Surprise!, Part 1

Sam, in sharp black jeans, low boots and a fitted navy button-down shirt, was waiting in the hall when Andy came off the elevator, her arms folded, leaning casual against the painted stucco. On a hunch, he was wearing a white button down shirt, a sport coat, and dark slacks. At first, he thought maybe she needed him for something—an errand, a buffer, a quick rescue from some Marissa-initiated therapy ambush. But she just grinned and nodded toward the double doors at the end of the corridor, right beside the Banquet Hall, which had not been there this morning, and he knew.

“Hey, Big Guy,” she said, voice low, “Could you give me a hand with something in here real quick? Promise it won’t take long.”

Andy glanced at her, then at the closed doors, behind which the faint, unmistakable soundtrack of his own history was pumping: pop hits, jazz standards, and, unless his ears were broken, the theme from Mario Kart 64. The corners of his mouth twitched. “Is it the cake?” he asked, feigning exasperation.

“Not telling,” Sam replied, and gestured him forward. She wore a white tee with a navy tie, tight jeans, and sneakers, but her blue curls were freshly ironed and her smile had the slightly feral edge of someone about to enjoy a private joke. “Just go in.”

He reached for the handle, but she beat him to it, yanking the door wide. There was a surge of light and noise, and then—

“SURPRISE!”

A wall of sound, then a splash of bodies—Emi first, draped in a dress with a cloudlike skirt, in soft pinks and purples, six arms already poised for the most excessive group hug ever attempted by a single human; then Chloe and Dawn, holding hands, bouncing in time to the music, Chloe's breasts barely contained by an ivory knit top over a flowing dark skirt, and Dawn's black-furred bunny ears flopping with excitement, her simple white dress fluttering with each movement; Liesa hovering near the punch bowl, sleek royal blue mini dress catching light with each nervous shift of her hips; Erin's mint-green skin glowing as she balanced on one ankle boot; Norah rolling her eyes but unable to hide her smile, wearing a dark charcoal jumpsuit, belted at the waist; then Marissa, whose cleavage was tastefully (or not) showcased by a crimson dress; Claire, in a prim white blouse and high-waisted long skirt, her cat ears quivering with barely-contained excitement and her tail slashing the air in gentle arcs. Behind them all, Emily's pink-gold hair streaming like a living curtain around her nude form; Riley, arms crossed but eyes glinting mischief, wearing black jeans, a fitted top, and a leather jacket. She stood a pace behind Myra, wearing a slate-gray dress, simple and refined, who approached him with the careful attention of one who isn't sure how well her wishes will be received.

He barely registered everyone else before Emi barrelled into him, all six hands enveloping him in a squeeze that, for a moment, knocked every other thought out of his head. The feel of her: warm, all-encompassing, hair smelling faintly of fruit candy and sparkling with glitter. She let him go, but only to pull him a step further in, and now everyone else was on him—Sam with a backslap and a “Told you, idiot,” Norah with a too-hard shoulder-bump and a muttered “Dork,” Marissa with a handshake so dryly formal that for a second he wondered if she was trolling him, Chloe with a quick kiss on the cheek that left him speechless, and Dawn, sweet Dawn, who just wrapped her arms around his waist and burrowed her nose into his shirt.

They moved as one, the party’s gravitational field pulling him across the room, past a food table crammed with an impossible number of cookies (Chloe), a fruit sculpture shaped suspiciously like a penis (also Chloe), a diorama of the whole HH made out of candy and licorice, though the roof missed a dubious amount of tiles (Liesa and Riley), a DIY mimosa bar (Emily, probably), and a wall of photos that took Andy a full three heartbeats to process.

The memory wall.

It filled half the north side of the room, stretching from the baseboard to the high, arched window like a timeline that had grown wild and flowered out of control. The first row was baby Andy: cherubic, damp-eyed, clutching a teddy with more possessiveness than he'd ever shown another human. Next, toddler Andy, not much taller but already wary of cameras, frowning beside a cake that said “3” in icing. Elementary years came in bright, grimy snapshots—soccer team, science fair, a gap-toothed smile with a black eye, and, most striking, an awkward third-grade mugshot with what looked suspiciously like a tie-dye stain on his cheek.

Then the wall jumped to the middle school era: a tangle of limbs and braces, Andy flanked in every photo by someone who mattered then and who, in many cases, had vanished by the time the next photo was taken. There was a blurry Halloween pic—him and a girl dressed as a vampire, her head tipped back in a howl; a birthday party at a roller rink, him in the lead, hair wind-whipped, mouth open in a real, unguarded laugh.

Next, high school: the angles sharper now, the hair a little too carefully gelled, the smile smaller, as if he’d started to learn the cost of sharing it. College was a parade of dorm rooms, messy apartments, and makeshift celebrations—Andy in a cardboard crown at someone else’s going-away party; Andy, eyes closed, singing into a spoon at karaoke; Andy, years older, in a crisp suit at graduation, the smile tiny but unbreakable.

And then, woven through the later panels, images Andy didn’t recognize, taken here, at the Resort: group shots from hikes and cookouts, candid moments at the Lagoon, the famous “Erin Green” debut (captioned by someone, in marker, as “Our Sexy Celery”), and, most recent, a candid from the rooftop—Andy and Claire side-by-side, their hair whipped in the wind, both squinting into the sunrise.

He was still absorbing it all when Sam grabbed him by the elbow and spun him around so he faced the center of the wall. “The best part’s here,” she said, voice full of triumph.

Dead-center, larger than the rest, was a Polaroid: Andy and Laura on the hood of a car—he remembered the day, now, years ago, before the world got complicated, before grief became a habit. He was thirteen, shirt too big, hair uncut, and Laura had her arms around his waist and her chin tucked into his collarbone. She was laughing—he could almost hear it—and her blue eyes burned from the glossy print, alive and unfiltered. His own arms were clamped around her shoulders, holding on so tight it almost looked ****.

Andy felt the moment land, sharp as a punch and twice as clean. The air in the room changed, as if everyone present had exhaled at the same instant. He found himself unable to look away—not from Laura’s face, but from the arrangement of hands, the white knuckles in the Polaroid. From that boy that didn’t yet know how lucky he was, and how, within the span of three or four months, he would break, and never be whole again.

He didn’t realize he’d stopped moving until Emi’s arms came around him again, softer this time, pinning him in a way that was more support than restraint.

“Happy birthday, Andy,” Emi said.

Then the chaos of the party reasserted itself. Riley pressed a red Solo cup into his hand with a sardonic “Careful, it’s mostly vodka,” and Chloe swooped in from behind, her arms wrapping him in a perfumed cloud, her breasts flattening against his back as she said, “You okay?” so softly only he could hear. Norah shouldered him, hard enough to tip his drink, and muttered, “Didn’t think you’d cry at your own party, Cooper.” She was grinning.

Dawn snuggled against him, grabbing his wrist and nearly pulling him out of Sam’s grip. Andy let himself be carried, the feeling of hands—so many hands—on his skin suddenly grounding, even vital.

Marissa, always the therapist, appeared in his blind spot and set a steady hand on his shoulder, squeezing with a calibrated pressure. “This is a good memory,” she said, her voice pitched for his ears alone, and the echo of it—this, a good memory—lodged somewhere just above the ache in his chest.

Erin suddenly came into view, impossibly green, impossibly beautiful, and kissed him on the cheek, fondly. “Happy birthday, Andy.” She whispered, squeezing his hand.

Claire appeared last. She didn’t barrel in, didn’t jostle or grab. Instead, she approached on silent feet, her eyes huge behind vintage glasses, her body language as precise as ever. She reached out her hand, and placed it on his wrist. He felt her affection. It was her way of saying: I’m here, too.

Andy looked around the room, at the lanterns swaying under the glass dome, at the spray of color across the buffet, the balloons, the garlands, the people—his people—arrayed in a circle that closed only when he looked for its ends.

He laughed, the sound rippling out of him before he could decide if it was funny or tragic. “You guys are ridiculous,” he said, wiping at his eyes. “You know that, right?”

Chloe beamed. “It’s called loving you, Andy.”

He rolled his eyes, but let her tuck her arm around his waist and steer him toward the long table. “Fine. But if there’s an Erin-shaped cake, I’m not eating it.”

Emi’s face went poker-blank, and Andy groaned. “There is an Erin-shaped cake, isn’t there?”

Riley raised her drink. “We drew straws.”

He let the party sweep him along, and he kept scanning for the wall, for the Polaroid, for the thread that tied this moment to all the others. But every time the sadness started to bite, it was drowned out by the clamor of here and now: Dawn, who could only sit comfortably on laps (he’d forgotten that detail until she announced it, then promptly perched on his thigh and declared it “the best seat in the house”); Norah, whose four-inch heels made her still not nearly as tall as Liesa, but whose constant one-upmanship made her seem twice as tall; Marissa, who told everyone to shut up for two minutes and led an actual toast—“To Andy, the only man I’ve ever known who can make a harem out of kindness and inertia. May you always find the light, even if the world wants you in the dark.”

Emi, who drew him aside, and pressed a folded origami crane into his palm. “I made you this,” she said, voice small. “It’s supposed to hold your wishes.” She blushed. “I hope one of them is for yourself, for once.”

He kept it in his pocket, even after three refills of Sam’s Beerista-enhanced vodka-mystery punch. The main doors of the Dance Hall eased open, letting in the cool shadow of evening and the unmistakable scent of star jasmine. Heads turned as Arabella entered, not in her usual host regalia, but in a sapphire cocktail dress that made her seem almost civilian—her only concession to drama a pair of diamond-drop earrings that sparkled like little captured galaxies. At her side was a woman even more striking, Anna with her dark hair falling to her waist, over her blue gown, in a cascade of polished black, her lapis necklace and golden scarf catching every scrap of light.

The room stilled—not out of fear, but a collective, sudden anticipation, as if everyone sensed this was a turning point. Arabella paused just inside the threshold, hands folded over her clutch. She didn’t pose or announce herself; instead, she waited, letting the hum of the party settle around her.

Anna, beside her, had the air of a dignitary in an unfamiliar court: chin up, eyes scanning, smile on lockdown. It was clear she was letting Arabella take the lead, but the alertness in her gaze said she’d read the room three times already and found it… interesting.

Andy was first to move. He threaded through the knot of women and met Arabella with a quick, lopsided smile. “You made it,” he said, as if he’d been expecting her all along.

Arabella’s face relaxed. “We wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she said, and the we included Anna, who nodded, still a beat behind, as if calibrating to the rhythm of normal human interaction.

Sam whistled. “Hot date, Arabelle? Or is this the new anti-sabotage crew?”

Anna arched one brow, the gesture regal and amused. “I am only here to observe. And, if allowed, perhaps to celebrate.” Her voice was velvet, low, and carried through the crowd like smoke.

Arabella glanced at Andy, then at the party, her expression—was it shy?—so unguarded that for a second she looked like a woman crashing someone else’s prom. “If it’s not too disruptive, we would very much like to join in.”

Dawn bounded forward, her ears flopping, and reached for Arabella’s hand. “Of course! There’s so much food, and Chloe made cupcakes, and Norah’s playlist is actually good this time.” She yanked Arabella toward the buffet before anyone could protest.

Chloe hurried to set two extra plates, her face pink with pleasure at the new arrivals. “Welcome, welcome,” she beamed. “I hope you like lemon bars.”

Anna swept the room with a glance, then allowed herself to be led. She moved like royalty on vacation, each step measured but oddly relaxed, as if she’d already determined nobody here would challenge her authority and so there was no need for armor. Her eyes looked at Andy knowingly.

It took Andy a moment to realize that Arabella was nervous—not Host-nervous, but genuinely uncertain, the way someone might feel walking into a reunion they weren’t sure they’d earned. He caught her eye, and for a second, the room fell away. “You’re welcome here, you know,” he said, quietly.

Arabella’s smile, then: soft, grateful. “Thank you, Andy.”

Before the harem could finish calibrating to the presence of both women, the door swung wide again. This time, a woman with no arms entered first, her long midnight hair trailing behind her like a train. She was beautiful, but her most remarkable feature was the four enormous breasts, each pair supported perfectly beneath a plum-colored cocktail dress. Eden. Andy had not seen her since the three-nights-in-one, almost one month ago. He felt the jolt of recognition and, at the same instant, saw the ripple of surprise as the harem registered her entrance.

Beside her, holding the door open with one hand and a tote bag in the other, was Dinah. She looked just as relaxed as Andy remembered—her brown bob neat, her green eyes sharp, her face unlined except for a hint of crow’s feet at the edges. Her outfit was understated: a button-up blouse and black skirt, the kind of thing a hospital administrator might wear to a staff party. She stood in the threshold, as if waiting for permission.

Arabella turned to Andy and, voice pitched for only him, said, “I hope you don’t mind. I thought… maybe some old friends would make today even better.”

He blinked, then nodded, words failing him for once.

Eden made her way in, her hips swaying with a sensuous grace that seemed both practiced and involuntary. She moved straight to Andy, dipped her head in greeting, and then pressed her cheek to his, a gesture made more intimate by the way her body hovered, just barely not touching. She lingered there, her warm eyes meeting his, then let herself be swept by the sound and color of the room.

Dinah, by contrast, made a beeline straight for Andy, her stride purposeful and direct. Her face softened as she reached him, and she pulled him into a warm embrace. "Happy birthday, you impossible man," she murmured against his ear, squeezing him once before stepping back. Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she studied his face. "You look good. Better than the last time I saw you." She glanced around the room, noting the curious stares from the women who didn't recognize her. Only Arabella, Anna, and Emily acknowledged her with knowing nods. Dinah winked at Andy and lowered her voice. "I saw you've been busy since our last meeting. We have a lot to catch up on."

Andy couldn’t help but smile. As ever, Dinah’s energy was infectious. “It’s good to see you too,” he replied, returning the hug.

Meanwhile, the harem processed the newcomers as only they could: with a combination of genuine curiosity, professional interest, and subtle defense of turf.

Emi was first to greet Eden, all six arms going for a hug but catching herself at the last second, unsure how to approach Eden’s lack of limbs. “I love your hair,” Emi blurted, “and your dress, and your everything.” Her honesty was so pure it bypassed embarrassment.

Eden blushed, color rising all the way to her ears. She looked embarrassed.

Riley hung back, arms crossed, watching for any sign of ulterior motive. When she caught Eden’s eye, she gave a chin-tilt of acknowledgment, then returned to her post near the music, guardian of both the playlist and the party’s emotional perimeter.

Claire, ever the observer, watched the new arrivals from a safe vantage. She scribbled something in her notebook, then folded it and tucked it away, her cat ears flicking in curiosity. Eventually, she sidled up to Anna, whose height and bearing she seemed to find both intimidating and fascinating.

Anna noticed. “You’re the silent one, Bastet’s Child,” she said. “The one who sees what others do not.”

Claire nodded, and, after a moment’s hesitation, offered Anna her notebook and pen. Anna accepted, then scribbled something in return and handed it back. Whatever it was, Claire read it, then smiled—genuine, wide, her teeth gleaming. She bowed, a small and perfect gesture, then melted away into the throng.

The rest of the harem circled, each finding their place in the expanded social web. Liesa and Dawn made a point to welcome Eden and Dinah with small gifts (a paper flower, a rabbit-shaped cookie), and Chloe quickly involved Arabella in a lengthy debate about frosting ratios and the dangers of synthetic lemon flavoring. Norah eyed Dinah’s extra sets of breasts with competitive interest, but after a minute seemed to decide they were not a direct threat.

The next hour was a study in social osmosis: at first, the newcomers drifted through the Dance Hall like they weren’t sure if the invitation was real or some long-haul Host prank. Arabella, in particular, was uncharacteristically soft-footed. She made a circuit of the food table, accepted a cupcake from Chloe, and then spent several minutes examining the wall of photos with the shy attentiveness of someone auditing a class before deciding whether to enroll. Anna kept a step behind her, posture perfect but expression alert—she scanned every interaction, reading the currents of the room before dipping so much as a toe into conversation.

Andy felt the difference immediately: he’d expected maybe a little performance, a bit of Hostly oversight. Instead, Arabella was almost invisible, letting the girls set the pace, and Anna followed her lead, content to blend in at the periphery. He found himself oddly grateful—he wanted the women to see what he’d seen in Arabella, the vulnerability behind the lacquer.

Eden stayed closest to Andy, at least at first. She hovered at the edge of the group, hair trailing down her back in an unbroken fall, the four breasts beneath her cocktail dress arranged with such mathematical precision it almost distracted from the fact that she had no arms. She was tall—if not nearly Andy’s height—and moved with a graceful, swaying walk that announced itself even when she was standing still. But Andy noticed how her body tensed whenever someone looked too long, or if a conversation drew her into its center. In those moments, she’d angle her body away, eyes scanning for an escape, only to find Andy and, almost every time, relax again.

Dinah was the opposite. She scanned the room like an air-traffic controller—eyes sharp, cataloguing every face, every quirk, every conversational drift. Her ears (lynx, the fine tufts of hair picking up every stray breeze) twitched at the sound of each new laugh or snippet of dialogue. Andy caught her watching the group’s micro-interactions with a mix of caution and raw curiosity, like she was trying to solve a puzzle but didn’t want to tip her hand too soon.

It didn’t take long for Emi to close the gap. She looped around Eden, at first orbiting like a planet trying to match a larger gravitational field, then closing in for the hug that had clearly been building in her since minute one. “I’m so glad you’re here,” Emi said, not even pretending to be cool about it. “You’re—wow.” She glanced at the four-breasted, armless torso, then at the luminous hair, then at Andy, as if to say, See, I told you it gets weirder.

Eden made a soft, wordless noise—a cross between a laugh and a sigh. She bent, pressing her cheek to Emi’s head, and then straightened, looking dazed but happy. The hug had left her hair dusted with flecks of cupcake frosting, but she didn’t seem to mind.

Riley watched from a distance, arms folded, but her eyes missed nothing. When Eden glanced her way, Riley nodded once, a tiny salute of respect. Eden smiled, relief plain on her face.

Marissa sidled up to Dinah at the drinks table. “I don’t think we’ve met,” Marissa said, extending a hand with the measured poise of someone who’s already gamed out three possible responses. “I’m Marissa. Clinical psychologist, part-time wrangler of chaos.”

Dinah’s green eyes flicked from the hand to Marissa’s cleavage (a professional habit, Andy suspected) and then back to Marissa’s face. She didn’t take the hand—her own were full of mocktail and a piece of Liesa’s sourdough—but her smile was warm. “Dinah. Physician. I used to be a contestant in another harem, but I escaped.” She let the punchline hang for a beat, then added, “Arabella says I’m allowed to have fun now, but I’m not convinced.”

Marissa laughed, genuinely. “You’ll fit right in,” she said, and tapped her glass to Dinah’s.

Sam, who had been ferrying drinks and keeping a loose eye on everyone’s comfort level, made a point to check in on the new arrivals. “Good to meet you, Doc,” she said to Dinah, and to Eden, “Let me know if you want a crash course in party tricks.”

Eden’s face lit up. She nodded, then tilted her head as if waiting for a secret password.

The harem had always been good at inclusion; now, they were experts. Even Norah, who sometimes struggled with newcomers, quickly found herself deep in a technical debate with Dinah over the comparative merits of different types of high-heeled shoes for maintaining postural stability in women with non-standard anatomy. By the time Liesa and Dawn had introduced Dinah to the buffet, the four of them were plotting how to hack the next party with “theme outfits” that would make the ballroom explode with color.

Chloe made it her mission to draw Anna into conversation. She approached with the gentleness of someone coaxing a skittish animal, and offered her a lemon bar with both hands. “You’re welcome here,” Chloe said. “No expectations, just… you.”

Anna studied her, then took the lemon bar, her posture softening by degrees. “Thank you,” Anna said, her voice lower and less formal than before. “You are a kind woman, Chloe.”

The compliment made Chloe beam and flush with arousal at once, and she offered her arm for Anna to take. Anna did, and the two drifted off to the corner, Chloe’s chatter and Anna’s regal silence somehow harmonizing.

Claire, who had spent the first half hour scribbling from the safety of the window seat, finally ventured out. She approached Eden, eyes huge, and then—after a long, awkward pause—pulled her notebook from her pocket and wrote something in large, careful script: You are beautiful. I would like to draw you, if that’s okay.

Eden read it, then blinked, surprised. She nodded, then swayed so her hair fell forward, framing her face. It was, Andy realized, as close to a “let’s do this” as anyone could manage without hands.

Claire got to work, notebook pressed to her thigh, tongue poking out in concentration. After a minute, Eden leaned over to peek at the page, her hair nearly brushing Claire’s wrist. She smiled, then made a little gesture—a shrug, or maybe a bow. Claire grinned, then flashed the notebook to Andy: She’s the most interesting person here, the note said. (Other than you.)

Andy smiled, and for a second, everything felt perfect.