Shadows Cast Long, Part 2

Claire perched cross-legged on the cool stone bench, notebook balanced on her thigh, and let her tail sway in the morning breeze. She’d meant to write—something, anything, maybe a poem or a letter to her future self—but she’d gotten as far as “The world is full of shifts today,” then stopped. The tip of her pen hovered just above the page, refusing to land.

Samson Drei lay at her feet, nose resting on his blue paws, watching her with the kind of reverence only corgis could muster. Every so often, he huffed in his sleep and wiggled his legs, but mostly he stayed still, an anchor in the rising tide of Claire’s thoughts.

The Bamboo Grove wasn’t really a grove—more a cultivated fantasy of what a Bamboo Grove should be. The paths wove themselves with unlikely precision, making private alcoves for brooding, or, if you were Norah, for planning how to take over the world with nothing but a spreadsheet and a grudge. Claire liked this one best because the bamboo overhead filtered the sun into clean lines, striping the world so it looked like an old book she could read if she wanted. It was quiet here, except for the whisper of leaves and, now, the click of Norah’s heels on the stone.

Claire closed her notebook and turned to watch Norah approach. There was always something purposeful about Norah, even when she was pretending to be relaxed—shoulders set, chin just a hair too high, hands folded neatly in her lap as she sat next to Claire. The heels were stiletto, deep red, and dug into the moss with every step, but Norah never looked at her feet; she just accepted that she had earned the right to stand taller than anyone else, even if it cost her a few ruined shoes.

They sat in silence for a minute, Norah’s eyes fixed on a distant point beyond the bamboo. Claire waited, letting her ears tilt slowly toward the other woman, signaling readiness. Samson Drei blinked awake, watched the newcomer, then, when Norah didn’t move to pet him, let out a mournful little sigh and wormed his head closer to Claire’s ankle.

“Can I be honest with you?” Norah said, not looking at Claire.

Claire nodded, then reached for her notebook, but Norah held up a hand.

“I just want to say this before I chicken out,” Norah said. “When the show started, I really didn’t like you.”

Claire stilled, ears flicking straight up. She’d expected a hundred things, but not this.

Norah’s eyes didn’t budge from the horizon. “You’re surprised,” she said, and her voice had an edge Claire recognized—not meanness, exactly, but the survival instinct of someone who had learned the world would only give what she could steal from it. “But it’s true. At first, I thought it was jealousy, but then I realized it’s just… you’re nothing like me. You’re okay not being noticed. You have a job where people don’t line up to throw you awards or call you a genius. And you…” Norah paused, finally looking at Claire. “You fixed things with Andy in, like, a day. Instantly. Like you never fought in your life.”

Claire blinked at Norah’s words, which landed with a **** that made her want to hide behind the notebook, or maybe under the bench itself. She had expected so many things in this new life, but never this: the frank confession that Norah hadn’t even liked her, not out of spite, but out of a cataloged, almost clinical sense of difference.

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. The wind toyed with the bamboo overhead, and a shaft of sunlight fell across Norah’s heels, catching the faint shimmer in the leather. Samson Drei thumped his tail once, as if agreeing that honesty, while awkward, was better than the alternative.

Claire waited, tail twitching. She reached for her pen, but this time Norah stopped her with a look—one that said, I need to finish, don’t rescue me from this.

“I thought you were faking it,” Norah said, a little softer now. “Or at least, that you were using Andy to get ahead. I know how that sounds, but it’s true. I’ve met so many women who use the shy-girl thing to sneak around everyone else, then they end up running the show anyway.” She shrugged. “Then I realized you’re just… actually like that. No angle, no act.”

Claire didn’t move, but she felt her ears relax a millimeter. She let the silence stretch, waiting for Norah to fill it.

Norah did. “And then, after I made up with Andy, and we had our… you know, moment… I figured I’d let it go. But you still felt hard to approach. Not because I thought you hated me—just because, I guess, I never figured out how to talk to you.” She paused. “I’m not even sure why I’m telling you this.”

Now Claire did pick up her pen. She wrote quickly, then slid the notebook over with a single finger.

Why tell me now?

Norah smiled, a real one. “Because I think I was wrong about you. And because you probably already know what Andy thinks about all of us, so it’s pointless to keep pretending I don’t want your help. Or maybe just your approval.” She let out a short, bitter laugh. “That’s pathetic, huh?”

Claire shrugged. She wrote, Not at all, and Norah read it with a twist of her lips.

They sat for another minute. The only sound was the hush of bamboo and the soft, contented huff of Samson Drei, who had shifted his body to lean against Norah’s stilettoed calf.

Claire scribbled again, then turned the notebook. Is it because of my diagnosis?

Norah’s brows shot up. “What diagnosis?”

Claire hesitated. She tapped the pen on the page, then wrote, Autism. I got diagnosed last year. Is that why you felt weird? She waited for the reaction—the cringe, or worse, the head-tilted pity.

But Norah just processed it, head cocked to the side, then nodded once. “Makes sense,” she said, not as an insult but with the relief of a puzzle solved. “Honestly, it makes you more relatable, not less.”

Claire blinked. That wasn’t in any of the social scripts she’d learned.

Norah leaned in, lowering her voice. “That wasn’t why I kept my distance. I just… I was afraid you’d tell me something I didn’t want to know. About Andy.”

She glanced at Claire, then away, as if daring her to push.

Claire did. Why?

Norah closed her eyes, as if re-reading a long, complicated document. “Because nothing ever comes easy for me. Not a single goddamn thing. I’m not pretty enough to win by looks, not smart enough to ace things without working three times as hard. I’ve fought for every job, every inch. So when I see someone like you—someone who can just be herself, and still be happy, and who Andy seems to like just for that—it makes me think maybe I’m just… trying too hard.” Her mouth twisted. “Which is dumb, I know.”

Claire wrote, Not dumb. I think it too.

Norah let the words sink in. Then, quietly: “Do you want to know something even more pathetic?” She didn’t wait for a response. “Every time Andy looks at me, I wonder if he’s just being nice. I know he’s not. But I still wonder.”

Claire was quiet. The feeling was familiar—so familiar that she almost wanted to laugh. Instead, she wrote, I can tell you how he feels, if you want. From your date night.

Norah’s nostrils flared. She bit her lip, thinking, then nodded. “Yeah. I do want to know. Right now.”

Claire paused, then uncapped her feelings as best she could—let the memory of that night, the warmth and the yearning, rise up and become words. She filled a page in careful, looping script:

He admires you. Even when you make fun of him, or fight with him, he likes it. He likes your confidence and your pride, but he also knows you’re afraid to show him when you’re hurt. He wants to be the one person you trust enough to let it slip, even just once. And he respects you. A lot. He wants you to succeed, no matter what you do.

Claire stopped, considered, then added:

But he also wants you. That part is obvious.

She slid the notebook over.

Norah read it, her face unreadable at first. Then her shoulders sagged, and for a moment she looked so **** that Claire had to look away.

“Okay,” Norah said, exhaling hard. “That’s… good to know.” She didn’t smile, but the edge had left her voice.

Claire tapped her pen, then wrote, What do you want? For the future, I mean.

Norah laughed, but there was no bitterness in it now. “I honestly don’t know. I never thought about it.” She stared out at the bamboo, eyes wide and a little wild. “For so long, I just wanted to win. Just to prove to myself I could. But now…” She trailed off, frowning. “Now it feels like winning isn’t enough. Maybe I want someone who actually sees me.”

Claire nodded. That made sense. She wrote, You could start by sitting closer. It’s allowed.

Norah snorted, but she did move—just a fraction of an inch, but enough to let Samson Drei scramble into her lap. The corgi’s head popped up, tongue lolling, as Norah absently stroked the blue fur. “He’s cute,” she said. “He likes you best, you know.”

Claire shrugged, then wrote, He likes you too. He can tell you’re sad sometimes.

Norah stilled, hand in the dog’s fur. “How?”

Claire wrote, Because he’s a dog.

That finally made Norah laugh. Not a sarcastic snort, but a real, helpless giggle that surprised even her. “You’re weird, you know that?” she said, and Claire nodded, pleased.

They sat for a while like that, neither in a hurry to fill the silence. Claire flipped to a new page in the notebook and started doodling the outlines of the bamboo leaves, letting her thoughts settle into order. Norah watched, her hand still on Samson Drei, and after a moment, she said, “Do you think it’s okay to want something, even if you’ve never had it before?”

Claire considered. She wrote, I think that’s the best time to want it.

Norah closed her eyes. “I like that,” she said, and she meant it.

The sun had shifted, warming the bench, and the world outside the Bamboo Grove seemed to shrink until it was just the two of them and the gentle weight of everything left unsaid. Claire’s hand moved slowly over the page, and felt like maybe she had a new friend—one who understood the cost of wanting things, and the courage it took to ask for them.

They stayed that way until the shadows turned blue and the wind picked up, then walked back together, Samson Drei trotting happily between them.

Andy met Sam at the edge of the Main Beach, right where the sand pinched into a narrow isthmus of stone before the cove fanned out in blue. They used to meet like this in the first round, in the gray hour just after the official day began, each convinced the other wouldn’t show. Sam was already there when Andy arrived, perched on a sun-warmed rock, legs dangling over the side and sneakers plowing lazy trenches in the sand. She had a to-go coffee balanced on one knee, her hands braced behind her, spine arched so the sun hit her face full on. She didn’t move or greet him, just waited, letting the awkwardness bloom in the salt air.

Andy let the first few beats go by—three, four, five—then broke the silence. “You’ve been dodging me,” he said, pitching it just loud enough to be clear, but not quite enough to demand a response.

Sam grunted, then flicked the cobalt hair out of her eyes. “Not dodging. Lying in ambush, maybe.”

Andy joined her on the rock, lowering himself into the hollow left by years of sun and rain. He stretched his legs alongside hers, bracing his hands against the rough stone. For a moment, neither spoke, just stared at the sea and the neat, even rows of tide pools between the boulders.

He waited for her to start, but Sam only sipped her coffee, eyes narrowed at the horizon.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, more gently this time. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d lost interest in our daily hug.”

She snorted, but it was softer, almost affectionate. “No chance. I just figured you were busy, what with running the Hotel and keeping all your girlfriends happy.”

“Funny,” Andy said, and even as he said it he realized how much he’d missed this, the last few days. The old banter, the easy way they could slip into a conversation without needing to warm up first.

He let the tide fill in some of the silence. “What’s going on, Sam?”

She shrugged, then drew one knee up to her chest, balancing the cup on it. “Nothing’s wrong. Why, do I look off to you?” She tried to make it sound like a joke, but the edges were raw.

He shook his head, then watched a gull wheel overhead, its shadow crossing both their faces in a single, sharp sweep. “You’re not yourself.”

She picked at the peeling edge of the coffee cup, then grinned, but her heart wasn’t in it. “Maybe I’m just evolving, Andy. Like a Pokemon. That’s what you wanted, right? Growth?”

“Sure,” he said. “But evolution doesn’t usually come with avoidance behaviors.”

She laughed, sharp and clear, but then let it die. “You really want to do this here?”

He nodded. “You’re the one who picked the spot.”

Sam looked out at the water for a long time, lips pressed thin. Then, finally: “Okay.” She exhaled, slow. “I wanted to talk to you about something, but it’s weird, and I didn’t know how to start, and then the longer I waited, the weirder it got.”

Andy let Sam circle in her orbit of thoughts, silently counting the seconds as she gathered momentum, the way he always did when she was about to drop something seismic. To a casual observer, they might have seemed perfectly at ease, two old friends lounging on a sun-bleached rock, but he knew the set of her jaw, the way her foot jiggled at the ankle, the way she braced herself before a truth. It was like watching a wave build offshore—slow, inexorable, inevitable.

Sam’s gaze flicked to him, then back to the water. She turned to face him, propping her elbow on her knee. “Does it feel weird to you? The whole… everyone wanting to marry you, and nobody caring that they’re not the only one?”

Andy waited, knowing the rhetorical question was a smokescreen for something deeper. He blinked, then let out a half-laugh. “Yes,” he said. “It’s weird. But so is loving a dozen women all at once and wanting every one of them to be happy.” He paused. “Why do you ask?”

Sam grunted. She tossed a pebble into the tide pool below, watching it skip twice before sinking. Then she ran a hand through her hair, mussing it up even worse. “I don’t know. I guess I thought it would be weirder to be the odd one out, but it’s not. Or maybe it is, but not for the reasons you’d expect.”

Andy waited. Sam’s avoidance was legendary, but if you let her circle enough times, she’d always land where she needed to. He wasn’t in a hurry.

“I always thought I’d end up the cool lesbian friend, you know?” she said. “Always the hookup, never the wife. I was fine with that. But now…” She trailed off, then glanced at him, eyes sharp. She tilted her head so her blue hair fell like a curtain over her face. “You’re going to make me say it, are you?”

Andy considered playing dumb, but decided against it, then grinned. “I could say it, but I like watching you squirm.”

She smacked his arm, but the contact lingered a second longer than it needed to, as if she needed the anchor. She drew in a breath, steadying herself with the effort of someone who’d failed at it a thousand times before.

Andy waited, and this time she didn’t make him ask again.

“It’s about Liesa,” she said, voice dropping to a hush that felt out of place on the empty beach. “I think I want to… I don’t know. Ask her to marry me. Or whatever it is people do when they’re in this kind of thing.” Andy blinked, surprised, then watched as Sam braced for impact. Sam glanced up, wincing, as if she’d already anticipated the million ways he could react badly. “I’m not sure how to say this without sounding like a creep, but I guess I want your blessing. Or your forgiveness. Or at least your understanding.”

Andy stared at her, then at the sea, then back. It took him a minute to process, not because the idea was foreign, but because it made so much sense, he had to recalibrate everything he thought he knew about the future. The thought filled him with happiness, for Sam and Liesa both. “You want to marry Liesa.”

Sam nodded, then looked instantly mortified. “But I don’t want you to think I’m trying to, like, steal her from you, or make it a competition, or—”

He put up a hand, stopping her. “Sam. I love Liesa. You love Liesa. She loves both of us. Why would that be a problem?”

Sam’s face contorted, the relief warring with tears. “Because it’s supposed to be you. You’re the Master. She’s in your harem, not mine.”

“You’re asking my permission?” he said, trying to keep his voice light.

Sam groaned, dragging both hands down her face. “God, no. Not permission. I just… I don’t want to step on your toes if you wanted to do it first. Or if you thought it would make things weird.”

Andy shook his head, a smile breaking across his face. “You know what she told me once? She said she’d never met anyone who made her feel like she could be completely herself until she met you. Not even me. Whatever rules we think we’re supposed to follow, they don’t mean shit if they make someone less happy.”

Sam watched him, not quite trusting that he meant it. “So you’re not… jealous?”

He laughed, a genuine, belly-deep laugh that startled a gull off the next rock. “Sam, I want you to be happy. I want Liesa to be happy. I want everyone to find their person, or persons, or whatever the hell we are to each other. If that means you two get married, then I’ll be the first one to buy a tux and tie balloons to the chairs.” The relief was so sudden and intense it made him giddy. “Sam. You’re my best friend. If you want to marry Liesa, you marry Liesa.”

She eyed him. “You don’t think it would be weird, though?”

He shook his head, then tried to articulate what he felt, surprised to find it came easy. “If I can get married to multiple women, I don’t see why Liesa can’t have two different people, too. If she wants you, wants this, then I want her to have it.” He shrugged, lips quirking a little. “Honestly, I’m not even sure Liesa would want to marry me. But you? I think she’d be over the moon. And you deserve to be happy, Sam.”

He said it like it should be obvious, but Andy could see Sam squinting at the water, eyebrows wrestling with the implication. He could tell she wasn’t used to being told she deserved something good, or maybe she was just surprised at how easily he let it go. “Sam,” he said softly, “I love you like a sister. I want you to be happy. I’d move Heaven and Earth to make you happy. So… don’t overthink this. You and Liesa are good for each other.”

Sam blinked rapidly, then wiped at her eye with a palm, leaving a faint smudge of sunscreen on her cheekbone. She tried to pass it off as a yawn, but Andy saw right through it. “Okay, that was… not what I expected,” she said, voice rough.

Andy kept his eyes on the horizon, giving her the dignity of not staring. “What did you expect?”

She snorted. “I don’t know. Something more territorial, maybe. Drama. A big ‘this isn’t what I signed up for’ kind of speech.”

He smiled. “Isn’t it, though? We all got drafted into a show where the rules don’t make sense, and the best we can do is try to make each other happy. You loving Liesa doesn’t take anything away from what I have with her, or from our friendship.”

Her face twisted with a mixture of relief and disbelief. “That’s not how it’s supposed to work.”

Andy finally looked at her, letting her see the truth of it. “Says who? I don’t expect every relationship in the harem to look the same. I love Liesa, but she loves you, too. If she wants to marry you, or for that matter, us both, why not?”

Sam let that hang in the air. A wind picked up, stirring the coarse hairs on Andy’s legs, and ruffling the frayed hem of Sam’s shorts. She fiddled with the coffee cup, then crushed it in her hand and lobbed it towards a driftwood log. “You know, all my life I figured I’d just… never do the whole, you know. Wedding thing. Not out of principle, just because it was for other people. Straights. Rom-com idiots. I was the friend who talked you out of it at your bachelorette party, not the one in the dress.”

She looked down, lips pressed into a hard line. “I guess I just didn’t want to set myself up for disappointment. Like, if you never dream about it, you never have to be let down when it doesn’t happen.” Sam looked at her hands, then back at him. “Wouldn’t it feel weird if she wore my ring, too?”

Andy considered, then said, “I don’t think so. A ring’s just a thing. The part that matters is what it means.”

“You really think Liesa would want to marry me?” she asked, voice smaller than before.

Andy turned to her, brow furrowed. “I know she would. I think you’re the only person she’s ever let see the messy parts. She trusts you.”

Sam shook her head. “That’s not true. She trusts you way more.”

Andy smiled. “Maybe. But you bring out the parts of her that don’t have to be perfect. She’s always trying to impress me. With you, she can just exist.”

Sam snorted, but Andy could see the compliment landed. She bit her lip, then said, “I’d want you to be there. Like, really there. If I ever did it.”

Andy’s heart twisted a little. “Of course.”

She shifted her weight, then gave him a sharp look. “You’re not just saying that, right? Because if you hated it, you could tell me.”

He nodded. “I promise. I really mean it, Sam.”

She let that land, then tilted her head, grinning. “A week ago, you were agonizing about whether it was okay to love Laura differently than the rest. Now you’re telling me you cracked the code, and you're cool with the rest of us marrying each other, too?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “I’m learning to get over myself, Sam. You taught me that, actually.”

She gave a little salute, but her cheeks were pink with embarrassment. “Yeah, well. You’re still a doofus.”

He grinned, then bumped his shoulder against hers. “Takes one to know one.”

For a moment, the air was full of salt and sun and possibility. Then Sam exhaled, long and loud. “I don’t know if she’ll say yes,” Sam admitted. “She’s had a lot of shit in her life. I don’t want to make it worse by screwing this up.”

Andy reached for her hand, squeezing it hard. “You won’t. You’re different, this time. And if you want backup, I’ll be there.”

She looked at him, then down at their hands. “That’s a hell of a thing to promise.”

“I mean it,” Andy said.

They sat in silence again, hands locked, watching the tide suck back over the rocks, leaving behind tidepools and slick ribbons of kelp.

“I never thought I’d be the marrying type,” Sam said, eventually, voice almost lost in the crash of the surf.

“Me either,” Andy admitted. “But then again, I never thought I’d get back together with Erin, or see Laura alive, or meet Claire again.”

Sam smiled, not a big one, but real. “We’re a long way from Scarsdale and from the Blue Bean, huh?”

He laughed, then pulled her into a hug. She let him, clinging for a second before shoving him away, mock-offended.

“If you tell anyone I cried on your shoulder, I’ll kill you,” Sam said, her eyes fierce but wet.

He grinned. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She wiped her eyes with her sleeve, then looked at the sea. “I have an idea for the proposal, but I don’t want to overshadow your first date with Laura. So I’ll wait until after.”

Andy shook his head. “Don’t wait on me. Do it when you’re ready.”

She chewed on the thought for a minute, then nodded. “I need to work up the courage, anyway.”

They sat like that, quiet, for a few more breaths. The gulls screamed overhead, the sun crept up another inch, and Andy found he liked the feel of the world as it was, no need to fix or change it.

Sam was the first to stand. She shook out her legs, dusted the sand off her shorts, then turned to face him.

“Thanks, Andy,” she said, voice clear. “You’re the best friend I could ever hope for.”

He smirked. “Don’t get sappy.” But he stood and pulled her into a hug, letting her rest her head on his chest. “You’re my best friend too, Sam. I’ll always have your back.”

She rolled her eyes, then gave him one last, rib-cracking hug. “You got me through all the bullshit, and you don’t even complain. You deserve all the happiness you can get, too.”

He hugged her back, squeezing until she squeaked. “Go get her, Sam.”

Sam grinned, then jogged off down the beach, shoes digging trenches behind her. She turned once, waved, and then vanished behind the first bend in the shore.

Andy sat on the rock a while longer, letting the wind strip away the last of the old anxieties. He felt lighter than he had in weeks, like he could breathe deeper, stand taller. It was going to be a weird, wild future, but for once, he felt ready for it.

He watched the sun break over the waves, and when he finally got up, he smiled. There was a lot more day left to spend.

The thing about Myra’s new vision was that it didn’t make the world look like a cartoon, or a light show, or even an X-ray of human secrets. It was subtler and stranger: a second layer over everything, shimmering and alive, impossible to look away from but oddly easy to interpret if she let it happen without thinking. Colors for feelings, colors for intentions. And more than color: a kind of heat, a movement, the texture of wanting.

She found Andy on the beach, and walked towards him, the cane in one hand, her shoes in the other, her bare feet caressed by the soft sand, her fox ears twitching towards the sound of the waves but then, unerringly, aiming for Andy.

The closer she got to him, the more intense it was. His outline glowed with a yellow, bright as an egg yolk, pulsing with the calm, clean light of happiness. It haloed his whole body, but was thickest around his hands and the corners of his mouth. As she slowed, another color shimmered out from the yellow, a pink like strawberry mousse, dancing and filigreed with little ribbons. That was for affection, she’d learned—sometimes platonic, sometimes not. The pink didn’t bleed into the yellow, it braided through it, like spun sugar on a cake.

And then there was the silver. A thin wire, barely there, wrapped Andy like a thread. It was always about him, like it was always about Laura. It was different from every other aura, brighter, less warm. More like moonlight on a knife than sunlight on skin. But it was always there, and sometimes she thought she could almost see the thread, thin like a cobweb, that united them.

She stopped, just close enough to hear the way his breathing changed when he saw her. She liked that he didn’t try to pretend he hadn’t noticed, didn’t make a joke or a big deal of it. He just said, “Hey,” his voice softer than the breeze.

Myra gripped her cane, even though she didn’t need it anymore, really. It was a gift from three people who had cared. And she liked the weight, the certainty. She answered, “Hi,” and let it sit there. She knew she should probably ask how his morning was, or say something witty, but she didn’t have a script for this moment and didn’t want to screw it up.

Andy waited, letting the silence bloom. He was good at that, not filling the air with words just because it was empty. He let her be the one to move first.

Which she did, slowly, so she wouldn’t lose her nerve. “I know you have your big date night with Laura soon,” she said, feeling the words come out flat, but she powered through. “But today is ours and I wanted to see you before that, because—” Her voice caught, but she **** it forward. “Because I’m nervous.”

He tilted his head, that familiar micro-movement she’d learned was his version of a hug. “Why nervous?”

She shrugged, then caught herself, unsure if the gesture would read. “I don’t know the rules,” she said. “I mean, not just with you, but with dating, or being a real person in general. I never got past the part where you’re supposed to know what you want, or what to say. The last time I liked someone, I was, like, sixteen. And then with work, I never had time, and after the blindness, I thought…” She trailed off, realizing she was probably over-sharing, but unable to stop. “I’m afraid if I screw this up, I’ll lose the only thing that feels real to me in this whole game. I know that sounds dramatic. Sorry.”

She braced for him to say it wasn’t dramatic, or to make a joke. Instead, Andy stepped forward until he was close enough to touch, and she could feel the prickle of his emotion in the air—yellow gone nearly white, pink blooming like a flare.

“Myra,” he said, “I don’t need perfect. I like you. I want to spend time with you.”

For a second, Myra thought she might cry, but instead she just gripped the cane tighter and looked at the sand.

“I know that,” she managed. “I just… I don’t want to embarrass myself. Or you.”

He snorted. “That’s my job, remember?” He let a beat go by, then added: “You can relax. I promise.”

She wanted to believe him, and maybe she did, but she didn’t know how to say it without sounding stupid. So she said, “I know you’re smiling,” and let that be the last thing for a minute. She could see his face now, with her emotional sight. Not as detailed as real sight, perhaps, but she could see that smile.

Andy didn’t move right away. Then, gently, he reached out and touched her free hand. His skin was warm, and the aura that came off the contact was a sudden spike of soft, pale gold—reassurance, she thought. Trust.

“You’re doing fine,” he said. “You don’t have to try so hard.”

Myra exhaled, the tension leaving her in a rush so intense that she actually wobbled, but Andy caught her elbow, steadying her.

She laughed, soft and breathy. “I’m supposed to be the doctor. You shouldn’t have to take care of me.”

He squeezed her hand. “We take turns. That’s how it works.”

Something inside her—something big and loud and messy—settled for the first time all day. She found she could stand up straighter, could let her shoulders drop, could breathe deep and not worry about how she looked doing it.

“Thanks,” she said. “For not making it weird.”

Andy grinned, and she could feel the smile in the warmth of his hand. “So what’s the plan?” he asked. “Did you want to sit, or—?”

She shook her head, excited now, some of the old energy returning. “I want to show you my Sanctuary. If you’re not in a hurry.”

“Lead the way,” he said, and she did, her hand still in his as they turned away from the waterline and toward the gardens beyond the cove.

Myra walked with more confidence than she felt, but it didn’t matter. She could see the path ahead in the colors that radiated from Andy, the way his anticipation glimmered blue-green, curiosity silvering every edge.