you’d died too, it would’ve made sense.”

The words landed hard. Andy felt them like a punch to the sternum—but Laura’s hands stayed steady in his. She didn’t flinch.

Riley continued, quieter now. “Every time you tried to help, Andy—every time you showed up—I pushed harder. I told myself you deserved it. That you owed me.” Her eyes flicked to Laura. “And you didn’t even get to rest, did you? Not for a second.”

Andy shook his head, but didn’t interrupt.

“I wanted you to hurt the way I was hurting,” Riley said. “Didn’t work. You just… stayed.” She closed her eyes, then opened them, fixing Laura with a look stripped bare. “I thought if I stayed angry, I wouldn’t miss you as much. And it worked. For a while.”

Silence stretched, taut as wire. The tide slid past the posts below them, indifferent. Laura watched Riley with an intensity that wasn’t accusation or pity—just attention.

“I didn’t know,” Laura said finally, two voices in perfect sync. Not breaking, not pleading. “No one told me how bad it was for you.” She hesitated, then added, “I’m sorry.”

Riley’s head dropped. “You don’t have to be. You didn’t do anything wrong.” She shook herself, then straightened, almost daring herself to keep going.

Andy watched her, the way she tried to hold herself together with nothing but sheer will. He recognized that look—had seen it in the mirror more times than he’d ever admit. He felt Laura’s thumbs move against his knuckles—small, grounding circles, absentminded but deliberate. He remembered the conversation he and Riley had had on this same Walk, the previous round, when they had talked about Laura, and the pain of her loss. He remembered the subtext, too, and suddenly knew where Riley was going.

Riley’s next words came slower, as if each one had to be dragged out of hiding. “When I lost John—my husband—I thought it’d be the same. But it wasn’t. That was clean. I loved him, he loved me, and when he died, all I could do was cry. No anger. No blame. Just loss.” She looked up, meeting Andy’s eyes for the first time. “With you and L, it was never that simple.”

Andy wanted to say something, anything, but found himself hollowed out by the **** of her honesty.

“So when you finally got through to me,” Riley continued, “it wasn’t because you were smarter or more honest. It was because you never gave up. Even when I was at my worst, you kept trying.” Her laugh was softer now, almost a whisper. “I hated you for it. And I hated myself for needing you.”

Andy nodded, the gesture small but deeply felt. “I never blamed you, Riley.”

Riley smiled—a real smile, this time. “I know. That’s why I’m here.” She took a deep breath, the tremor in her chest visible even from a few feet away. “But there’s something else. The reason I’m telling you this. The reason it hurt so damn much when L died, and why it took so long to get easier.”

She turned to Laura, bracing herself for what came next. “I loved you, L. I mean, I really loved you. Not just as a friend. It’s pathetic—God, it sounds pathetic, especially now that I’m almost thirty—but I had a crush on you the size of the Grand Canyon.” She laughed, then wiped at her eyes, as if she could erase the shame before it settled. “I spent half of middle school convincing myself I was just being a good friend, because that’s what girls like us were supposed to do. But I wanted more. I wanted you to pick me, just once.”

The words hit the dock like a stone thrown into glass. Laura’s twin faces showed identical shock, eyes wide and lips parted, but it was clear—instantly, heartbreakingly clear—that she’d never suspected.

Riley pressed on, each word a little easier for having been spoken. “I hated Andy because he had you. He got to be your favorite person. And Chloe—she got to make you laugh when I couldn’t. I was jealous, and I told myself it was about being your protector, or your sister, or something, but really, I wanted to be the one you chose. I wanted to matter most.”

A long, uncertain hush followed. The sunset glowed on Laura’s skin, turning her hair to burnished silver and her eyes to a shade of blue that seemed impossible even in daylight. Both of her bodies leaned in, as if needing to hear every word.

“So when I told you to meet Andy at the bridge that day,” Riley went on, voice steady despite the tears, “I think part of me hoped it would blow up. That you’d fight, or you’d stop talking to each other, and maybe I’d get a chance to matter for real. When you died—” She stopped, hands shaking, then pressed them flat against the wood, as if grounding herself in the roughness. “When you died, it was like all the hope in me turned to poison. I blamed Andy because I couldn’t blame you. I blamed him for having you, for loving you, for getting to live when you didn’t. And I blamed myself, because I was the one who sent you to him that night.”

Riley’s words hung over the dock, so charged that the humidity itself seemed to buzz. No one moved for several seconds. Andy was dimly aware of Laura’s grip on his hands—her fingers knotted so tightly into his that he could feel the trembling all the way to his elbow.

Laura’s heads—one on either side of Andy—dipped at the exact same time, hair falling over her cheeks. The movement was small, instinctive, like a brace against impact. “You didn’t know,” she said, the echo of both voices haunting but true.

“I should’ve.” Riley pressed a fist to her mouth, knuckles scraping her lips as if she could sand away the memory. “I was so angry, L. I was angry at the whole fucking world, but especially at Andy. He just got to… keep going. Like none of it mattered. Like he’d done nothing wrong.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Andy protested, but it came out too soft, almost a whimper.

Riley turned, fixing him with a glare that was all the more intense for the tears in her eyes. “I know that now, asshole. I do.” Her voice cracked on the words. “But for so long, I didn’t want to know it. I wanted to hate you. It was easier than dealing with—” She cut herself off and looked away, voice raw. “I’m sorry.”

Riley wiped her nose with the heel of her palm. “You know what’s really fucked? When I lost John, I thought that was it—the worst pain I’d ever feel. I loved him. I did. But when he died, I grieved like a normal person. I cried, I drank, I screamed into a pillow. Then I got up and lived my life, because that’s what he would’ve wanted. But with you, L—when you died, there was nothing. No closure, no peace. Just this gaping hole in my chest that never closed. Not once.” She looked at the horizon, searching for words that refused to come.

Andy realized Riley hadn’t mentioned the **** of her son. He didn’t ask: he had seen the pain and grief she felt. The three of them sat, huddled, as if the dock were a raft on an endless, unkind sea.

Laura finally spoke, her voices gentle. “Why are you telling me this now?”

Riley let out a slow, shaky breath. “Because you deserve to know. Because I need you to know.” She hesitated, words suddenly ****, as if the next sentence were the one she feared most. “Because when I saw you again—here—I realized I’d been carrying this hate for so long, I didn’t even know where it ended and I began.”

Andy felt Laura shift beside him—both bodies, moving in perfect concert—until they flanked him fully, one Laura on either side, arms pressed to his. It was a weird comfort, but he leaned into it, wondering which of the two of them needed the anchoring more.

Riley’s fingers clenched around the edge of the dock so hard her knuckles went white. “I blamed you for so much, Andy. I blamed you for living when she didn’t. I blamed you for having her. For loving her the way I never could.”

Andy inhaled, sharp and shallow, but didn’t let go of Laura’s hand.

“And the truth is,” Riley **** herself onward, “I hated you because I was jealous. Because I wanted her to pick me, just once. I wanted you to be the one who got left behind, not me. I wanted to matter.”

The admission cost her, physically—Andy could see her whole body shake, as if she were barely containing a scream.

Laura said nothing, but her faces were etched with shock, not judgment.

Riley met her gaze. “I don’t— I mean, I don’t feel that way anymore. Not now. But back then? I wanted to be your favorite person, L. And when I wasn’t, I told myself it was because I wasn’t enough. That I’d never be enough. So I decided the next best thing was to protect you, to be your shadow, your sword, your… I don’t even know.” She shook her head, self-disgust coloring her voice. “I made you my whole world, and when you were gone, I couldn’t let go.”

Laura’s lips parted, but no sound came out. She seemed to be assembling and reassembling a dozen possible responses.

Riley soldiered on, **** to reach the end of the confession before her courage failed. “When you died, L, it was like all my feelings got set on fire and poured into a mold shaped like hate. I hated Andy, I hated Chloe, I hated every girl who ever made you laugh. And mostly, I hated myself for not being enough to save you.”

Her voice faltered, then redoubled in intensity. “Even after I got married, I never stopped being angry about it. It didn’t matter how much time passed, or how many people told me to move on. I needed to keep you alive inside me, even if the only way to do that was to be furious at everyone who wasn’t you. It took John’s ****, and… and…” She sniffed. “All the anger just… piled up.”

Andy felt his own throat tighten, emotion brimming just beneath the surface. He glanced at Laura, who was still silent, both bodies bracing against the confession, but neither recoiling.

Riley wiped her eyes, then laughed, a bitter edge to it. “God, listen to me. I sound like one of my own poetry students, whining about how nobody ever loved me the way I wanted. It’s pathetic. But it’s the truth.”

Andy tried, again, to say something. “It’s not pathetic, Riley. I—” He faltered, words fleeing him. “I get it.”

“No, you don’t.” She looked at him, the fire back in her eyes. “You had her, Andy. Even if you lost her, you had her. And now you have her again. That’s more than anyone else ever gets.”

Laura finally found her voice, gentle but strong. “He lost me, too, Rye. Back then.” The nickname—so rarely used by anyone but her—seemed to break something loose in Riley, who ducked her head and swallowed hard.

They sat like that for a long time: Andy in the middle, Laura’s hands enfolding his, her grip firm enough to be anchoring, tight enough to hurt, while Riley hugged herself, shuddering as she rode out the aftershocks of what she’d said.

Eventually, Riley spoke again, voice ragged but honest. “I’m not asking you to forgive me, L. Or you, Andy. I just needed you to know that when I was at my worst, it wasn’t because I hated you. It was because I loved you, and I didn’t know how else to survive.”

Her breath came shaky, but steadied. “When you came back, L—when I saw you again—I realized that if I didn’t say this, I’d just keep hurting everyone. Especially you. And I couldn’t live with that. Not anymore.”

Riley straightened, and for the first time since she’d started talking, she looked them both in the eyes—Laura’s two faces, Andy’s hollowed-out one—and said, “I’m sorry. For all of it.”

She let the words hang there, unchallenged. On the horizon, the last bands of sun bled away, leaving only the silvered hush of twilight and the slow rhythm of water beneath the dock.

For a long, echoing moment, no one moved. The air around the three of them was so thick with old pain that Andy almost forgot to breathe. He could feel the slow, pounding tremor of his own heart—one beat, then another, and then a matching throb in the hands that Laura still pressed against his.

When Laura finally spoke, her two voices fused into one, soft but unsparing. She didn’t look away, even though the effort showed in the set of her jaws. “I don’t blame you, Rye,” she said. “I never did. Not even once.”

The words landed like a blanket over the water: not a comfort, exactly, but an end to the raw chill that had filled the dock.

Riley shook her head, the first Laura’s hand closing around her shoulder, the second’s still twined with Andy’s. “You should,” Riley said, voice muffled in her arms. “I was a nightmare, L. I tried to ruin every good thing you ever had, just because I couldn’t stand not being the center of it.”

Laura made a quiet sound, almost a laugh. It came out thin, like it cost her something to let it exist. “You were my best friend.” She gave Andy a sidelong look, then added: “I love him, but he was always a little useless in emergencies.”

Andy gave a weak smile, but didn’t argue.

“Do you remember the time you fought three older boys just because they made me cry?” Laura said, addressing Riley. “You lost. I think you chipped a tooth. But you didn’t care. You stood over me, arms out, yelling at them to get lost or you’d call down God’s wrath or something.”

Riley sniffled, a half-laugh breaking through the tears. “I remember. My mom said if I came home with one more bloody shirt she’d make me join ballet.”

Laura grinned. The expression didn’t quite reach her eyes, but she kept it there anyway. “You never did learn to dance.”

“Neither did you,” Riley said.

Laura’s faces softened, her hands squeezing tighter. She drew a slow breath, like she was steadying herself before the next step. “Maybe that’s why we worked. We could both be total disasters together, and never have to say sorry for it.”

A wind came up, sharper than before, blowing hair across everyone’s face, tangling Riley’s dark curls with Laura’s black. Andy let the chill sting his eyes, using it as an excuse for the water pooling there.

Riley wiped her eyes, a mess of mascara and salt. “I missed you every day, L. Even when I hated you, I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” Laura’s voices lowered, gentler than Andy had ever heard. “There’s a million things I don’t remember about being dead. But the part of me that’s here now—I think it’s because you and Andy never let go.”

Laura shifted, both bodies drawing in even closer, as if she could take all of Riley’s shaking and bundle it up into something easier to bear.

“About the bridge,” Laura said, her tone serious now. She hesitated, just for a beat, like she was bracing herself before stepping forward. “I know what you told me that day. I know you were hoping it would change something. But it was my choice to go, Rye. I wanted to see Andy. I wanted to know the truth. That’s who I was. I never wanted to run from things—not even when it hurt.”

She paused, the gravity of it weighing in her voices. “I paid for that choice. I paid for it with sixteen years of nothingness. And with the way it broke Andy, and you, and Chloe.” She hesitated, then added, “And Myra.”

Riley swallowed hard. “You could’ve had so much more, L. You could’ve been anything. A scientist, a writer, a mom.”

Laura’s eyes shimmered, and Andy knew she was seeing all of it—the lives she could never live, the children she’d never had, the experiments never run. Her breath went shallow for a moment before she spoke. “Maybe. But this is what I got. And now I’m here, and maybe I can still be some of those things, and I want to make it count.”

Andy’s throat worked. “You couldn’t have known what would happen,” he said, almost pleading. “You were thirteen.”

Laura turned, both heads at once, fixing him with a look so gentle it could have been a feather. The softness didn’t hide the strain beneath it. “I did know,” she said. “I knew I loved you, and I knew it could hurt me, but I didn’t care. It matters. My choices matter. And I want to spend whatever time I have making sure I’m worthy of that love—yours, and hers, and everyone’s.”

She turned back to Riley, a smile ghosting across both faces. It flickered, then held. “I’m glad you told me the truth. I don’t hate you for any of it. I wish—” Her voices faltered, for the first time. “I wish I could’ve loved you the way you wanted, Rye. I really do.”

Riley closed her eyes, tears squeezing through the cracks, but nodded. “It’s enough just to have you back.”

Laura reached out, not hesitating, stretching an arm from each body—one to Andy, one to Riley—and pulled them both in. The motion was decisive, almost urgent. The embrace was ridiculous, tangled, and not nearly as smooth as the movies made it look, but it was real. They ended up a heap of limbs and elbows and too many hands, but Andy could feel the way it held them together.

He looped an arm around Laura’s two waists, holding tight. On his other side, Riley pressed in, cheek resting on Laura’s shoulder, her own arms squeezing as if she could anchor all three of them by **** of will.

For a minute, the only sound was Riley’s quiet, ragged breathing, and Laura’s soft exhale, and Andy’s own pulse drumming in his ears.

After a while, Riley spoke, voice thinned but steady. “Thank you, L. I mean it.”

Laura smiled, tears wet on her cheeks but her eyes clearer than Andy had ever seen. The smile held, even as her jaw tightened slightly, like she was keeping it there on purpose. “I mean it, too.”

They stayed like that for a long time. Andy, who had never been good with words in moments like this, just held on, grounding them both as the worst of the old ache ebbed away, replaced by something rawer and cleaner—a first step, maybe, toward forgiveness.

The sun was almost gone now, the sky bleeding purple and blue above the inlet. The dock shuddered in the wind, but the three of them remained, braced together against whatever came next.

For a time, the three of them simply breathed. The old dock held them like a relic—splinters digging into their jeans, salt wind stinging raw eyes, the river rolling by beneath. In the silence, their huddle slowly loosened, bodies untangling into an easier closeness. Laura shifted last, carefully, as if she were deciding how much space she could afford to give.

Andy leaned back, feeling the last rays of daylight rake across his skin. “I didn’t come down here much before you died,” he admitted, glancing at Laura. “My parents wouldn’t let me. Said the dock was dangerous.”

Laura’s face broke into a sly, familiar grin. It arrived a beat late, like she’d gone looking for it and found it anyway. “You still snuck out, though. I remember you, Emi, and me racing to the water. Winner got the last gas station popsicle.”

Andy laughed. “Winner was always you. I never figured out how you cheated.”

“I didn’t cheat,” both of Laura’s voices piped up, perfectly in sync. “You just didn’t want it enough.”

Riley, who had finally stopped crying, snorted and wiped at her eyes. “She was a menace. We used to dare each other to see who’d jump in first once the ice thawed.”

“That’s how you chipped another tooth,” Laura reminded her. Her tone stayed light, but her fingers tightened briefly around Riley’s hand. “We had to hide it from your mom for a week.”

Riley grinned, flashing a smile that was only slightly off-kilter. “She still doesn’t know. Or if she does, she never let on.”

Laura’s heads tilted, a memory sparking in her gaze. “Do you remember the time we found that baby turtle and convinced Andy it was a sea monster?”

Andy groaned. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“You screamed,” Riley said, her voice still hoarse but alive. “Like, actual movie scream.”

“It was a snapping turtle,” Andy protested. “They can bite through a broomstick!”

They dissolved into laughter—real, unguarded, edged with relief more than ease, the first in a long, long time. The sound bounced off the water and came back to them as something new.

As the sun dropped lower, painting the inlet gold and then blue, the memories got quieter, deeper. Andy remembered the first time he’d seen Laura and Riley together—before the river, before the footbridge—at a middle school field trip, the two of them perched at the top of a jungle gym, daring the other girls to climb higher. “You two looked unstoppable,” he said. “Like nobody could touch you.”

Riley’s eyes glistened again, but she didn’t cry. “We felt that way, sometimes. On good days.”

Laura reached out, one hand finding Riley’s, the other staying locked in Andy’s. She squeezed once, deliberate. “I think that’s how I want to remember it,” she said, her voices soft but certain. “Even after everything. Even after now.”

They watched the last of the light fade, and the dock grew colder. The old wood smelled of sun and moss and the iron tang of water, all the ghosts of their childhood soaked into its grain.

Riley shivered, and Andy shrugged out of his jacket, draping it around her shoulders without a word. She huddled in, grateful, and shot him a look that managed to be both teasing and grateful. “You’re a real gentleman, Andy Cooper.”

He grinned. “Don’t let it get around.”

For a while, nobody spoke. The horizon was dark except for the pale blur of the moon and the first shy stars peeking out above the trees.

“I never thought I’d get to do this again,” Riley said, voice small but fierce. “Sit here with you, L. And this lovable idiot, too. Tell dumb stories. Feel like I mattered.”

Laura squeezed her hand. “You always mattered, Rye.”

Riley looked at Laura—both of her—and then at Andy. “Thank you,” she said. “For letting me come back. For not making me leave.”

Laura blinked. “Why would he make you leave?” The question came out sharper than she meant it to, and she immediately softened her grip. Riley glanced at Andy inquisitively.

“You didn’t tell her,” she said, almost an accusation.

Andy shook his head. “Tell me what?” Laura asked, voices echoing in suspicion.

“The third challenge,” Riley looked at Laura, taking a deep breath, “Andy and I, we had patched things up somewhat, but… I was still hurting so bad. John, the baby, you… so I ended up being the first one to fail.”

“She’s downplaying it,” Andy protested, “She faced a dozen Mildreds in riot gear so she could lock the door and stop them from overwhelming the others. She was a hero.”

Laura’s eyes widened, and Riley shrugged. “I really wasn’t. I was just trying to end it, really.” She lifted her mismatched eyes and looked at Laura. “But Andy, here, he… he wouldn’t let me. He used his veto on me, so I wouldn’t get eliminated.” Her eyes were shining as she recalled what he had said. “He said he couldn’t do otherwise. He said…” She looked at Andy apologetically, “he said he could not let your best friend go, or he would be betraying your memory.”

Laura gasped, hands on her mouths, then froze, as if the feeling hit all at once. She turned to Andy, and her eyes were glimmering.

Andy, embarrassed, nodded slightly. “You were always on his mind, L. Even here.” Riley said softly, and Laura hugged Andy, both bodies sandwiching him with warmth and love—fierce, sudden, like she was claiming something back.

Andy took a deep breath and reached out, squeezing Riley’s shoulder, steady and warm. “You’re not going anywhere,” he promised. “Not if we can help it.”

The wind was getting colder, but none of them made a move to stand. The world had gotten very small and very quiet, just the three of them braced together against the night. It felt, for the first time, like something repaired—not finished, but holding.

When they finally rose to leave, the dock groaned beneath their weight, but it held fast. As they walked back to the path, Riley glanced behind her, just once, as if to make sure the ghosts really were gone.

Andy saw her do it, and for the first time, he understood. Sometimes you needed to look back before you could find your way forward.

He offered her his arm, and she took it. Laura linked the hand of one of her selves through his on the other side, the three of them a tangle of old friends and new hope, moving together toward the lights of the hotel and whatever waited on the other shore.

The night air was alive with the sound of their footsteps, the water, and the faint echo of laughter that, just maybe, would linger a little longer next time.

Bonus Art: Myra's Pathfinder character, Saelis the druid!

Tomorrow: Riley's Ix!