The Gathering of Mirrors, Part 7 (Sam)

Sam’s entrance could have been lifted from a music video. She stepped onto the path with a pronounced strut, one eyebrow raised, a half-smirk on her lips. Unlike the others, save Claire, she wore actual clothes—black leggings that clung to her calves and a sports bra in electric blue, which made her hair, now dyed a perfect match, seem to light up in the dark. She had figured out the loophole, too. He was proud of her. But both the garments and her skin was every bit as painted as the rest: rendered in earthy browns and burnt oranges, curling over her arms and torso in a celebration of comfort and strength.

Coffee beans spilled down the length of her arms, each one outlined with a gold shimmer, connected by wisps of painted steam that wrapped around her shoulders and disappeared behind her back. Her abdomen, exposed between the hem of the sports bra and the waistband of her leggings, displayed a massive anchor, its flukes painted to resemble hands reaching out and pulling her upright. The anchor’s chain was wound around her waist, painted with meticulous links and shadows to make it appear almost real.

On her thighs and shins, puzzle pieces in every warm color fought for position, some locked together, others waiting for a match. A painted sunrise spilled up from her left ankle, the rays threading through the puzzle pieces and climbing higher, illuminating the rest of the art. On her back, as she turned, Andy saw the full spread of the painted sunrise—crimson and gold, with the first hint of pale blue sky. There were small touches everywhere: a pair of clasped hands just below the inside of her elbow, an infinity symbol tucked into the crook of her knee, a miniature version of her favorite graphic novel panel inked on her left bicep.

She came to a halt three paces from him, did a half spin—hair fanning out, the highlights spiking in the air—and then gave him a flourishing, two-handed bow. “Your Majesty,” she intoned, voice pitched to carry to even the furthest row of VIP perverts. “I have arrived for judgment. Be merciful.”

Andy started to laugh, but the sound caught somewhere near his sternum and transformed into something warmer than humor. He hadn’t realized until now how much he’d missed this, the way Sam’s presence always flipped every script and then made you feel dumb for even trying to follow one.

She straightened, made a show of dusting off imaginary dirt from her painted forearms, and then stood there, arms akimbo, waiting for him. “Bet you thought I’d be naked, too,” she said with a grin, eyes gleaming. “Sorry to break the fantasy, boss.”

Andy couldn’t help but laugh. “I kind of figured you’d hack the system. But I thought you’d at least go for panties or something.”

Sam made a faux-offended face. “Please. I’m not a savage. If I wanted to show off, I’d have to charge extra. LonelyFans isn’t going to run itself.”

He snorted. “I thought you said you had too much dignity.”

She shrugged, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “**** times, man. Besides, have you seen the price of rent in Chicago?” She let that hang. “Also, side note? The sports bra is more revealing than I expected. Kind of wish I’d stuck with the old crewneck.”

He smiled, then caught himself staring, not at her breasts but at the way the painted steam curled into the hollow of her collarbone. “You nailed it, Sam. I mean that.”

She seemed genuinely surprised by the sincerity; her smile faltered for a moment, then came back with reinforcements. “Aw, you old softy. You say that to all the girls who get painted up as a cup of coffee for you?”

He burst into laughter, and she seemed genuinely pleased. “Seriously, thanks, man. I was worried the anchor would be too literal, but I figured you’d get it.”

He did. The symbolism wasn’t subtle, but that was never Sam’s style. She’d always been the one to take the most direct path, no matter how many toes got stepped on. He reached out, tracing the line of the anchor with a fingertip, careful not to smudge. “I like the chain,” he said.

She nodded. “Thank you. Perran, or Mildred, or… or whatever, has a delicate hand.” She flexed her arm, showing off the tiny coffee beans. “Girl is a machine.”

He nodded. “Yeah, she’s intense. But this—it’s really you, Sam. I mean, the anchor, the hands, even the chain. It’s… you.”

She went quiet for a beat, the bravado draining away for just a second. “That’s what I was going for,” she said. “I almost did a big tattoo of our old band logo, but then I thought about it, and… well, I dunno. I guess I wanted it to mean something, not just be a joke.”

Andy laughed again, then let his gaze linger on her face, the set of her jaw, the softness behind her eyes. “Why the puzzle pieces?”

She sobered for a moment, as if deciding whether to answer honestly. “Because that’s how I always felt, with you,” she said. “Like I was the piece that never quite fit. But then you’d call, or show up, and for an hour or two I felt like I belonged. Even when you were a pain in the ass.”

His throat was suddenly dry. He tried to speak but all that came out was, “Sam…”

Sam must have seen the look on his face, because she cut him off with a grin, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Nope. Don’t say anything sappy. That’s my job.” She reached out, pulled him into a tight, lopsided hug. “Just, like—thanks, dude. You were always the best part of the day, even when you were a total ass.”

He hugged her back, just as hard. She was warm, and she smelled faintly of cinnamon and paint, and for a second Andy let himself forget the cameras, the rules, the whole impossible story. He just let himself be held. The torches, the throne, even the baroque drama of their surroundings faded into the hum of a familiar, safe memory: Sam, in his kitchen, grinding beans and monologuing about the rise of the graphic novel while he tried not to burn the pancakes; Sam, at the edge of a crowded party, making up stories about everyone else to stave off her own anxiety; Sam, sitting next to him on a curb at 2 a.m., blowing steam off her coffee and offering him the first, scalding sip.

He realized he was getting lost in it, and so did she. “Don’t get weepy on me, Cooper. It’s not your color.”

When they broke apart, he let himself laugh, then glanced down at her art once more. “Why the sunrise?” he asked. “On your leg. I get the anchor, the puzzle pieces, but the sunrise?”

She looked momentarily thrown, as if she hadn’t expected him to notice. “Oh. Uh, that.” She flexed her left calf, showing how the sunrise curled up the back of her leg and into the puzzle mosaic. “It’s new, too. It’s about… new days. Clean slates. That kind of thing.” She shrugged, but this time the gesture was shy, almost embarrassed. “I always hated mornings. Thought I’d try to see what it’s like to want them.”

She brightened, the moment of vulnerability gone as quickly as it had come. “So, are we good?”

He blinked. “Yeah. We’re good.”

Sam gave him a crooked smile. “Thanks for not making it weird,” she said, though her voice was softer.

“Thanks for making it safe,” he replied. And he meant it.

She rolled her eyes, but there was pride there. “Damn right. Now let me go join the peanut gallery.”

She marched over to the row of stools and flopped down next to Erin, who gave her a friendly punch in the shoulder. They exchanged a few quiet words, and Andy realized, with a pang of guilt, that he’d spent so long thinking of Sam as his support that he’d never wondered who she leaned on when she needed it. But she had found someone here, in this place of all places.

He looked up, already expecting the last contestant.

But for now, he held onto the warmth, the anchor, and the knowledge that even in the wildest, strangest night of his life, Sam would be there to keep him from drifting too far.