Reading Between the Lines

When love beckons you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.

VP and BP Standings
Erin - 79 VP - 800 BP - 1 Achiev
Claire - 57 VP - 7200 BP - 2 Achievs
Marissa - 56 VP - 4300 BP - 1 Achiev
Liesa - 54 VP - 2900 BP - 2 Achievs
Emi - 44 VP - 3750 BP - 1 Achiev
Dawn - 43 VP - 4500 BP - 1 Achiev
Sam - 29 Vp - 4550 BP - 2 Achievs
Norah - 27 VP - 4050 BP - 2 Achievs
Chloe - 8 VP - 2975 BP - 1 Achiev
Riley - 6 VP - 4300 BP
(Emily - 6 VP - 4300 BP)

Andy entered the Banquet Hall that morning feeling different. Not whole, exactly—he doubted there was enough left of him for that—but less raw. Like someone had poured a little gold into the cracks and told him it was okay to keep going, even if you still rattled a bit when you moved. Maybe it was the wine with Sam, or the confessions in the dark, or the way her laugh could wrap around a wound and squeeze it until it gave up. Or a combination of that, and the day spent with Laura Black, the bonding over the loneliness of what it meant to be a Master in this surreal show. Or maybe it was just time.

The previous day (well, two days ago, from his frame of reference) he had asked Sam to let Erin know it was time to gather everyone, as he had asked her to do during their night together. So it was not a surprise when he entered the Hall, and found it already full. Erin was nothing if not dependable.

Chloe sat at the middle of the long table, posture impeccable, hair in a new braid she’d made herself. Next to her, Sam smirked at something Marissa had just said, but her eyes kept flicking to the door, waiting for him. Liesa, Erin and Claire were at the end, heads together over a book, and Norah was perched cross-legged on a chair, eating a banana like she was starring in an improv show about potassium. Dawn was there too, already on her second scone, and Emi had arrived early and was carefully folding origami cranes out of the breakfast napkins.

Riley was last, in every sense of the word. She’d staked out the far end of the table, away from the others, wearing the battered U2 t-shirt and dark jeans that were her armor against the day. She pretended not to notice Andy’s entrance, but he caught the way her hands were balled into fists, thumb digging so hard into her palm that it had left little crescent moons of white. When she looked up, her heterochromic eyes found him, dared him, and then flicked away, back to her coffee. He was surprised she was even here. Perhaps, he thought soberly, she wanted more ammo for her vitriol.

He stood at the head of the table, waited until the noise settled, and said, “I need to tell you all something.”

Dawn set her pastry down. Norah’s banana froze midair. Even Riley couldn’t keep up the pretense; she glared, but her shoulders pulled forward as if bracing for a hit.

He took a breath. “Some of you know bits and pieces already, but most of you don’t know what happened to Laura. And I think—I think if we’re going to make it through this, you should.”

Andy scanned the room, feeling the weight of a dozen expectant stares. Even in the buzz of the Banquet Hall, with its cold-pressed juice and the smell of toasted coconut wafting from the sideboard, he could sense the anticipation rippling along the table. Norah’s usual sarcasm was on hold; she just studied him, chin propped on her hand, feet swinging in open defiance of gravity. Liesa had paused mid-slice on a mango, the blade hovering, and even Marissa’s habitual note-taking was suspended. Emily watched from the corner, leaning against the wall as if not feeling entirely at ease joining the table with the other girls yet, concern written on her face. Sam’s eyes, deep brown and bright with protective mischief, never left his face.

He took a deep breath. “I want to tell you all about Laura. The real story. Not the parts you’ve picked up secondhand.”

He looked at Chloe first, because he owed her that. She met his eyes, her own hazel flecked with a resolve that startled him. There was a tiny tremor in her chin, but she nodded once, sharply—permission, and something else. Solidarity.

Andy cleared his throat, then glanced around the table to gauge their readiness. He expected blank stares, or maybe a few eyerolls from the ones who’d heard the headlines and decided they were enough. Instead, the silence leaned forward, eager and hungry, every set of eyes fixed on him—even Riley, whose scowl had softened into something like curiosity, or maybe dread.

He started, not with the river, but with the girl.

"Laura Ashford was my best friend," Andy said.

He heard his own voice from a great distance, as if he were standing in the shallow end of a pool and someone was telling the story over the water, muffled but urgent. He watched the words wash over the table: the way Dawn stilled, half a scone hovering in front of her lips; the way Liesa and Claire both looked up from their book, as if they’d rehearsed this moment and were careful not to miss a cue. Norah stopped swinging her feet, banana paused mid-air in a gesture of arrested comedy, and Marissa, ever the therapist, very deliberately did not reach for her pen. Even Sam, who usually wore her concern like a shield, had let the defenses drop. Only Riley seemed untouched, but Andy knew the difference between indifference and self-preservation, and he saw it now in the way she studiously kept her gaze fixed on the tablecloth's embroidery, as if it might offer her escape.

"She lived next door," he said, letting the silence ride shotgun. "We were born three days apart, had backyards with a single fence between, and from the time we could walk, we were pretty much inseparable. Don't remember a birthday party, a snow day, or a single summer night on the curb with popsicles where she wasn't there. Sometimes I think we only learned to say our own names because we had to shout them across the fence to each other."

He wanted to keep it light, but his throat betrayed him. The next words came out hoarse, bristling with old, splintered ache. "She was the first person I ever loved," he said. "And maybe the last person who saw me for what I was, not just what other people wanted me to be. I don't mean that in a tragic Romeo-and-Juliet kind of way, but maybe it's a little tragic anyway."

Andy's lips curved into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Every year on my birthday, she'd wake up at dawn and climb the oak tree outside my window. She'd tap on the glass until I woke up, then hand me this little paper bag with a muffin she'd stolen from her mom's kitchen. It was our tradition. Even when it rained, even when she had the flu that one year. She never missed a single birthday.” He paused, a ghost of a smile crossing his face. "On my tenth birthday, I got sick with strep throat. Everyone canceled, but Laura snuck over with a cupcake she'd made herself. It was lopsided, and the frosting was this weird gray color because she'd mixed all the food coloring together thinking it would make rainbow. She sang happy birthday sitting six feet away because her mom had warned her about germs."

Andy swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on some middle distance. "When we were nine, we built this makeshift pulley system between our bedroom windows using fishing line and those little plastic buckets from the beach. We'd send each other notes and treasures after our parents thought we were asleep. Once she sent over half a chocolate chip cookie with a note that said 'Saved you the good half with more chips.' That was Laura—always noticing the small things."

His voice softened. "She'd wear these bright yellow rain boots, even in summer. Said they were her adventure boots. The day she got them, we spent hours jumping in every puddle we could find, and when there weren't enough, she convinced me to help her turn on all the sprinklers in her mom's garden. We got in so much trouble, but she just stood there, soaking wet, laughing like it was the best day of her life." He paused. "She was the bravest and most beautiful person I knew. But also the most stubborn. Even more than me, if you can believe it."

He risked a look at Chloe, and found her watching him with an intensity that left no room for embarrassment. Her lips were pressed tight to trap a tremor, but nothing could keep the tears from sliding, quietly, down her face. The sight of it almost undid him; that she cried for this, for him, for Laura, when he could barely do so himself.

He pressed on. "I always knew I’d marry her someday," he said. "Even when I was seven and didn't know what that meant, it just seemed obvious. She was this constant in my life, the one thing that never changed." He wet his lips, picking at the memory like a scab that refused to scar. "Until she did."

He paused, and in the hush that followed, Sam reached over and hooked her pinky around Chloe’s, a silent pledge of solidarity. Chloe’s breath caught at the gesture, but she didn’t pull away. Dawn’s eyes pooled, shimmered; even Norah, so resolute in her comedy, quietly wiped at her cheek, smearing banana in the process. The table was a gallery of grief, each face catching the light at a different angle.

"I know a lot of you have heard rumors," Andy went on. He let himself look at Riley now, though she was doing her damnedest to stare a hole through the far wall. He didn’t expect sympathy from her, or anything resembling forgiveness. But even Riley looked caught in the undertow, her scowl folded in on itself, arms crossed so tightly she might snap in two.

"But the truth is," he said, "Laura died because I was an idiot. And because the world is a hell of a lot crueler when you’re thirteen and think nothing bad ever really happens, at least not to you." He winced at how childish it sounded, but the words were true. That was the problem: they were always true, and always would be.

Chloe looked away, blinking hard, her hands gripping the linen in her lap. Liesa reached over, squeezed her wrist, and Claire—never one for public comfort—scooted near him, and just set her hand atop Andy’s, palm down, as if to say: I’m here, and I’m not letting go.

Marissa cleared her throat, voice gentle. "You don’t have to—"

Andy shook his head, his throat tightening as he blinked rapidly. "No, I do," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "Because I've been carrying this alone for so long I've forgotten how to put it down. And you all—" He looked around the table at each face, these women who had somehow become his family. "You've given me so much of yourselves. You deserve the same from me, even the broken parts."

He looked around, taking in the odd little family that had formed around him: the misfits and the brilliant, the broken and the brave. He didn’t know if telling them would fix anything, or if it would only break him further. But he owed them the truth. He owed it to Laura.

"It wasn’t some big dramatic event," he said. "No car crash, no cancer, no tornado. It was just a river, and a bad decision, and the kind of pain you don’t even know how to name when you’re a kid. I guess I should start at the beginning. Not just hers, but mine, and Chloe’s, and—" He hesitated, fighting the urge to clamp his hand over his mouth and run from the room. "And everyone who got caught up in it."

Andy steadied himself, inhale slow and deliberate, exhale measured. He could tell from the way Chloe’s face had gone pale that she was bracing for impact: the way her lips pressed together, the way her thumb traced circles over Sam’s knuckles, the way her gaze stayed fixed on the table. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he also knew that if he danced around the story instead of naming it, the ache would fester in both of them. He owed her the full truth, or as much of it as memory would allow.

“It started in middle school,” Andy said, voice a little rough. “Chloe was in my class. Laura was in another, but this did not stop us from spending as much time together as we could. We were growing up, and boys were starting to find Laura very interesting, but she and I were halves of the same whole, even if I was too much of a kid, still, to realize what was going on.” He took a deep breath. “Laura and I used to joke that we’d been grandfathered into the same friend group, but Chloe was the first new person to get through the firewall.” He risked a glance at Chloe, who swallowed but didn’t look away. “I didn’t realize Chloe liked me. Not at first. I know that sounds like the world’s dumbest move, but—” He shrugged helplessly. “Everything in that part of my brain was scrambled. Laura took almost all of that space. So I just thought Chloe was nice, and smart, and funny.” He shot her a grateful smile, the kind you offer a person before you drive over their foot, and the pain behind it was obvious to anyone who cared to look. “I didn’t pick up on the other stuff. I’m sorry for that.”

Chloe’s hands were trembling now, but she nodded—once, then again, more emphatically—her grip on Sam’s hand so tight the knuckles had gone white. On the far side of the table, Liesa and Norah exchanged a glance, equal parts dread and recognition. Andy could feel the crawl of nerves along his scalp, the way the story built momentum as it left his mouth, impossible to call back now.

“Chloe, I hope it’s okay if I tell your part. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want. But I think it’s important.” He said it gently, careful not to make her into a spectacle. And in that moment, Andy caught a flash of gratitude in Chloe’s eyes—a fleeting, silent concession that gave him courage to go on.

So he did. The words felt like stepping stones across a fast river; each one a commitment to keep moving, lest he fall in and drown.

“Chloe started leaving notes,” Andy said, and this time the memory made him smile, even if sadness held it hostage. “Sometimes in my backpack, sometimes in my locker, sometimes just… slid across the desk when the teacher wasn’t looking. At first, I thought she just liked writing. The way some people like Sudoku or crosswords. But the notes were always funny. Sometimes they were poems—usually about cats, or how much she hated gym class. Sometimes there were drawings. Sometimes just a sticker, always peeled off something weird.”

He paused, the recollection flaring up vivid and immediate: one of Chloe’s notes, a drawing of a cat with a giant head and noodle-thin arms, holding a sign that said, ‘Down with Sit-Ups.’ In the margin, Chloe had written, ‘If you forward this to five people you’ll never have to do a plank again.’ He remembered showing it to Laura, who’d laughed so hard she nearly choked on her juice box.

“They were never mean,” Andy continued. “That’s the thing. With most kids, the notes are a weapon, or a dare, or a setup for something cruel. But Chloe’s were just… nice. They made the day lighter.” He hesitated, looking at Chloe again, and this time she met his gaze. Her mouth was trembling, but she tried to smile. It lasted a heartbeat, but it was real.

He pressed on, picking at the memory. “It never occurred to me it was anything but friendship. Maybe I was just an idiot, but Laura was the center of my world, and I was terrified of screwing it up. I thought if I just kept things steady, everything would be fine.”

Sam squeezed Chloe’s hand, and Chloe nearly gasped at the jolt of comfort it delivered. Around the table, more faces had softened: Marissa’s eyes were glassy with unshed tears; Dawn had set her scone down without taking a bite. Even Norah, queen of the raised eyebrow, seemed subdued. And for the first time, Andy realized that telling the truth wasn’t just about confession—it was about giving Chloe’s story back to her, unburdened of shame or secrecy.

The next part was harder. “But then Laura noticed,” Andy said. “She always noticed the little things, even when she pretended not to. We’d be sitting at the lunch table, and Laura would glance at Chloe and then at me, and then back at her sandwich, but I could tell she was adding it up.” He ran a hand through his hair, sheepish. “She’d tease me about it, like, ‘Ooooh, Chloe thinks you’re cute, better watch out Andy, she’s coming for your heart.’ I assumed she was just joking. I didn’t realize—” He swallowed, the guilt crackling under his skin, “—that maybe she wasn’t.”

Here, Riley made a soft, biting noise at the back of her throat. It sounded like a laugh, but the bitterness in it was radioactive.

“Right,” she said. “You were just an innocent bystander.”

Sam glared at her, Claire’s ears flattened, Norah’s and Erin’s eyes stared at the redhead with the heat of a furnace, and even Marissa’s smile evaporated.

It was Riley who broke first. She stood abruptly, scraping her chair back, and marched out of the Banquet Hall. Nobody stopped her, but the silence that followed was raw and full of static.

Emi stood a moment later, folding her origami crane and setting it on the table in front of Andy.

“I know the rest,” she said, voice low and careful. “I’ll check on Riley.”

He nodded, grateful beyond words.

As Emi disappeared down the corridor, Andy turned back to the table, found himself surrounded by a barricade of grief and tenderness. Sam and Chloe were at either side, Liesa and Claire down the row, all of them watching him with something that wasn’t quite pity, but something gentler—a kind of forgiveness he’d never believed he deserved.

He took a deep breath, then pushed on.

“The rumors started, like they always do. Kids are cruel, but they’re also **** for something to talk about. Chloe and I, apparently, were already married by the sixth week of eighth grade. Laura heard, and… she didn’t take it well.”

Andy’s words dropped into the center of the table like a stone, scattering ripples in every direction. Chloe ducked her head, the simple act of existing suddenly too exposed, too loud among this audience of women who were now more than witnesses; they were participants, invested in the drama that spanned decades and lives. Sam, who had always been better at comfort than conversation, reached over and squeezed Chloe’s shoulder, her strength as gentle as it was unsubtle. She leaned in to say something into Chloe’s hair—Andy didn’t hear it, but the corners of Chloe’s mouth fluttered upward, just enough to prove the tactic had worked.

He pressed on. There was no way out of the story now, and he suspected that even if there were, he wouldn’t have taken it.

“So one day,” Andy said, “I decided to end it. The rumors, I mean. I asked Chloe to meet me behind the gym after school. I had this speech planned, about how she was great, and how we could still be friends, and how I wasn’t looking for anything else.” He glanced across the table, expecting Chloe to cringe, or to roll her eyes in the way she sometimes did, as if to say, “How did we ever survive being that dumb?” But she only watched him, eyes clear and unflinching, her right hand toying with the edge of her napkin. She wasn’t here to judge. She was here to bear witness.

The memory of that afternoon was so sharp that for a moment Andy was there again, standing in the chilly shade behind the old brick gym, shivering not from cold but from the impossible terror of hurting someone you liked. He remembered Chloe’s silhouette against the wall, the way she scuffed at the mulch with her sneaker, the way she smiled with her whole face. He remembered thinking, with a sudden pang, that he didn’t want to hurt her, but that he was going to do it anyway.

“I started my speech,” he said. “Like, right away. I thought if I could get it out fast, it’d be like pulling off a Band-Aid. But before I could finish, she just… kissed me.”

Nobody at the table moved. Even Liesa, who could be counted on to break any tension with a joke or a song lyric, sat very still, her hands clenched together just below the table. Norah’s mouth curled up at the edges, but she said nothing. Dawn’s bunny ears flattened and drooped, as if mourning the tension on Chloe’s behalf.

“It was just a peck,” Andy said. “Barely anything. But it felt like the whole world shifted. I panicked. I said something dumb—I don’t even remember what. But Chloe… she just ran.” He mimed the shattering of resolve with a splayed hand and a half-laugh, somehow both self-mocking and deeply sad.

Chloe lifted her gaze and looked at him directly, her eyes glassy but resolute. The moment stretched, thinned, then snapped softly back into place.

“I never blamed you for that,” Chloe said, her voice careful but unwavering. “You were a kid. So was I.”

Andy nodded, a wave of relief and regret cresting in his chest. “We were both kids,” he echoed. “It was never your fault.” He let the last words rest on the table, and for the first time since the story started, Chloe looked like she actually believed it.

He hadn’t realized how much he needed that moment, that mutual absolution. Not just for himself, but for her, and for Laura, and for all the children they used to be. The story wasn’t over—he could feel it looming, a storm still to come—but for now, the air had cleared just a little, the pressure in the room easing by a fraction.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty; it was a holding space for new understanding, as if the group were collectively sifting through all the tiny betrayals and misunderstandings that had brought them here. Liesa’s hand crept over to Claire’s, squeezing it in a way that was both ridiculous and perfect. Dawn nibbled at her lip, trying not to cry. Even Norah, who had once memorized all the words to ‘Toxic’ just to annoy Andy, now seemed at a loss for words, her usual defenses crumbling at the edges.

“There’s more,” Andy said, voice softer now. “But if you need a break, or want to throw something at me, now’s your chance.”

No one took him up on it. Instead, Marissa set her mug down and said, “If you want to finish, you should.” Her tone was light, but the look in her eyes was not. She was cataloguing every word, every facial tic, every sign of pain. It was what she’d always done, long before Andy had realized she was more than just the world’s sharpest therapist.

He inhaled, exhaled, and continued.

“After the kiss, nothing was ever the same. Not with Chloe, not with Laura, and definitely not with me. The school was small, and stories got around fast. By the next morning, there were notes in my locker, and rumors about what Chloe and I had done behind the gym. Most of them were just dumb, but some were ugly, and some got back to Laura.”

He could feel the heat of all those old eyes, the stares from across the cafeteria, the notes folded into triangles and flicked onto his desk. He saw Chloe’s hands shaking now, just slightly—not from anger or fear, but from remembering. He wondered if the ache ever healed, or if it just got buried under the rest of life.

He swallowed, felt the old ache return, and realized he was finally ready to finish.

Andy’s voice was softer now, a slow drawl worn down by the number of times he’d tried and failed to find the right words. Each sentence was like a stone he had to lift and set in place, and already his hands were trembling.

“Laura called me at home the day after the kiss, after school was over,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I’d never heard her cry like that, not ever, and it was like she’d gone underwater. I could barely make out what she was saying. All she got out was, ‘Meet me at the footbridge. If you care at all, you’ll come.’ And then she hung up.”

He could see it now—the coil-cord phone on the kitchen wall, the orange light in the window, his mom’s favorite candle burning on the counter. The house was empty except for him; his mom and dad both working late at the plant. For the first and only time, he’d wished they were there, someone to make sense of the panic in his head. But all he’d had was the silence, and the knowledge that if he didn’t go, he really would lose her for good.

“I showed up,” he said, and this time he hesitated, as if the memory might actually fight back. “It was November, it was cold, and there’d been rain for a week, so the river was moving fast. Laura was already there, pacing the boards, soaked clear through her clothes. She had been crying. She looked at me once, and then she just… started yelling. I’d never seen her like that.”

For a moment, Andy was gone. The banquet hall, the women, the absurdity of the present all faded behind the **** of the memory, sixteen years confined to one damp, echoing instant. "I never found out if that anger was all because of the kiss, or if something else had happened at home. I never had the opportunity."

“She accused me of lying, of going behind her back. She said I’d always leave her, like everyone else did. And she said—” Here, Andy’s voice snapped in half. He worked it back together, then went on. “She said I was just like her dad. That was the worst thing she could imagine. That I was just another person who’d hurt her.”

The room was so quiet that Andy could track the slow, uneven breathing of every person around the table. He didn’t look up, didn’t want to see the tears in Marissa’s eyes or the way Liesa’s hands twisted together under the linen. He just kept talking, letting the story pour out as if he could rinse it clean by ****.

“And her dad—” Andy stopped, tried to find some way to say it that wouldn’t shatter the room. “He wasn’t a good person. Laura had a scar on her jawline, a memory of her father’s ****. She never said what he did, but we all knew something was wrong in that house. My mom… she used to let Laura stay over whenever she wanted, and I never understood why until much later.” He paused just long enough that the silence felt like it might collapse under its own weight. “She needed somewhere safe, and I never saw it until it was too late.”

He looked at Marissa, who was already rubbing her eyes with the sleeve of her blouse, then at Liesa, who had gone utterly still except for the tendon flexing in her jaw. Even Dawn’s hands, always busy, were folded together so tightly that her knuckles had gone white. Norah didn’t even try to hide the tears, Erin's eyes glistened, and Claire had retreated behind her glasses, blinking too fast to be natural.

Andy tried to keep his voice steady. “I told her it wasn’t true, that I loved her more than anyone else. I tried to get through, but she just… wouldn’t hear it. She said I was too late.” The last words snapped out of him, brittle as the ice that sometimes crusted the riverbanks in March.

He took a moment, then went on. “She turned to go, and I panicked. I reached for her wrist, just to keep her from leaving. But it had been raining for days, and the planks on the bridge were so slick. She shook herself free, my foot slid, and I went straight over the side.”

Andy didn’t need to close his eyes to see it. The blur of tree branches. The sky a flat, bruised color. Cold air rushing past his ears, the sudden weightlessness replaced by the shock of cold water. He remembered the moment between falling and hitting, a millisecond where he wondered if dying would hurt, or if he’d just dissolve.

“I couldn’t swim,” he said, almost apologetic. “I was panicking too much. The current was brutal. I tried to grab the rocks, but it just dragged me downstream. I remember thinking, ‘This is it. This is how I die. And the last thing Laura will ever think about me is that I’m a liar.’”

He let the silence stretch, because there was no way to soften what came next.

“Then Laura jumped,” he said. “She didn’t even stop to take her shoes off. She just—she just jumped in after me.”

Chloe made a sound, a tiny squeak that barely registered.

“I don’t remember most of what happened, but she got to me,” Andy said. “She was smaller, but she was strong. She grabbed my jacket and kicked for the shore, and somehow she got us both to the bank. I was ****, and I don’t know what happened, only that when I came to, she was gone. The current took her, and I can only remember seeing her eyes for one moment, still so blue before she went under. I tried to go after her, but I was already half-drowned, and by the time I crawled out, all I saw was her hand over the water, and she was gone.”

He blinked hard, but the tears were already coming. “They found her body two miles downstream.”

Nobody said anything for a long time. Even the air seemed too heavy to move.

Sam was the first to reach him. She got up, walked around the table, and put her arms around his shoulders. Then Chloe, silent and wide-eyed, followed, wrapping him from the other side. Then Erin, holding him from behind, and Claire, nestling herself against his chest.

One by one, they moved in, until Andy was buried beneath a pile of arms and hair and the faint, sweet perfume of tears and breakfast pastries.

Marissa said softly, “She loved you. Even when she thought you’d hurt her, she saved you.”

Andy nodded, then let himself cry. Really cry, for the first time since he was thirteen. It wasn’t a heroic sound, or even a pretty one. But it emptied him out, left space for the warmth of the people around him to fill in.

They stayed that way, bunched together like children hiding from a thunderstorm, until the storm passed.

When Andy could speak again, he said, “I’m sorry. For bringing it here. For making you all listen.”

Chloe shook her head, still clutching his hand. “You needed to tell it,” she said, her voice calm and certain. “We needed to hear it.”

Sam wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Nobody should have to hold that alone.”

Liesa, soft-spoken but fierce, added, “Maybe now you can forgive yourself.”

He didn’t answer, because he wasn’t sure he knew how. But it felt a little less impossible, with all of them holding on.

Dawn looked up, eyes red but smiling. “Is it okay if we remember her? Like, keep her in the story?”

Andy smiled, weak but real. “She’d like that.”

And then, because there was nothing else to do, they let go, wiped their faces, and tried to piece the morning back together.

But everything had changed.

The old secrets were out, and nothing was the same as before. But maybe that was the point.

Maybe that was how you got to the next page.

Achievement Earned (Andy Cooper): No More Secrets!

Riley sat in the art studio with her elbows braced wide on the battered table, her head bowed over a sheet of heavyweight paper. She worked the charcoal so hard it had snapped into three stubs, and the fourth was nearly ground to a nub. The sketch itself was more threat than drawing—a tangle of black strokes and slashes, all sharp angles, no grace. She’d torn the page once already, and the next pass of her hand looked like it might do the same.

She was so intent on the **** of it that she didn’t notice Emi at first. The other woman slipped in on bare feet, six arms folded in, her presence so gentle it barely rippled the air. Emi took her time, choosing a spot at the end of the table and sorting through a box of colored pencils, working quietly, as if the world might break if she moved too fast.

She drew in silence. Her hands moved in pairs: two tracing lines, two steadying the page, two plucking up new colors, all coordinated like a dance only she could hear. She didn’t look at Riley. Didn’t ask what was wrong, or if she was okay. She just started working, and let the hush grow between them.

For twenty minutes, they worked in parallel, the only sounds the scuff of pencil on paper and the soft tick of the clock above the shelves. Every so often Riley would glance up, as if expecting a fight, but Emi’s focus never wavered. She just kept drawing—slow, patient, one page after another—her face set in a calm that bordered on eerie.

It was Riley who broke first. She set the charcoal down with a **** that left a black thumbprint on the table, then scrubbed her hands across her face. “You gonna say something, or just stalk me like a fucking ghost?”

Emi didn’t answer at first. Instead, she carefully finished her line, set her pencil down, and folded her arms—three pairs, crossing like a barricade. When she finally spoke, her voice was even, but there was a quiver at the edge that said she’d been practicing this.

“You look like you could use a friend,” Emi said.

Riley let out a laugh so sharp it left a cut in the air. “Last time someone said that, they left me with a lifetime of guilt and a tattoo I can’t show in polite company.”

Emi blinked, caught off-guard.

“Doesn’t matter,” Riley said, voice brittle. “I’m not here for group therapy.”

Emi nodded, accepting the terms. She turned her sketchpad around, as if to show Riley she wasn’t hiding anything. The top sheet was covered in gentle, looping lines: three children playing by a river, their faces only half-finished, the background rendered in soft, dreamlike colors.

Riley tried not to look, but she couldn’t help it. “Is that supposed to be us?”

“I think so,” Emi said. “I don’t remember the details anymore. We met only once or twice before I pulled away from Andy and Laura. I just remember you wore overalls, and Laura had bandaids on her knees. And I was always the one behind, trying to catch up.”

Riley grunted. “Laura said you were the only one who could beat her at footraces.”

Emi smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Maybe. But I remember she forgave you when you tripped her.”

Riley snorted, then went silent.

Emi picked up a new colored pencil, rolling it between her fingers. “I was jealous of her, you know. I wanted to be her best friend so badly. She was magnetic. But I could tell she only had eyes for Andy.” She glanced at Riley. “That’s what made you so angry, right? That she picked him over you.”

Riley tensed, jaw flexing. “Is this the part where you tell me to move on? ‘Let it go, Riley. She’s dead. Time to find closure’?” Her voice was all venom, but Emi heard the fear hiding underneath.

“No,” Emi said. “I just wanted you to know you’re not the only one who lost her. Laura hurt me too. Not on purpose. But the day she cut me out, it felt like being erased.”

Riley stared at her hands, the black dust now streaking her knuckles like war paint. “She told me that if I stayed your friend, she’d never talk to me again.” The words slipped out before she could stop them. “I never understood why. I thought you were harmless.”

Emi absorbed that with a slow nod. “She found out I had a crush on Andy, and she could not take it. Andy was the only good constant in her life. I think she was scared. Of losing Andy. Of losing anyone.” She met Riley’s eyes, and this time there was no accusation, just a calm honesty that was almost unbearable. “I know you blame Andy, but maybe you should have blamed the world instead. Or maybe the river, or her parents, or the fact that we were all just kids trying to survive.”

Riley said nothing, but her chin trembled.

Emi leaned in, her voice so gentle it barely traveled across the table. “You know, the first thing Laura ever told me about you was that you saved her life.”

Riley blinked, not following.

“You tackled her out of the way of a bike when we were nine,” Emi said. “She had a broken arm for weeks, but she wouldn’t stop talking about how brave you were.”

Riley covered her mouth with her hand, but the sob escaped anyway. It was a raw, animal sound, and it made Emi’s own eyes wet instantly.

“I’m so tired,” Riley whispered. “I thought hating Andy would make it easier, but it just—” She stopped, shook her head. “I don’t even know what it does anymore. I just need to be angry at something.”

Emi let the silence expand, the way you give a wound space to bleed.

When Riley could speak again, she asked, “Why are you being nice to me?”

Emi shrugged, a strange, graceful movement of all six shoulders. “Because I know what it’s like to break something precious and never be able to fix it.”

They were quiet for a while, each lost in their own knots.

Finally, Riley said, “I should have asked Laura what really happened. I should have—fuck, I should have checked. Instead, I just… pushed her to confront him. I should have protected her from me.”

Emi shook her head. “You did what you could with what you had. We all did.” She considered, then added, “But it’s not too late, you know. To stop hurting yourself for what you can’t change.”

Riley let out a long, shaky breath. “You think that’s why I’m here? Because I want to atone?”

Emi smiled, this time with real warmth. “No. I think you want to be forgiven, but you don’t know how to ask.”

Riley looked away, then back again. “I buried my husband in September,” she said, voice low. “Six months ago. He shipped out to Syria, lasted two months. They said it was an accident. After Laura died, I couldn’t open up to anyone for a long time. John was the first one I let through.” Her hands were shaking now, and she let them. “I think that’s half of the real reason I can’t stand Andy. He gets to live, and I just—” She trailed off, unable to finish.

Emi reached out, one hand at a time, until she had one of Riley’s hands gently encircled. “It’s okay to feel that way,” she said. “But you’re not alone. Not here. Not anymore.”

Riley laughed, then broke down crying, hard, the kind of crying that leaves you gasping and feral. Emi let her, just held the hand and let her finish.

When Riley finally calmed, she wiped her eyes on her sleeve and said, “You’re not what I expected, you know.”

Emi cocked her head. “Neither are you.”

Riley shook her head, trying to build the wall back up. “Well, now you can tell your Master that his concubines have forgiven me.”

For a second, Emi just stared at her. Then, in a voice that was soft but held a new, steely edge, she said, “None of us are concubines, Riley.”

Riley started to protest, but Emi cut her off, six hands now fanned across the table like a living barricade. “We’re all here against our will. Including Andy. None of us asked for this. Including Andy. But you know what? Some of us have made the best of it. Some of us have found comfort, or hope, or even love, because it’s what we need to survive. We choose to share him, because we’d rather face this together than alone.”

Riley stiffened. "Is this the part where you all try to convince me he's the hero of the story?"

Emi shook her head, and for the first time since Riley had known her, there was no warmth in the motion. Just exhaustion, and something else—resolve, maybe, or the kind of anger that takes years to earn.

"No one here thinks he's a flawless hero," Emi said. "Not even Andy. Especially not Andy. We love him, flaws and all. But you keep acting like he's the only one who ever fucked up. Like the rest of us don't wake up every day with regrets. You think Chloe doesn't? Or Erin, or Sam? Or me?" She shook her head. "You come in here, and you act like your pain is special. Like it's the only pain that matters. And I get it, I do. But you're not the only one who lost Laura. You're not the only one who wants a do-over."

Riley opened her mouth, but Emi was on a tear now, all six hands open and raw on the table. "He tried with you," she said. "We all did. Even after what you said to him that first night. He didn't sleep. He just… sat up, waiting for a chance to make it right. Even knowing you would never let him." She let out a shaky breath. "You keep saying he doesn't deserve forgiveness, but I don't think you believe anyone does. Least of all yourself."

The words stung; Riley's face twisted, but she didn't lash out.

"You want to know the truth?" Emi said, voice suddenly low. "If you keep blaming him, and yourself, and everyone else, you'll never stop hurting. And you'll make sure no one else can heal, either. Because that's what grief does when you never let it go. It just keeps multiplying." She stood, collecting her sketchbook and pencils, movements precise and final. "If that's what you want to be, fine. But don't expect anyone to thank you for it."

She made it halfway to the door, then turned, her hair drifting around her like a cape. Her face was calm, but there was no softness left.

"Laura wasn't a saint," Emi said. "She made her own choices. So did you. So did I. If you want to spend the rest of your life in a room with nothing but anger, that's your right. But if you do, you'll face the next challenge alone. Because that's not a harem. That's not a family. That's just you, punishing yourself forever."

She left without another word, the door swinging quietly closed behind her.

Riley sat there for a long time, hands black with charcoal, staring at the place Emi had been. The sketch in front of her—her own, this time—was just a field of black, a void where the river should have been. She blinked, and a tear fell, leaving a pale track through the dust.

She tried to wipe it away, but the charcoal just smeared, and she realized, for the first time, she didn't know how to clean it off.

Pregnant (???)! +4 VP (hidden)