Meanwhile

The south hallway smelled faintly of aloe and ozone. Erin moved fast, arms pumping in counterbalance to the side-to-side that came with a body built for different priorities. She’d intended to slip out to the pool before the lunch crowd clogged it up, but at the junction of the corridor, a Mildred blocked the path with a supply cart so large and square it looked welded in place.

The cart bristled with bundles of towels, glass bottles with pastel stoppers, cleaning sprays, and somewhere underneath, the low thump of a Bluetooth speaker piping in nineties Top 40 at hospital-waiting-room volume. Mildred stood behind the handle, hands braced, staring straight ahead. She wore an incongruous charcoal-gray suit, perfectly tailored, with a cream blouse and no name tag. Her hair was gathered back, not in the usual bun, but in a sleek, low ponytail. There was a softness to her face, the features less mask-like than usual, and a warmth to her skin that none of them had seen before.

Erin, who had been in a good mood five minutes ago, now felt the familiar pre-argument tension settle in her shoulders. She stopped a step away from the blockade and said, “Hey. You wanna scoot this thing over so I can get through?”

Mildred didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just regarded her with that patient, hotel-mandated civility.

Erin waited. Nothing. “You’re doing this on purpose,” she said, but not loud.

Mildred only held her gaze, with a creepily warm smile. In another life, Erin would have tried to push the cart herself, but this cart was flush to the wall, one wheel canted at an angle that said, “don’t even try.” There was, objectively, no way through.

After a second, Mildred said, softly, “This corridor is closed for cleaning. Please use an alternate route.”

The voice was gentle, not Hotel-neutral. The eyes were warm. Somehow, this creeped Erin out more.

Erin could have argued, could have said there was no cleaning going on and that the alternate route was a full five minutes longer. Instead, she put both hands on her hips, shook her head, and pivoted. The hallway’s mirrored sconce caught her side profile—J-cups, mint green, and all—and for a moment she had the surreal impression of a Venus flytrap, angry at a mailman.

She took the garden entrance, with a scowl. The path cut around a hedge and skirted the edge of the lower flower beds. There were benches everywhere: marble, wood, even a couple made from petrified driftwood. On the third bench, near the hibiscus, she saw Laura. Both bodies, identical and symmetrical, sat at one end. Both sets of arms were wrapped around knees. One face watched the tulips and the other looked up at the blue.

Erin plopped down next to her without saying a word, which is how she did most things. The left Laura started, almost flinched; the right one turned to look. There was always something uncanny about Laura’s bodies—no chatter, no secret twin code, just a mirrored awareness. Today, the effect was less weird than usual. Maybe she was getting used to it.

They sat. Wind moved the flower heads, bringing with it a sugary damp from the pond. For a while, nothing happened.

Then Laura said, “You’re not in the mood for company.”

Erin made a face. “Why would you say that?”

“Because you sat down hard,” said Laura. “And you have the jaw clench. You only do that when you want to punch something.”

Erin smiled, despite herself. “You’re right. I was heading to the pool, but there’s a roadblock. Mildred with a cart, and the world’s worst playlist.” She looked at the sky for a second, then at Laura. “I tried to power through, but… whatever.”

Laura’s faces both softened. “I used to get those,” said the left. “Obstacle people. They just exist to see if you’ll lose your temper.” The right body added, “I used to get so angry when it happened. Not worth it.”

Erin shrugged. “Still pissed. But I’m trying to let it go.”

They watched the bees for a while. There was a fat one head-butting a petal on the peony bush. It flailed, failed, fell to the dirt, then circled back to try again.

Erin said, “Were you waiting for someone?”

“Not really,” said Laura. “I was just… here.”

They let the air fill up. On the far end of the garden, a Mildred was watering something, but the hose wasn’t even on. The illusion of effort, all that mattered.

It was Laura who broke the rhythm. “What do you want, right now?”

Erin didn’t know if she meant the day, or the week, or the future, or the impossible tangle of all three. She looked at her feet, then at Laura. “Don’t laugh, but I just want the twins out of me so I can see them. I’m not good at waiting.”

Both Lauras looked at her, flat and analytical, then she said, “You could have lied. You could have said something inspiring.”

“Wouldn’t have been true.” Erin flicked a bead of sweat from her shin. “I don’t want to have a big story. I want to raise a couple of kids. It’s like all my brains decided to tunnel into my uterus and build a colony there.”

Laura nodded, as if this was reasonable. “How do you know they’ll be okay?”

“Statistically?” Erin grinned, all teeth. “No clue. But I know I love them. That’s all you get.”

There was a silence. Then: “You didn’t think you’d ever have them, did you?”

Erin sat up, surprised. “What do you mean?”

Laura said, “The way you talk about it. It sounds like a surprise.”

Erin’s first instinct was to deflect, but she didn’t. She said, “When the plant thing happened, I assumed it was a loss. Didn’t tell anyone at first, only Andy, later on. I just… wrote it off. It hurt more than I thought it would.”

Laura let the air go quiet, then said, “You could have told someone.”

“I didn’t want the pity,” Erin said. “Or the hope. I just wanted it to not matter.” She bit her lip, stared out at the marigolds. “You ever do that? Pretend something is fine so nobody asks if you’re hurting?”

Laura smiled with half her mouth. “I did. A lot.”

“Did it work?”

Both Lauras shook their heads, synchronized. “Not really. It just makes the hurt last longer.”

Erin watched a bee spiral in, land on Laura’s finger. The Laura didn’t flinch. “Why are you sitting out here?” Erin asked.

“I needed to think.”

Erin said, “What are you thinking about?”

Laura went quiet. One body looked at the sky, the other at the gravel. “When I was with Andy, in the dream house, there was a room I never remembered choosing. A nursery, at the end of the hall. It wasn’t in the plan. But it was always there, waiting. I think maybe I was trying to build something I’d never had.”

Erin blinked. “You never had a nursery?”

“Not at home,” Laura said, soft. “Not one that was mine. I had one here, but… I didn’t know about it. And I never saw myself as a mother, but the room was there anyway.”

Erin felt a weird twist in her chest, somewhere between regret and rage. “You could still have it. The room.”

Laura was already shaking her heads. “We don’t know that.”

Erin snorted. “Bullshit. With the kind of magic running around here, you could wake up tomorrow with an entire brood.”

Laura almost laughed, but didn’t. “You’re very confident.”

“Damn right I am.” Erin smiled, then let it fade. “I told myself I was probably barren. Then I got knocked up without even knowing it. Maybe you’re next.”

Laura looked at her, hard, as if searching for the trick. “Is this you trying to make me feel better?”

“Not really,” Erin said, but her voice cracked a little. “I just want you to know there’s more than one outcome. Even when you’re sure you know which one you’ll get.”

Laura went still for a long time, both bodies’ hands wrapped around their knees. “I’ll remember that,” she said.

They sat for a while, not speaking. A butterfly landed on Laura’s right arm, its wings opening and closing in time with her breath. Erin stared at it, then at the two Lauras, and felt less alone than she had in days.

Laura watched the butterfly for a while, then picked it up with a slow, careful motion, transferring it to her other wrist so that both bodies could look with the same angle. She was quiet for a long time, hands still, and the quiet had a different shape than the rest of the conversation.

Erin looked at her. She didn't ask. She watched both faces and understood something she wasn't going to say out loud, and then she said, "Besides. For all you know, you're already pregnant."

Laura blinked, stunned, as if Erin had launched a firecracker into her lap. “What?”

“You heard me.” Erin leaned back on the bench, stretching her arms along the top. “You don’t get to be the only girl in the house who can’t do basic reproductive math, Laura. Andy is a walking sperm bank. Statistically, you’ve got better odds than anyone.”

Laura smiled, incredulous and a little wild. “I haven’t even had a cycle since—” She stopped midsentence, looked at her hands, then at Erin, then at the sky. “No, I don’t think that’s how it works in my case.”

“Is it?” Erin shot back, grinning now. “You’re basically magic. You don’t think the Hotel couldn’t hack a workaround? You think Andy’s sperm cares about ovulation spreadsheets?”

It was the first time Erin had seen both Lauras laugh at once, the sound doubled and sharp and a little out of control. “If that’s true,” Laura managed, “I’m going to blame you for the nausea. And the cravings.”

“Deal,” said Erin, and they grinned at each other, not knowing what to do with the energy.

Laura was quiet for a while, then said, “You know, you could have just told me I’m not as doomed as I think.”

Erin shrugged. “That’s not how I work.” She picked at the edge of the bench, fidgety. “You know, the fifth round, our date night, I was a mess. I told Andy I hadn’t had a period for weeks, that the plant thing had made me unable to conceive.” She shook her head, not sure if it was funny or infuriating. “I was so convinced it was a fluke, or a mistake, or something wrong with me. But he just looked at me and said, ‘Well, what if you’re pregnant now instead?.’ Like it was the only outcome.”

Laura looked at her, expression clear and sharp. “That sounds like Andy.”

“Yeah,” said Erin. “It does.”

They sat with that, each turning it over in her own way.

The sky was cloudless now, too bright when you looked straight at it. The Mildred in the distance had finally moved on, trailing the limp hose like a pet. Somewhere, a bird started up, not a real species but something engineered, the song pattern unfamiliar even to Erin’s memory of a thousand sunrises.

Erin said, “You really think it’s all just wasted effort? The room, the future. All of it?”

Laura didn’t answer right away. She tilted her head, shoulders hunched around her knees. “I want to believe what you’re saying,” she said. “But the Law doesn’t care about hope. Or magic. Or even what Andy wants.”

Erin said, “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Laws only matter to people who follow them, and magic is just another way to break a law when it’s inconvenient.” Her voice was hard, but she didn’t back off. “You want to know what I think? If the Law doesn’t worry about Andy, it’s making a fatal mistake.”

Laura grinned, both bodies at once. “I can see that.”

The sun had shifted far enough that the shadow of the hedge now cut the bench in half, Erin’s side in full heat, Laura’s in dapples. Erin shifted closer, feeling the overlap, not minding the contact.

She thought about the twins, about the weird, ancient panic that came with the idea of being a mother, about how the feeling was less like love and more like being possessed. She wondered if Laura felt the same, if the idea of a child was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

She said, “You ever think about what you’d name them? If you had any?”

Laura shook her head, honest. “No. Not really. I didn’t think I’d—” She glanced sideways, both bodies arching toward each other. “What would you name yours?”

Erin smirked. “The boy’s getting Andy Junior. He’d hate it, but that’s the point.” She thought for a second. “For the girl, maybe something simple. Fern. or Claire. Or maybe something unisex, so she doesn’t have to explain it all the time.”

Laura looked at her for a second, both faces doing the same quiet calculation. "She's going to cry," Laura said.

Erin snorted. “Maybe.” She looked at Laura, trying to hold the gaze. “You should make a list. Just in case.”

Laura smiled, a little sad. “Yeah. I will.” She didn’t move, but her body language softened, shoulders un-knotting for the first time since the conversation started. “Thanks,” she said.

Erin shrugged. “Don’t thank me yet. We still have to survive the wedding first.”

Laura laughed, and after a little while, Erin joined her.

---

The Atelier smelled like solvents and sweat and, for reasons neither of them could explain, root beer. Emi stood at an easel in the middle of the room, all six hands in motion: three painting, two mixing colors, one idly spinning a battered utility knife. She wore a faded T-shirt that said “Existential Dread Is My Cardio,” borrowed from Riley only because it was comically oversized and so were the sleeves, and a pair of ancient track shorts. Her upper arms flicked between canvas and palette with a precision so tight it almost looked mechanical.

Across the room, propped against a wall, a painting of a black-bearded, bald man glared down with such virulence that it felt like an actual threat. Sam, entering, paused to glare back at it.

“Jesus,” said Sam, dropping onto a cracked stool. “Does he come with the building?”

Emi’s lower left hand gestured to the painting, still painting with her right. “Liesa said it came with the Atelier. No matter how often you flip it around, it always seems to turn back, so I ignore him.”

Sam looked at the canvas Emi was working on—a wild, swirl-eyed thing with colors so loud they nearly hummed. “What are you making?” she asked, but it was only half-interest; she’d come for something else.

“A duplicate,” said Emi. “But with more arms.”

Sam nodded, as if this made sense. Then she took a breath and said, “I need your help. Bachelor party stuff. I got the guest list, Herman’s running the logistics, but I have no idea what to actually do with two dozen of the weirdest people I’ve ever met for a night. That is, I have ideas, but I’m gathering more.”

Emi froze all six hands at once. “You want me to plan the party?”

“Help plan,” Sam clarified. “If it’s just me, we’ll end up playing beer pong with energy drinks and regretting it by morning.”

Emi grinned, which was weirdly bright on her, and set down three brushes. “Who’s coming?”

Sam ticked them off. “Harper, Laura Black, some we haven’t met before, like a guy called Felix, poor bastard. A Matt, and a Van. Proper name, not the actual vehicle. A guy called Adrien. Possibly Mark Garret. Two Kevins. Herman. Mildred. Maybe more. And Andy, obviously.”

Emi made a face at Harper’s name—a complex squiggle of admiration and mortal terror. “Wait, isn’t Mark the one who can go boy or girl depending on what he wants to do?”

“Yeah,” said Sam. “Like Andy, I think.”

Emi blinked. “So the party could end up with more women than men. Is that even a bachelor party?”

Sam considered this. “Eh. We gotta hold up tradition?”

Emi shook her head. “That’s just peer pressure. You should build the party around whoever Andy is, not the cliché.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking. I’ll take suggestions.” Sam asked. She grabbed a pencil and pad off the nearest table, prepping to take notes.

Emi leaned into the assignment like it was a dare.

“Okay,” she said, all her arms gathered in front like a general convening a war council. “You want range, right? Not just drinking games and strip poker?”

“God, no,” said Sam. “I want Andy to survive it.”

“Right,” Emi said. “First idea: a relay race, but every leg you have to swap a trait with the next person—hair color, accent, gender, you get the idea. Whoever gets through the most legs before completely losing their sense of self wins.”

Sam blinked. “Is that a thing? Can you just swap traits?”

Emi shrugged, grinning. “Depends how many points you bribe Arabella with. Or if you bring your own transformation candy.” She waggled a paintbrush like a magic wand.

“Noted,” said Sam, writing it down. “Next?”

Emi barely paused. “Scavenger hunt. But instead of looking for objects, you have to complete tasks that are deeply embarrassing or technically impossible. Like, sing a love song to the ancient elevator. Or get a random Mildred to admit who her favorite guest is. Or—” She snorted, delighted with herself. “—teamwork competition, but the team must French kiss every Mildred on the course.”

Sam choked. “That would be horrific.”

“Or,” Emi countered, “it’s the perfect way to motivate extreme teamwork.” She set the brush aside, hands fanned in anticipation. “I can keep going?”

“Please,” said Sam, who was already regretting not recording this.

“Third: hot air balloon combat.” Emi held up a finger to ward off doubt. “It doesn’t have to be real hot air balloons. Could be, like, giant pool floaties rigged with water balloons, and the teams have to navigate the lagoon and sink each other’s ships. Bonus points if you wear those dumb inflatable dinosaur suits.”

Sam was speechless for a second, picturing it—Andy, Harper, Laura, Mark, and those other poor bastards who had no idea what they were dealing with, pelting each other with water balloons from the safety of a pink flamingo. It was either genius or illegal.

Emi pressed on. “Or a game of Truth or Dare, but the dares have to be written by a third party who knows something truly mortifying about everyone involved.”

Sam already had three pages of notes. “What about the Mildreds? Can we draft them as judges?”

Emi considered. Two arms folded, two went to hips, two started cleaning paint from under her nails with the utility knife. “Honestly, I’d rather not. The last time I tried to prank a Mildred, she looked at me like she wanted to show me where they hide the real bodies.”

Sam had to smile at that. “But you almost want to try anyway?”

“Yes,” Emi admitted, eyes bright. “But only if we can guarantee they won’t get mad and replace all our towels with sandpaper.”

Sam made a note: avoid towel-related shenanigans. Then, “If you had to pick just one, what’s the most Andy?”

This gave Emi pause. The hands slowed, the energy in her voice shifted. “I think he’d like the scavenger hunt best,” she said, finally. “But only if it’s not about humiliating anybody. He wouldn't want guests and friends to be humiliated for his entertainment. Or, he'd accept it only as long as he's not exempt.”

Sam nodded, the answer slotting into place like a fitted puzzle piece. “Yeah. That’s exactly him.”

Emi picked up a brush and started painting again, but slower this time, with more focus. Sam watched Emi paint, the colors bright and impossible, each hand working a different shade. The black-bearded man glared from the wall, but in the middle of the Atelier, something in the room felt less uncertain than it had that morning.

“Thanks,” Sam said, as she got up.

Emi made a little wave with all six hands. “Anytime.”

---

Riley sat on the edge of the wall above the second terrace, the drop below dizzy but not dangerous. The water was a living sheet: blue in the sun, black in the shade, alive with bright threads of wind. She dangled her legs and watched the horizon, body bent forward as if she could lean hard enough to fall in.

She heard Emi before she saw her—there was always a faint click of fingernails or a double-echo of footsteps when she moved. Emi appeared at the base of the wall, all arms extended, and hoisted herself up with a movement that was almost elegant. She settled beside Riley, six hands braced, then let two dangle like she was part of the wall itself.

Neither spoke for a while.

Emi said, “Are you okay?”

Riley smiled. “I’m fine.” It was a true statement, or close enough.

Emi didn’t reply. She just let the silence sit, which, over time, changed the meaning of Riley’s answer. She watched Riley’s hands fiddle with the folded message Myra had passed on to her, a perfect square, creased from being opened and closed so often the corners had started to fray. She held it in her hand, thumb pressed to the seam.

“You know what it says?” Riley asked, not looking over.

Emi shook her head. She let her legs dangle, all six hands braced along the coping stones, only the middle right tracing circles in the dust. She waited, the kind of stillness that dared you to keep going.

Riley smoothed the note against her knee once, then held it out sideways without looking. Emi took it. She read it, and for just a moment two of her hands went still in a way the others didn’t—not at the words, it seemed, but at something else entirely, something she folded back up along with the note when she returned it.

Riley took it back. “It says I’ll get more hours this time.” Fast, like she was disposing of it.

Emi didn’t move. “That’s a nice promise.”

Riley turned, sharp. “Is it?” She almost laughed, but the sound died on her lips. “Last time, I got twenty-three. My son. Twenty-three hours.” Her jaw went slack, then she shut it, hard. “That’s it. That’s all he got.”

A long pause.

Emi let her gaze drift to the horizon, watched the wind change the shape of the water. “I don’t know what to say,” she said, honest.

Riley closed her fist around the letter, the paper warping and crinkling. “I know. Nobody does. It’s not a thing people want to talk about.” She let the fist rest on her knee, the letter hidden again. “Myra brought it. She said a Mildred gave it to her, but she thought it was different than the other ones. It was warm, or something. Like it had feelings. Fuck. And the handwriting… it’s familiar, but I don’t know what to make of that, either.”

Emi nodded, almost to herself. “What do you think it means?”

Riley flared her nostrils, a long exhale. “I think it means if I get a next time, there will be more hours. But—” She shook her head. “I don’t even know if I want to have a next time. And even if I did, it would be like… like trying to overwrite what I lost with a new version. I’m not sure if that’s hope or just cruelty, you know?” She pressed the letter to her lips, the motion automatic. “Most days, I pretend I’m okay with not knowing. But when I get something like this, all I can think about is whether it’s a prank, or an accident, or if someone out there actually meant it.”

Emi’s hands went very still. “Do you want to believe it?”

Riley waited a long time. The word, when it came, was a sigh. “Yeah. I do.”

They watched the ocean for a while. Gulls wheeled above the terrace, their shadows quick on the stone. The only sound was a soft drone of bees and the whisper of water against the far rocks.

Emi spoke first. “I used to be really good at not wanting things. In college, even before, I’d get obsessed with a project, or a person, and then if it looked like it wasn’t going to happen, I’d just convince myself I never wanted it. Zero out the desire. And then it didn’t hurt so much.” She shrugged, a little helpless. “It worked. Until it didn’t. Until I got here.”

Riley let that land, quiet. “What changed?”

Emi’s lower left hand curled up, hugging her shin. “You ever feel like you’re being pulled toward something, but there’s no proof, no signs, just a feeling? For the first couple of days here, I kept telling myself I didn’t belong. I wasn’t interesting, or special, or anything. But I could feel it, the pull. Like there was a reason for it, even if I didn’t know what it was.” She tucked a hair behind her ear, three hands at once, not awkward. “So I decided to just believe in the pull. Even before I had any evidence. Even before I knew if I belonged or not.”

Riley snorted, not unkind. “And did it work?”

Emi grinned, a flash of something real. “Eventually. Kind of. The more I chose to believe it, the more I found reasons why maybe I did belong. It made it easier to notice the little things—who wanted me there, when I was wanted, that kind of stuff.” She turned, and her face was all earnestness. “Sometimes believing in a thing is the only way you can make it real. Even if it doesn’t last, it’s still better than never trying.”

Riley rolled this over. Her voice was sandpaper. “Sometimes I’m afraid to want things. Because if you want the wrong thing, and you lose it, you’re just left with the wanting. No replacement.” She looked at Emi, all the usual sarcasm wiped from her face. “I tried to want a future after John died. I tried to believe I could be a mom. And when I got close, the universe just… shut it down. Like it was punishing me for asking.”

Emi nodded. “That’s not fair.” She reached over, set her upper left hand gently on Riley’s shoulder. The pressure was light, but so steady it was like Emi had been practicing for years.

Riley didn’t shrug it off.

“I’m not going to decide today,” Riley said, softer now. “I’m going to put it away and not decide. Because if I let myself hope, and it goes bad, I’ll hate myself for it.” She opened her fist, the letter half-crushed but still whole. “But I might believe it tomorrow. Or the day after.”

Emi smiled. “The letter will still be there.”

Riley nodded. “Yeah. It will.”

They sat together on the wall, the breeze blowing salt into their faces, the sun higher and warmer than it had been. Neither spoke. Below, on the terrace, the Mildreds started setting tables for the midday meal—blue glass plates, bright cloth napkins, cutlery wrapped tight in twine bows. Emi watched the colors change as the wind shifted. She glanced at Riley's profile, the way her shoulders had unknotted somewhere in the last ten minutes without her noticing.

Riley looked at the water for a long time, then tucked the letter into her pocket, safe and certain.

The day moved on. They stayed until the shadow of the wall crept back to their feet, and then, wordless, slid down to the path and walked up to the hotel side by side.

Neither spoke about it again that day.

Emi turned it over quietly as they walked — the handwriting, which she had recognized the moment Riley held the letter out. She hadn't mentioned it, because she couldn't work out what it meant. Why would Andy write something like that to Riley?