Over Clear Skies

The Lagoon’s surface was glassy as a mirror, its only ripples the slow drift of the women wading into the shallows. The artificial sky overhead had gone from a morning blue to the buttery soft of early afternoon, a color so perfectly calibrated it left Emi unable to decide whether it was real or simply the ideal of a sky, the one she’d always imagined in her head.

She wasn’t alone in the water: Chloe floated next to her, arms out, hair spread in a fan that trailed behind her like the wake of a slow boat. Liesa was nearby, standing with water at her hips, both hands pressed to her head as she wrung the last of the tension from her neck.

It was quiet. Even the birds that sometimes haunted the Lagoon seemed to know when they weren’t needed. Chloe’s mouth was open, and sometimes she made a sound—maybe a question, maybe a humming note—but otherwise she was silent, which was so unlike her that Emi found herself glancing over every few seconds just to check she hadn’t disappeared.

The water was warm, and made even standing feel like a kind of flying. Liesa moved through it with an ease that was new: the self-consciousness she used to wear like an extra layer was gone, or at least set aside for the day. Her hair, strawberry-blonde and wavy, stuck to her back in a thin, bright line. She was wearing a one-piece suit that clung to her in ways that suggested the covering was mostly for show.

Emi loved it here. She could feel every brush of current, every thread of warmth, every pulse of her heart as it reached her wrists and ankles. The way the light moved on the surface, the way it painted shadows up Chloe’s arms—it made her want to draw, to capture something about the moment before it melted away.

Chloe, for her part, was silent. She floated on her back, eyes shut, every so often scrunching them against the light. Emi watched as Chloe’s breathing went from shallow to deep, then back again. The second time it happened, Emi asked, “You good?”

It took a second for Chloe to answer. “Yeah. Sorry. Just…” She trailed off, made a small paddling gesture to keep herself afloat. “Today’s been a lot. It’s fine.”

Liesa drifted closer, treading water with slow kicks. “You sure, schat? I can get us tea or anything.”

Chloe shook her head. She opened her eyes, stared up at the fake clouds. “No. It’s not bad. Just new.”

The silence that followed was not awkward, just full.

Emi tried again. “Want to talk about it?”

Chloe’s lips worked. She closed her eyes again, then said, “I’m pregnant. That’s it. That’s the thing.”

The words rippled across the water, changing everything in a single beat.

Emi blinked, her brain needing several seconds to catch up. “Oh my God. That’s—Chloe, that’s incredible. That’s—” She struggled for words, flailed a bit, then gave up and grabbed Chloe around the shoulders, hugging her from behind with all six arms. Chloe sputtered a little, but let herself be held, and Emi felt the slow shiver of Chloe’s breath.

Liesa’s reaction was quieter: she smiled, swam closer, and put a hand on Chloe’s hair, smoothing it back from her forehead. “I’m so happy for you,” she said, and the warmth was real. “You’ve wanted it for a long time, haven’t you?”

Chloe made a sound that was almost a laugh. “Yeah. Since I was a kid, I think. But I also thought maybe it wouldn’t ever happen, so I stopped letting myself want it.” Her eyes went glassy for a second. “Dinah did the scan this morning. Said everything is perfect. Andy is the dad, obviously. I mean—” She snorted. “I’m not exactly getting a lot of variety.”

Liesa giggled at that, the sound light and genuine. “What are you going to do?”

Chloe shrugged, then winced. “I’m trying not to panic. Just do one thing at a time. I don’t even have a plan for the rest of today, let alone the rest of forever.”

Emi, feeling Chloe relax in her arms, asked, “Are you scared?”

“Of course I’m scared. But it’s not just that.” Chloe’s head tipped back until she could look at the sky, or at least the perfect version of it hanging above the Lagoon. “I think I’m happy, too. Underneath.”

Emi squeezed her, careful not to overdo it. “You’re going to be an amazing mom. Like, the best.”

Chloe flushed, but didn’t protest.

Liesa, still smoothing Chloe’s hair, said, “You’re not alone, schat. You have all of us. If you need anything, you ask.”

The sunlight reflected off the water and caught the edge of Liesa’s cheekbone, turning her into something half-angelic. Emi wondered if she saw it, or if she’d spent her whole life being told she was beautiful so it just slid right off. But Liesa seemed grounded, more present than ever, and the sense of care in her voice was not for show.

For a while, they just floated. Emi let the current carry her and Chloe together, until their bodies touched, shoulder to shoulder, legs kicking in unison. Liesa joined them, linking hands with Chloe, then with Emi, so the three of them formed a lazy, drifting triangle in the shallow end.

It was enough to make Emi forget, for a few minutes, about all the rules and the games and the fact that outside this world, none of them would be allowed to stay here forever. Right now, it was just them, the water, and the slow, steady rhythm of three women learning to take up space in a world that usually only had room for one of them at a time.

Emi broke the spell eventually, her own joy getting the better of her. “Can I touch your belly?” she asked, the question so abrupt that even Chloe laughed.

“It’s not even showing yet,” Chloe said, but she reached for Emi’s hand and pressed it to the soft curve of her stomach, just under the surface of the water.

Emi felt nothing, really—no secret pulse, no new life kicking—but she pretended to anyway, making a show of pressing her cheek to Chloe’s shoulder and sighing with joy. Chloe giggled and swatted at her, and Emi let the laughter carry her, let herself believe, for a little while, that this was how life was supposed to work.

Liesa watched, smiling with a sadness that Emi recognized but couldn’t name. It was a sadness that didn’t have a home, but also didn’t want one. Liesa reached out, arms open, and all three of them hugged—awkward, floating, legs tangling under the water. It didn’t matter that it was messy or unplanned. It just was.

After a while, they drifted to the edge of the Lagoon, clung to the slick, man-made rock, and let the sun warm their faces. No one was in a hurry to leave.

Emi looked at her friends, at the way Chloe’s hair caught the light and the way Liesa smiled without hiding her teeth. She felt a wash of happiness, and also of sadness, and knew that both were allowed.

She floated there, held in place by the arms and the water and the moment, and let herself believe that they’d always be together. At least until the sun set, or the sky changed, or the world outside remembered to call them back.

At exactly 13:05, Emily opened the door to her room and found four women waiting for her. The sight had a surreal, stagey quality: Riley with her hands in her pockets and her expression blank as a held breath; Dawn, hip cocked, biting the inside of her cheek; Claire, perfectly upright, her notebook already out, a pen clamped between her fingers; and Liesa, at the front, arms folded over her stomach as if cradling some invisible weight.

Emily had not expected an audience. She’d barely finished toweling off from her shower, and her hair (now clean, pink streaks shining like the inside of a shell) hung over her breasts in the only approximation of clothing she ever got. Instinctively, she did the old maneuver—crossing her arms over her chest—then caught herself, realizing there was no one here who had not already seen her naked. Most of them had done so in the Lagoon, earlier today.

But the old habits stuck. “Uh,” she said, “is something wrong?”

“No, no,” Liesa said. She raised a hand, palm out, as if calling for a moment’s pause. “Nothing is wrong. I asked them to come.”

Dawn and Claire nodded, almost in sync. Riley gave a tiny, skeptical smile. It wasn’t reassuring.

Liesa, seeing the tension, softened. “We are not here to intervene, or to judge,” she said, “but there is something we want to say, before tonight.”

Emily let them in, stepping aside so the four of them could squeeze past. Dawn, always quickest on the uptake, moved to the far corner of the bed, leaving the others to find their perches: Riley stayed standing, arms crossed, while Claire chose the rattan chair at the writing desk, and Liesa hovered in the open space by the window. Emily sat on the edge of the bed, spine straight, hands folded in her lap, as if waiting for an interview to start.

She had no idea what this was about.

Liesa seemed to, though. She glanced around, taking a silent roll call, then said: “I have been thinking about what you said yesterday. About how you never felt seen, or understood, in the places you loved. I thought about it all night.” She looked at the others. “And I realized you are not the only one. But you are maybe the first to say it out loud.”

She turned to Riley. “Will you start?”

Riley nodded. She walked once around the bed, then stopped by the window, hands braced on the frame. She looked at Emily, and her voice was low but even: “I saw what happened at your gallery show. The Garden of Glass made it very clear. I was there, in the moment. I watched you talk to the curator, watched the way she pulled you into that corner by the restroom, how she dropped her voice and said—” She stopped, reliving it, then pressed on. “—how she told you your work was ‘emotional, but not in a way anyone cares about.’ That your colors didn’t mean anything. That your stuff was too personal.”

The words hit Emily like a slap. The air left her lungs. She’d never told anyone the exact phrasing, but Riley’s version was almost verbatim. She stared at her knees, feeling the heat rise up her throat.

Riley waited, then continued. “I followed you into the stairwell. I saw the way you tried to hold it together, how you promised yourself not to cry until you got home, and how you made yourself go back in and finish the night.” Her voice turned, softer: “I don’t think I could have done that. Not after hearing that.”

Riley’s eyes, when they met Emily’s, were glassy and fierce. “I remember what I promised you, in the Garden. I told you I would show up for your next show, no matter what, even if it was just in a gym or a strip mall. I meant it. I haven’t forgotten.”

Emily felt her own eyes start to water. She bit her lips together, shook her head, but the tears pushed anyway.

Dawn, seeing this, said quietly: “We all saw things, Em. You don’t have to do that thing where you laugh it off.”

Emily managed a damp smile. “I was always told it’s better to not show you’re upset.”

Riley shook her head. “Fuck that. Your work matters. You matter.” She looked at Emily, long and hard, and the rest of the room vanished for a second. “I know what it’s like, to feel like your voice isn’t worth the air. But you walked back into that gallery, and you smiled, and you talked to every single person. That’s more guts than I’ve ever had.” She took a shaky breath. “I wanted you to know that someone noticed.”

Emily nodded, eyes rimmed red, and managed to say: “Thank you.” She wiped her cheeks with the heels of her hands, embarrassed but not enough to try to hide it.

Liesa, always the conductor, moved the conversation along with a tiny tilt of her head toward Claire.

Claire stood. She crossed the room with short, precise steps, then paused a foot away from Emily, looking at her hands. Then she pulled a small notepad from her back pocket, flipped it open, and wrote:

I saw you in the white room. The one with no up or down, no edges. I was there when Arabella told you that you would never see Jake or Rachel or Hannah again, or any of the others. I was there when she told you that your season was “on indefinite hold.” That you were being benched. I heard what you said to her: “What am I, without anyone?”

Claire looked up, eyes shining behind the round glasses.

But however much time you needed to do it, you put yourself back together anyway, and walked out, even when nobody would have blamed you for disappearing.

She turned the pad, showed it to Emily, and let her read the whole message before flipping the page.

That is not weakness, Emily. It is strength.

Emily pressed her lips together so tightly they went white, not trusting her voice. She read the words again, then gave Claire a shaky thumbs-up. Claire nodded, then reached out and gently touched Emily’s wrist—just a brush, but it was enough.

Liesa looked at Dawn. Dawn, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, stood and walked over to Emily. She sat beside her on the bed, then, with no warning or preamble, put both arms around her and hugged her tight. Emily’s head dropped, and she buried her face in Dawn’s shoulder, shivering with a breath that could have been a laugh or a sob.

They stayed like that for a long time, the others forming a loose shell around them. Emily let herself be held, then, when she was ready, pulled back, blinking fast.

When she was able to speak again, she said: “Why are you doing this?”

It was Liesa who answered. She knelt on the rug at Emily’s feet, the movement graceful and deliberate. “Because you are ours now, Emily. And because you belong, even if you do not believe it yet. Because I do not want you to walk through tonight’s door, to spend time with Andy, thinking you have to impress anyone, or prove anything. You are already seen. We all see you.” She looked around at the others. “That is all.”

Emily swallowed, nodded, and looked at each woman in turn. Dawn gave her a little squeeze, then released her. Claire nodded, and scribbled something quick on her pad:

If anyone messes with you, they answer to us.

Riley, from the window, gave a slow nod, the kind of gesture that could only be read as a vow.

Emily sat for a long moment, collecting herself, her hair curtain finally falling back into place, haloing her face in its familiar veil. When she finally spoke, her voice was rough but steady:

“Thank you, all of you. Seriously. But I have a date to get ready for. So unless you want to stay and watch me shave my legs, you should probably scram.”

Dawn laughed and stood. “We’ll get out of your way.”

Claire tapped her pencil, then hugged Emily once, quick and tight, before stepping back.

Liesa got up from the rug, brushed imaginary dust from her knees, and said: “Good luck. We will be waiting for you after.”

Riley, last to leave, said: “If you ever want to burn down a gallery, I know a guy.” It was a joke, but her eyes said she meant it.

Emily laughed, and this time it was genuine. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

When the door closed, and she was alone again, the room felt warmer. It wasn’t sunlight, or even the spa-perfect temperature, but the echo of four women who had decided she belonged, and would not take no for an answer.

She stood, stretched, and looked at her reflection in the mirror over the sink. Her hair was wild, her eyes a little puffy, but she didn’t look lost. For once, she looked exactly like herself.

She set about getting ready, not for Andy or for the game, but for the version of herself that the others believed in. She owed them that much. And, maybe, she owed it to herself, too.

Norah and Dawn had claimed the best corner of the Rec Room by silent agreement: a window seat with the afternoon sun slanting in at just the right angle, two armchairs and a low table between, and—crucially—a line of sight to the main entrance that made every arrival feel like an event. The Rec Room’s library was shelved with real books, the billiards table had a slight tilt that no one cared to correct, and the ceiling fans made a gentle, oceanic thrum even when the air didn’t need moving.

At this hour, it was just the two of them. Tea steamed in Norah’s cup, and Dawn, always a purist, was working her way through a single Americano, the crema still artfully layered on top. For once, the room was blessedly free of background music. The only sounds were the scrape of cups on ceramic, the faint clatter of a distant ping-pong game, and their own voices.

Dawn leaned in, elbows to knees, grin burrowing deep into her cheeks. “Worst customer story ever. Go.”

Norah flashed her a competitive smile, the one that meant she was about to produce a nuclear-grade anecdote, and set her cup down with a practiced flourish. “The man who brought his own chart to my presentation and tried to correct me on my own data—”

Dawn’s eyebrows shot up and her mouth formed a silent wow.

“—then spent fifteen minutes,” Norah continued, “explaining why pie charts were ‘feminine.’”

Dawn sputtered, nearly lost her hold on the mug. “That’s got to be illegal in at least three countries. Did he elaborate?”

“He did. Said bar graphs were direct and assertive. Pie charts are ‘soothing, accommodating, and circular, like the female psyche,’” Norah said, putting heavy air quotes around every word like she could expel the memory that way.

Dawn tilted her head, squinting as if she could find the logic in a funhouse mirror. “That’s some big pie energy.”

Norah attempted a deadpan, but it quivered at the edges. “Huge.”

“Your turn,” Norah added, and the gloves were off.

Dawn closed her eyes in mock concentration, drumming her knuckles once on the table between them. “Two in the morning, concierge desk at The Harrington. Guy calls, asks if we can source a specific brand of mineral water that, and I quote, ‘has never touched the United States.’ It’s from a spring in a remote region of the Italian Alps, only bottled on odd-numbered years. He wants it by breakfast.”

Norah shook her head slowly, savoring every detail. “Did you try?”

“I found a guy on eBay willing to sell a bottle for two hundred bucks, shipping not included. The guest gets mad, asks if I can try harder. I spend another thirty minutes on international import laws, then break it to him that if he wants the bottle, it’s arriving next Thursday.”

“And?” Norah prompted, eyes wide.

“He left a three-star Yelp review, but in the text said I was ‘delightful and unreasonably persistent.’”

Norah raised her cup in a salute. “You win round one. But only because my pie chart guy later sent me a follow-up email with a video link and the subject line ‘SEE??’ I did not click.”

Dawn cackled. “That’s self-care, babe.”

“Truly.”

Dawn swirled the coffee in her cup, the motion hypnotic. “Round two, then. I’ll take the lead.”

“Please.” Norah tipped her chin, daring.

Dawn tapped the table twice. “A guest once called me at two in the morning, demanding I book him the hotel’s top suite for the next day. No problem, I do it. Five minutes later, he calls back, wants a helicopter to pick him up from O’Hare. I tell him I need advance notice, and the earliest is sunrise, which isn’t till after five a.m. Guest gets real quiet, then asks: ‘Can you arrange for the sun to come up a little earlier?’”

Norah snorted. “Did you try?”

“I told him I’d call NASA. Then I put it in the daily log, because the shift manager made us write up every guest request, even the cosmic ones.” Dawn grinned. “Best part: my manager wrote a formal reply. ‘We regret that we cannot expedite sunrise at this time.’ Signed it and everything.”

Norah cackled. “That’s beautiful.”

Dawn grinned, “Your move.”

Norah took a breath, ran a finger along the rim of her cup, then went: “First week on the job. A senior partner brings me in to pitch a client. She gives me her data, tells me to prep the deck, then leaves me alone for three hours. I actually read the report. Turns out, her conclusions are not only wrong, but exactly backward. I go to her office, lay out the numbers, and she tells me: ‘Just fix it so the client agrees.’”

Dawn pursed her lips, “Classic. Did you fix it?”

Norah held up both hands. “I went rogue. I wrote the truth, made her data dance, but in the right direction. Pitched it straight. The client loved it, Senior Partner wanted to throttle me, but nobody could prove I did it on purpose.”

Dawn raised her mug. “That’s a power play.”

“I learned from the best,” Norah deadpanned.

Dawn sat back, weighing her next shot. “I had a couple on their honeymoon, super sweet, but the husband kept calling for, like, insane requests. One night he asks for a pillow menu, says his wife only sleeps on down feather from the ‘upper right breast of the goose.’ Exact words. So I go online, learn way too much about geese, and tell him that kind of down is illegal in Illinois. He asks me if I could smuggle some in.”

Norah grinned. “Did you?”

“Hell no. But I told him I’d check with the ‘pillow guy’ downtown. He tipped me a hundred bucks the next day for the trouble.” Dawn shrugged. “I split it with Housekeeping, because they have to wash the damn pillows.”

Norah sipped her tea, then set the cup down, all business. “Okay, third round. Client hires my firm to analyze their brand perception. We survey two thousand consumers, and the results are brutal. Like, bottom ten percentile. We write it up, send the report, thinking it’s done.” Norah’s smile went sly. “Next day, CEO emails us back—one line: ‘Can you re-survey until we get a better result?’”

Dawn wheezed, “Resurvey the universe?”

Norah nodded. “I said, ‘You could rebrand as ‘Not So Bad, Inc.’’ Didn’t go over great.”

They both burst out laughing, the sound bouncing around the Rec Room’s empty corners. Norah’s laugh was higher, sharper, but it harmonized with Dawn’s. Dawn wiped her eyes, grinning so hard her dimples looked like punctuation.

Dawn, recovering, leaned in: “Final round. Had a guest who called the front desk and asked me to stay on the line while he confronted his neighbor about noise. I expected a quick ‘keep it down,’ but he puts me on speaker and marches over. The two start arguing, and instead of hanging up, he narrates the whole thing, blow by blow, for forty-five minutes. At one point he stops mid-sentence to order a vodka soda from room service, then keeps going. At the end, both parties agree to switch rooms, and he rates my service ‘five stars, would recommend.’”

Norah nearly spat her tea. “That’s—” She couldn’t finish, shaking with laughter, until she had to put her cup down. “You win. That’s unbeatable.”

Dawn bowed, just a little. “Good sport.”

The sun had shifted. Light made the dust motes on the table float, a slow-motion snow globe. The laughter faded, but neither woman rushed to break the silence. For the first time, Norah didn’t feel the pressure to have the next story ready, the next comeback loaded. She let the warmth in her chest settle, the sound of Dawn’s laughter echoing in her ears.

Dawn picked up the teapot, refilled Norah’s cup, then her own. “Rematch tomorrow?”

Norah smiled, softer this time. “Absolutely.”

They sat, sipping, each lost in the comfortable nearness of a person who got it. There were hours left in the day, but neither was in a hurry to spend them anywhere else.