Stitches of Trust, Part 2

The Dance Hall was a living thing—louder, hotter, and somehow brighter than any day prior, as if the sun itself had decided to take up residence in the rafters. The enormous ceiling, a dome of ribbed glass and pale gold, was being slowly overtaken by wide banners of shimmering blue chiffon. Under the center of the dome, Claire directed the operation with the poise of a mute air traffic controller, her arms carving clean arcs and slicing abrupt corrections into the air. She wore a holster of binder clips and a utility belt strung with rainbow gaffer tape. Whenever anyone glanced her way, she flashed a small whiteboard—each instruction written in crisp block letters, often punctuated by a doodle of a smiling cat. The energy that radiated from her said: There is a plan, and you will not be the one who breaks it.

Chloe and Erin tag-teamed the perimeter of the dance floor, arms stretched overhead to fasten the ends of each streamer to discreet wall hooks. Chloe, in a crisp blue dress that fought a losing battle against her enormous chest, had her long hair braided neatly down her back. Her face, already soft, grew softer still as she reached up and pinned the end of each length. She worked with a precision that bordered on surgical, tongue poking out as she smoothed a wrinkle or corrected a sag.

Erin, entirely nude except for a battered pair of green trainers, moved with the unhurried certainty of someone who had lived in her body so long she’d forgotten it was strange. Her skin was unmarked by tan lines or blemishes, and her breasts—two perfect hemispheres of glory—moved with her in ways that seemed to defy physics. She worked in silence, her eyes on the task, but every so often she would glance sidelong at Chloe. When she caught Chloe looking back, she’d flash a predatory little smile, and Chloe would blush straight down to her collarbone and then fixate on her work with renewed intensity.

Emi skittered between the teams, her six arms juggling scissors, tape, and fistfuls of glittering stars she’d cut from gold foil. Her task was to “enhance,” but her definition of the word had everyone on edge. Sometimes she added a star at the perfect angle, sometimes she randomly taped a foot-long comet above someone’s head, and once she affixed a smiley face sticker to Erin’s right buttock and then darted away before the plant-woman could react. Emi’s energy was infectious, and every so often, her chaos resulted in a moment of brilliance—like when she suggested doubling the banners on the south wall so the sunlight would refract like “stained glass for the ocean.” Claire gave her a thumbs-up and wrote YOU GET IT in big block letters.

At a table near the bar, Marissa held a tablet in both hands, her posture immaculate. She wore a sleeveless navy sheath, its neckline slashed almost to her navel. The effect was severe, highlighting the rise and fall of her cleavage with every breath. Marissa’s task was the music; she scrolled through the playlists Erin had previously approved, testing each one against the Hall’s sound system by flicking a finger and listening for the response in the room’s bones. Whenever she spoke, her voice was so quiet it **** you to lean in—and every time she did, at least two women would slow or pause their work for just a beat, as if caught by a memory of touch. Marissa noticed, of course, but never let it break her stride. She evaluated, she delegated, she solved.

Norah stalked the room in black velvet pants, a teal blouse, and a pair of heels that had to be at least four inches tall. Her chest strained the fabric of the blouse, but she wore it as if it was armor and the world would have to accept her or not at all. She had a clipboard in one hand and a digital tape measure in the other, and as she circled, she ticked off tasks with an efficiency that would have made a general jealous. Norah’s primary focus was the centerpieces: arrangements of glass vases filled with sand and shells, some of them layered with tiny bits of colored coral or small, sculpted dolphins. Each vessel was capped by a floating candle, the lot of them waiting to be lit in unison at sunset. She corrected anyone who tried to improvise, her voice clipped but not unkind.

At one point, Emi tried to stack a third candle onto a short vase. Norah watched in silence as it toppled, then said, “Gravity, Emi. It’s a thing. Let’s keep these below the fire code, okay?” Emi giggled, unashamed, and zipped off to pester Riley.

Riley and Liesa were in charge of the “feature table.” They carried between them a centerpiece that defied all logic: a faithful miniature of the island rendered entirely in candy, chocolate, and licorice. The lagoon was a pool of blue Jell-O, the sand made from crushed shortbread. Tiny marzipan palm trees ringed the perimeter, their leaves painted with what looked like green food dye. At the highest peak, a single pink flamingo made of spun sugar presided over the whole. Riley handled her end with care, her hair a glossy black-red sheet falling to her thighs, held out of the way by a cluster of black pencils. Her tank top was loose, her jeans tight, and the slight bulge of her biceps suggested she’d spent some time in a gym before all this. She said little, but watched Liesa with the keen attention of a bomb technician.

Liesa wore a wispy slip dress that showed off her freckled shoulders and a healthy amount of thigh. She moved with a practiced sensuality, every motion languid and self-conscious, as if her body was constantly posing for a painter. But she never let go, and she never faltered. When they reached the table, she let out a soft exhale, and Riley grinned at her.

“You okay?” Riley said, and the lilt in her voice made it clear she already knew the answer.

Liesa gave a flustered nod, then reached for a napkin and pretended to tidy the base of the display. “Fine. Just warm.”

“Sure,” Riley said. “Let me know if you need to, uh, step out.”

They shared a brief, knowing glance. Then they both went to help the next team, as if nothing had happened.

Myra was assigned the table layout, which would have been a cruel joke if not for her absolute refusal to let blindness stop her. She wore a black turtleneck, flared skirt, and a neon yellow sash that said “EVENT STAFF” in bold letters, courtesy of Chloe. Myra used her hands to read the edges of each table, then arranged plates and glassware by touch. It was slow, but her results were flawless—she’d adapted to using small divots and notches to orient each place setting. If she ever hit a snag, she simply paused, recalibrated, and tried again.

At one point, she caught the corner of a long silk runner with her wrist, pulling it nearly off the table. She froze, panic flickering across her face. Riley, passing nearby, cleared her throat so softly only Myra would hear it. When Myra turned toward the sound, Riley gently took the fabric from her hand and laid it flat again. The moment was silent, heavy, but not tense.

Riley said clinically, “The centerpieces look… good. You did a good job.”

The words landed like a coin dropped in still water. Myra’s face flushed. She said, quietly, “Thank you.” Her voice caught on the word, as if it had taken real effort to say.

Riley nodded once, then returned to her task. The air between them, formerly brittle and cold, softened by a degree—maybe not warm, but at least room temperature.

At the center of the Hall, the chandelier had been replaced by a network of glowing spheres, each one dimmer than a real bulb but together casting a blue-white aura that felt like dusk on the sea. Claire, satisfied, hung from the ladder and surveyed her handiwork with a small, lopsided grin. She hopped down, dusted her hands on her jeans, and made a check mark on her whiteboard, as if to say: Next.

On the far wall, a trio of Mildreds watched the action, their faces blank but their eyes following the women with mechanical precision. Occasionally, one would blink horizontally, but otherwise they simply stood at attention, a Greek chorus of silent judgment. Emi kept trying to sneak party hats onto their heads, and each time she succeeded, Claire would offer a small, secret thumbs-up before the next hat inevitably disappeared.

The air was saturated with salt and citrus, the mix of sweat and fabric dye and the sharper bite of glue sticks melting in the sun. By late afternoon, the Hall was near ready. The ceiling shone, the tables glittered, and every last inch of the floor was swept clean by the time the music system played a low, inviting instrumental. The effect was that of a fairy tale rendered in modern materials, dreamy but alive.

Most of the women gathered by the bar to sip at the fresh-squeezed limeade Dawn had prepared, some spiking it with gin from the communal stash. Liesa nibbled at a piece of the candy centerpiece, pretending not to. Erin stood off to the side and watched the sunlight refract through the high windows, her expression impossible to read. Marissa, tablet tucked under her arm, strolled the perimeter and quietly checked in with each person.

When she stopped at Myra, she crouched beside her and said, “How did it go today?” Her voice, as always, smoothed the edges off the question, making it feel more like a secret than a test.

Myra smiled, not quite at Marissa, but somewhere in her vicinity. “Better than I thought it would,” she said. “People were… decent.” She hesitated, then added: “Even Riley.”

Marissa’s lips quirked. “You did great.” Then, softer, “You always do.”

The compliment made her blush.

Marissa stood, then nodded to the group. “Everyone did good today,” she said, raising her voice just enough to be heard. “It’s going to be beautiful.”

For a second, nobody moved. Then Emi whooped, and Chloe clapped, and even Norah allowed herself a wry smile. The brief moment of community settled over the room like a light dusting of snow—impermanent, but pretty while it lasted.

The late afternoon air in the Hall tasted of anticipation—like ozone before a summer storm, but sweeter, charged with the low buzz of women determined to perfect their masterpiece. The work wasn’t over, not quite; there were always details to smooth, loose ends to tuck, the million tiny adjustments that meant the difference between “done” and “ready.”

Emily, perched on a high stool behind the bar, polished glassware with a rhythm that matched the music drifting from the hidden speakers. She was, as always, nude from collarbone to ankle; her hair, a radiant sheet of gold-and-pink, clung to her skin in such a way that it seemed almost intentional, draping just so over her breasts, then pooling down her back to obscure her ass and thighs. Each time she reached for a new glass, the hair shifted, and the briefest flash of nipple or hip suggested itself before the curtain fell again. She hummed along to the music—an old torch song, something smoky and low—and her voice was unexpectedly lovely, a soft alto that lent itself to the melancholy of the lyrics.

Norah paced the length of the Hall, heels clicking in perfect counterpoint to the music. Her eyes scanned every corner, every shadowed alcove, looking for trouble spots. She would stop, crouch to check the tape on a cable, then straighten with the ease of someone for whom four-inch spikes were an extension of her bones. Occasionally she’d call to Emily—“Can you see if there’s dust on the top shelf?” or “Check the glass for smudges in the north light”—and Emily, delighted to be included, would leap from her stool and scurry to comply, hair streaming behind her like a comet.

Myra worked her way down the main table, fingers grazing the edge of each plate, re-aligning them by tiny increments. She’d offered to help with the centerpieces, and Marissa had joined her, candle box in tow. They set up near the window, the late sun glancing off the crystal and gilding the sand inside the vases.

Marissa opened the box and unwrapped a tall pillar candle, setting it at the rear of the centerpiece. “This one in the back, here,” she said, voice velvet and low. Then, to Myra, “Feel the edge? It’s just behind the highest shell.” She guided Myra’s hand, warm and certain, then stepped back to let her take over.

Myra nodded, her own hands steady. She worked her way down the arrangement, finding the shallow depression in the sand for each votive, then spacing the small floating candles in a neat triangle at the base. “Three in the front,” she repeated, almost to herself. “Tall one in back.”

Marissa watched, a small smile playing at her lips. “Perfect,” she said, and Myra could hear the pride in it.

They worked like that, the process smooth and almost meditative. Myra was about to reach for another candle when her thoughts drifted—not far, just for a breath—to Andy: the way his hands had held hers in the kitchen, the low patience in his voice, the heat of his body when she’d woken beside him that morning. For a second, the longing was sharp, a bright, wild ache that spread through her chest and out along her arms. The green foxfire flared at her collarbones, bright enough to cast a pale glow on the glass.

Marissa saw, of course. But she said nothing; instead, she reached across the table and covered Myra’s hand with her own. A brief squeeze, a silent comfort. They held like that for a moment, then finished the last of the candles in silence.

When they’d set the final wick in its place, Marissa stood and surveyed the table. She exhaled, then glanced at Myra, who was running a fingertip along the smooth rim of a wine glass, feeling the way it vibrated under even the gentlest touch.

Outside, the sun dipped low, painting the glass ceiling in gold and red. The work was finished for today.

By the time Andy returned to the Suite, the sun had gone down, the last strip of pink visible only as a faint echo behind the triple-glazed windows. Mildred had set out a fruit plate on the credenza, which Andy ignored. He closed the door behind him, leaned his forehead against it for a beat, and then padded straight for the bedroom, kicking his shoes into the corner.

He didn’t bother to turn on the overheads. The lamplight on the nightstand was enough—just a small pool of yellow, hemming in the darkness so the shadows fell soft. He’d left the painting propped against the far wall, angled slightly so that no matter where he sat in the room, the painted girl’s eyes would always find him.

Tonight, he wanted her to see.

Andy settled onto the edge of the bed, hands dangling between his knees. He stared at Katherine for a long time, drinking in the particulars: the impossible length of her hair, the way it pooled at her ankles; the pose that was never quite at rest, her weight on the balls of her feet, shoulders a little drawn as if bracing for a touch that would never come. Her body was always, unavoidably, exposed, but what transfixed Andy wasn’t the nudity. It was the way she still showed hopefulness—chin tilted up, mouth parted just enough to suggest breath, eyes always a hair away from smiling. It looked like she was about to step forward, break through the glass.

He let the hush of the room settle around them. He’d never been the type to talk to himself—maybe he’d been too practical, or maybe he’d always figured there was no one on the other end of the line. But tonight, the pressure behind his ribs made it impossible not to speak. He wanted to be witnessed, even if only by a painted ghost.

“Hey,” he rasped into the hush, voice rough against the silence. “Sorry I didn’t check in earlier. I guess I lost track.”

Katherine stood within the confines of the canvas, naked as always, her long hair falling where her painted hand didn’t quite reach. Her large green eyes fixed on him, tracking his every move. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t write or mouth a word—only the simplest of gestures were allowed. She shifted her weight, toes curling at the edge of the painted floor, the canvas frame her only boundary.

“I spent the day with Sam. She’ll be here soon.” Andy said, voice low and even. He paced slowly, hands in his pockets, then flicked a fingertip at the loose thread on the bedspread. “She had a lot on her mind. We talked about Liesa, about what comes next, about all the things I’m supposed to fix for other people. It was good. After I talk with her, I always feel less… stuck.” He exhaled. “Marissa says I’m getting softer, that I let things touch me again.” He shook his head, offering a thin smile. “She’s probably right.”

He paused to listen to the vent’s hum and the distant, oceanic roar beyond these walls.

“Do you remember birthdays?” he asked. “I know it’s a dumb question, but—Laura’s is coming up. Three days after mine. Used to be an extended party, the two so close. Her father didn’t celebrate her birthday, so my mom made two cakes every year. Sometimes the candles from mine would still be melted, and she’d scrape off the wax and stick them on Laura’s.” He trailed off, gaze drifting to Katherine’s painted hand, hovering at her side.

Katherine, forbidden to sit or cover herself or step beyond the canvas, leaned ever so slightly forward—an almost imperceptible dip at the waist—and lifted a single finger, as if to say, I do remember.

“It’s stupid,” Andy laughed softly, “but every year when my birthday ends, it feels like a countdown, like I’m waiting for her.” His shoulders slumped. “And then she never shows.”

He closed his eyes. “My parents never kept the front door locked when I was a kid. So Laura could barge in at any time. She had a standing invitation. And every time I heard that door click, I knew she was coming. The first time my parents locked it after school…” He shook his head, remembering the ache. “Laura wouldn’t be coming to the house anymore. She’d never barge in and go for the juice box. She’d never call my name at the top of her lungs. She’d never plop herself next to me by the TV in the den, to play Mario Kart. That’s why I like that game so much, you know.”

He rubbed his jaw, letting silence stretch until the ache in his ribs whispered again. He drew a quiet breath. “I’ve been dreaming of the river,” he said. “Of her hand, just out of reach.” His voice caught.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Missing someone isn’t the worst thing. I’ve lost people before. But with her…it’s like I lost a piece of myself that never grows back. I love Erin, and Claire, and Marissa, and Liesa, and Norah, and all the others. I do. But there’s this hollow where she used to be. Nothing fills it.”

He met Katherine’s unwavering gaze. A brief nod of her head, so slight it was easy to miss.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” he said. “Maybe because you’re stuck, too.”

He rose and began to pace, the tension in his shoulders making him restless. “Want to hear something weird?” he asked, stopping mid-stride to face the painting. “When we were kids, if Laura ran off, I’d just know where she went—what park, what path. And she always found me, no matter what. We couldn’t play hide and seek, because we always knew where to find each other.” He ran a hand across his forehead. “The morning after the accident, I woke up in the hospital and… I didn’t know where she was. I couldn’t feel her.”

He laughed, but it came out shaky. “It’s dumb. We were thirteen. We’d have drifted apart. Maybe she’d have married someone else.” He searched Katherine’s still face for a reaction. She simply lifted both hands, palms up, as if to say: perhaps.

Andy shook his head. “No. It never would have happened.”

He sat at the foot of the bed, elbows on knees, back to her painted world. “I miss her,” he said flatly. “I miss her so much it hurts to breathe.” He looked toward the painting, as if he expected her to answer.

He let memories pour out: Laura’s laugh as she dared him off the pier, the shock of cold water, the sun threading gold through her black hair. The time she made him eat an entire pint of mint chocolate chip just because she adored it. The fights that ended before they truly began, because she always forgave him first.

He remembered the last time he saw her alive—at the footbridge, muddy water swollen with rain. How fiercely she’d scolded him, how desperately he’d wanted to make it right, and how he’d failed.

He wondered, again, if she would have forgiven him.

He rubbed his eyes, blinked back tightness. “God, this is pathetic.”

Katherine’s painted brow arched in gentle disagreement. She shook her head, and shifted her stance, weight moving from one leg to the other.

Silence settled. Andy rose, began to circle the room. “Sometimes I think all this—this Suite, the game, everything—is just a way to avoid grief. Build a world where I can have everything except the one thing I can’t get back.”

He stopped before the canvas. Her eyes held a steady glow. “Is that fair? To Erin, Claire, the others? To you?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Or am I running in circles, hoping someone will rescue me?”

Katherine’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. She raised one hand, fingers splayed, in a basic sign that spoke more than words: You already know.

Andy laughed, rough but honest. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess I do.”

He sank back down, closer this time, knees nearly brushing the wall beneath her. “If Laura were here… if she’d lived… what would I have done? Loved her above everyone else? Would that have been fair to the rest?” He let the question drift. “Would it have been enough?”

Katherine considered, shoulders drifting down in the only way she could, her painted hand resting expectantly by her thigh. Andy thought of Marissa’s words about love not being a measure, of Sam’s talk about being seen. He exhaled. “Maybe it isn’t how much you love someone. Maybe it’s the shape that love leaves behind.”

He looked at her, and felt her presence as something living rather than trapped pigment. He reached out and touched the cool lacquer of the frame, pretending for a heartbeat that it was her skin.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For being patient with me.”

Katherine’s painted eyes brightened, her lips tilting in an expression of forgiving affection. She lifted her hand and placed it where his was, the closest they could ever come to touching each other. She could not lean out of the canvas, but for an instant, he imagined she wanted to.

He sat in the hush, hand still on the frame, breathing more easily than he had in months. The night could wait. For now, this was enough.