The One Who Got Away

Room 143 looked smaller tonight. The walls, usually a pale, luminous cream, felt like they had been inched inward, the warm globe lights pressing the shadow up around the crown molding. Maybe it was the California king made bed—triple occupancy, as if prepping for a sleepover at which one girl would be a stranger. Maybe it was the scent, a clash of coconut shampoo (Claire), ocean salt (Erin, still damp from a much-needed bath in the ocean), and the new, nervy undertone of ozone and static Laura had brought in with her, though she wasn’t here now.

Claire perched at the foot of the bed, ankles tucked under her, tail swishing slowly, hesitantly. She wrote on her notepad with the small, precise print she used for secrets: He said nothing has changed. That's how it feels, too.

She slid the notepad across the comforter to Erin, whose legs hung off the edge, one foot scuffed at the heel from running up the stairs too fast. Erin read it, blinked once, then grunted—a noise halfway between acknowledgment and a failed attempt at humor.

“Yeah,” she said. Her voice was low, steady, unconvincing. “Nothing’s changed. Except, you know, we’re suddenly running a triple. And one of us died before the rest of us even started dating.”

She glanced down at her hands. The green of her skin was brighter in the lamplight, almost the color of malachite. It disturbed her that she had trouble remembering what her hands had looked like with pink skin. She flexed her fingers, then locked them together, knuckles blanching. “If I said it doesn’t freak me out,” she went on, “I’d be lying.”

Claire’s tail tightened fractionally. She pressed the pencil to the page again, erasing and rewriting a word three times before showing the message: Did you know ahead of time?

Erin read it, jaw twitching. “I had a hunch. The minute Arabella started with her ‘They should see what you’ve been carrying’ routine, I figured Laura was going to show up. But I kept thinking she’d just… give him closure. Not this.” She exhaled, shoulders rolling. The motion did nothing to break the tension in her voice. “It’s like being an understudy and being told you’ve been cast in a play, but the lead actress just arrived and is waiting in the wings.”

A pause. Erin looked at her own body, as if searching for something that would be less green, or less soft at the edges, or less fundamentally other than what Andy used to want. The nakedness didn’t help. The bare skin made everything feel provisional, exposed for judgment—especially the new, over-large breasts, which had not gotten any easier to ignore. She huddled forward, tucking her arms under them.

“I know he said it’s not going to change anything,” she said, quieter, “but… I keep wondering if that’s true. I mean, you heard him. He wants the marriage and the whole family thing. But what if she tells him she wants that, and he realizes—” She broke off, the silence more honest than whatever sentence would have followed.

Claire’s ears drooped at the tips, but she tried to project calm. She scrawled another line, this time larger, more confident: He loves us. He said it. I can feel it. Even with her here, that won’t stop.

Erin read the words, then gave a soft, not quite bitter laugh. “You’re good at this,” she said. “Calming people down. I think I would have lost my mind two days ago if you hadn’t been here.”

The words were quiet, but carried weight.

Claire looked up, meeting Erin’s eyes—dark, shiny, and almost defiant. She watched the way Erin’s gaze darted, the way she never lingered long on one spot, as if constant vigilance would keep some distant threat from closing in. Her own body was coiled, the tail pressed hard enough to flatten the fur against the bed, her feet flexed and ready to bolt if the mood in the room dropped another notch.

The silence stretched, then snapped with a small, sharp sigh from Erin. “You ever think it’s weird, what we are now?” she asked, picking at a hangnail. “Like, this.” She motioned to the room, then to her body, then to Claire’s tail and ears. “Andy says it doesn’t change who we are, but some days I wake up and I can’t recognize my own reflection. I still keep expecting to find a way back, but it’s always more—more green, or more plant, or more…” She trailed off.

Claire’s pencil hovered for a second, then she wrote, with a deadpan stare: I feel it too. Sometimes I hear myself think in cat noises. She added a smiley face to show she was joking.

Erin’s smile, this time, was genuine, if a little lopsided. “Yeah, well. Better a catgirl than a walking celery.” She poked the side of her breast, watching it jiggle, then grimaced. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to these. At least he likes them.”

She met Claire’s gaze again, softer now. “That doesn’t bother you? The way he looks at you?”

Claire hesitated, then shook her head. She wrote: It feels right. Like I know what he wants before he says it.

Erin nodded, not arguing the point. “It’s the opposite for me. Every time he looks at me, it’s like my body wants to melt, and my brain tries to run for the door.” She reached up, ruffling her own hair, then let her hands drop. “I don’t want to sound like I’m complaining. I love that part, I love how quickly he can get me going. But if you ever catch me spiraling, just… say something. Please.”

Claire put the pad aside and, without thinking too much about it, reached out and placed her hand over Erin’s. Her own skin was pale and cool, the texture delicate next to Erin’s. The contrast was shocking, even to her.

Erin stared at the hand for a second, then flipped hers over, squeezing Claire’s fingers tight. “You think she’ll actually come sleep in here?” Erin asked, voice almost small.

Claire shrugged. She started to write, then just shook her head, hair swinging around her cheeks. She didn’t have a good answer.

“I don’t want to hate her,” Erin said, voice thin. “But if she’s the thing that makes him pull away from us, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

Claire’s tail slackened, the tension easing. She wrote, quick and messy: He won’t. We’ll watch each other’s backs.

Erin nodded, and for the first time in the evening, her posture relaxed, a little. Claire had referred to her as a sister, and she knew the smaller woman was true to her word. That was part of why she had built such a strong connection with her, even though the two couldn’t be any more different.

That, and Andy, of course.

The room felt less claustrophobic, as if some pressure had finally vented. Claire released Erin’s hand, then wrapped both of her own around her knees, curling in with the practiced comfort of someone who’d spent too many nights alone in strange rooms. Erin sat back, arms behind her, supporting her as she looked up at the ceiling.

They didn’t talk for a while, but the silence had changed. It was still thick, still heavy, but now it was shared—an agreement to wait and see, to believe that the worst was not inevitable.

Claire watched Erin's face, cataloging each microexpression like a language she'd always known but only recently mastered. Her tail curled with satisfaction. The trade had been worth it—her voice for this new awareness that hummed between her and Andy like an invisible thread. It reminded her, uncomfortably, of the way Laura had described her connection with Andy—a similar preternatural knowing, a similar invisible tether, although not exactly the same.

But Laura hadn't needed a transformation to achieve it; they'd apparently always been linked, since childhood. As natural as breathing. Had Arabella known, when she'd offered Claire the Silent Muse path, that she was recreating something Andy had lost? Claire's pencil tapped against her notepad. Where did that original bond even come from? Claire's tail twitched as she wondered what ancient source had forged Andy and Laura's connection in the first place.

Erin turned and smiled, uncertainty shadowing her features, and Claire reached out to pat her hand. This was what Andy meant when he said nothing had changed. Family wasn't about staying the same—it was about recognizing each other through every transformation.

They were mid-mope when the door banged open and Sam walked in, Liesa in tow. Sam wore a battered t-shirt advertising "The Blue Bean, Est. 2021" and held a bottle of red by the neck like a trophy. Liesa followed, less a shadow than a sunbeam, her hair twisted up in a lazy, half-done braid, skin flushed. She carried four glass tumblers, which she clinked together before setting them on the little side table next to the bed.

"Jesus Christ," Sam announced, taking in the tableau of silence and self-pity, "you're worrying yourselves sick again, aren't you."

Claire looked up, then back down, tail slipping guiltily behind her leg. Erin just grunted, but didn't uncross her arms.

Liesa smiled, soft at the corners, and perched at the foot of Claire’s bed. She looked at the room, at the triple bed, at the two women huddled close enough to share body heat but refusing to make eye contact, and shook her head in a way that said: I've done this before.

Sam twisted the cap off the wine with her teeth, spat the foil into the trash, and poured out four generous measures. She handed a glass to each, then clinked her own against Liesa’s. "To survivors," Sam said, and took a swallow. "Also to not being little bitches about stuff you can't change."

Liesa rolled her eyes, but sipped with her anyway.

Claire held her glass with both hands, but didn’t drink. Her ears angled toward the conversation, collecting it like data points. Erin sipped once, grimaced, then held the glass steady on her knee.

Sam flopped down on the bed beside Erin, stretching out as if she owned half the mattress. She looked at Claire, then at Erin, then back at Claire, and grinned. "Let me guess. You’ve already walked through every scenario, and they all end with him leaving you for his first love." She raised a brow, daring them to deny it.

Erin shot her a glare, but it bounced off Sam's armor.

Liesa leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "I know it feels like there is not room for all of us," she said, gentle. "But is not how Andy works. He—" She stopped, searching for the right word. "He absorbs love. Does not divide it up and hand out rations. If anything, I think he just gets more of it the more we give."

Sam nodded, her mouth full of wine. "It’s like his whole life is one of those chain reactions—one act of kindness, and everything explodes." She set her glass down. "You think you're being replaced, but the only thing that ever gets replaced in his house is the toilet paper. And sometimes not even that."

Erin barked a laugh, and the tension in her neck eased a hair.

Liesa looked at Claire, who was scribbling something on her notepad. After a few seconds, Claire turned it around. The page read: But what if she takes back the part of him that belongs to her?

Liesa read it, and her expression turned serious. "Even if she does, does it matter?" She said, with conviction that surprised even her. "None of us ever could take that part. And Andy has more rooms inside him now, not less. And you helped build them."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, and if you think Andy has any clue what he’s supposed to do with that many women in his head, you’re giving him too much credit."

Claire’s ears perked at that, and even Erin smiled.

Liesa reached over and squeezed Claire’s hand. "I was gone from his life for almost ten years," she said, voice low. "And when I came back, it was scary—worse than this, maybe. But he found space for me. And for everyone else." She paused. "If you think about it, none of us started as his love. None of us, except Sam and Marissa, were in his life anymore. Not me. Not Dawn, or Norah. Neither of you. But it happened. All it took was time."

Sam picked up the thread, voice lighter. "And now we’re like a… what’s the thing with all the tiny fish, moving in perfect formation? A school. Or a flock. Point is, it works because everyone’s different, not the same." She set down her glass. "I talked to Andy about this, actually." Her voice was casual but her eyes were intent. "Helped him figure things out. He said comparing what he feels for Laura to what he feels for the rest of us is like comparing your heartbeat to your favorite song. One's been there since before you had memories. The other you chose." She leaned forward. "And he chose you. All of you."

Erin's brow furrowed. "So what you're saying is she's more important."

"No, you absolute walnut." Sam flicked Erin's shoulder. "I'm saying they're different categories. Laura's his foundation. You're the house he built. Both matter." She looked pointedly at Erin. "So stop acting like you have to guard your territory."

Erin rolled her eyes, but the smile was back, real this time. "I just don’t want to be the one who gets left behind. Again."

Sam snorted again. "Then don’t be."

Liesa turned back to Claire, her own glass half-empty. "You know," she said, "when I was gone, I knew that I would be replaced. That he’d find someone smarter, or braver, or just… more there.” She looked at Erin, who turned a deeper green at the unspoken compliment. “But when I came back, I was still Liesa. And Andy was still Andy. That was all it took." She looked around the room. "I know this is hard. But I think if we trust each other, we will be okay."

Sam downed the last of her glass, then tapped it against the bottle for a refill. "And if we’re not," she said, "at least we’ll be drunk enough to not care."

Erin snorted. "You’re ridiculous."

"Thank you," Sam said, tipping an invisible hat.

The wine sat untouched in Claire’s and Erin’s glasses, too sweet for both girls, but soon the conversation drifted to lighter things. At some point, Liesa reached over and braided a section of Claire’s hair, humming softly. Erin leaned back against Sam, head pillowed on her lap, and let herself be petted like a cat. Even Sam, who claimed she hated sap, looked content.

The room was still small, but it no longer felt like it was closing in. The triple beds were a joke now, a promise that nobody was going to be left alone unless they asked for it.

As the bottle emptied, Sam declared, "We should go to the party together. Show them we’re not dead yet." She grinned, devilish. "Maybe make Andy nervous for once."

Erin looked at Claire, then at Liesa, then back at Sam. "Yeah," she said. "I think that’s exactly what we’ll do."

Liesa squeezed Claire’s hand again, and this time, when Claire squeezed back, it was easy. She offered Liesa her still-filled glass, then nodded.

The world outside Room 143 could wait—but not forever.