The Song Behind the Walls (Sam's Memories)

Chapter XXV: The Song Behind the Walls

The Cabana was smaller than Sam expected, which was saying something, because Sam was already prepped for “hostage shed” and “phone booth that wishes it was dead.” The white-wash on the walls was so thick she suspected lead poisoning, and the one narrow bench looked like it could support exactly one person or six hundred pounds of emotional baggage, but not both. The centerpiece, if you could call it that, was the black candelabra in the center. Its single candle glowed with a blue flame that looked more like an error code than a candle. The air was cold, but not the bad kind—more the “your organs are preserved for scientific study” kind.

Sam’s nerves arrived before the rest of her, jittering in her blood like a triple-shot of espresso. She hovered just inside the door, arms loose at her sides, watching the blue smoke writhe upward as if trying to escape the room. Behind her, Norah stood with arms crossed, every line of her posture daring Sam to flinch first.

“You want to go?” Sam said, jerking her chin at the candelabra. “I’m happy to hold your hair if you hurl from the metaphysical effort.”

Norah gave her a dry once-over, then rolled her eyes. “Please. You’ve been vibrating for the last ten minutes. Just get it over with.”

“Not sure that’s the phrasing I’d choose,” Sam muttered, but she squared her shoulders and approached the candelabra.

Up close, the blue flame had depth. It licked at the air with a weird, oily hunger, each tendril splitting into finer and finer threads. She could see her hand trembling as she reached forward, and that annoyed her, so she clenched her fist and told herself to act like a grownup.

The cold hit, sharp but clean, and the world splintered.

The first memory came fast and full: Andy’s old dorm room, the one with the floor tiles stained like a forensic crime photo. It was past midnight, maybe two in the morning, and Sam, younger and skinnier and trying so hard to seem chill, sat on Andy’s futon. The air was heavy with the scent of burned coffee and instant ramen. Andy was there, too—hunched over his laptop, shoulders up to his ears, eyes red-rimmed from the twelve-hour study bender.

In the memory, Andy’s hands twitched over the keyboard. He typed, erased, typed again, breathing like someone trying not to wake a sleeping baby in his chest. Sam remembered the exam—a brutal one, high-level computer science, the kind that chews up smart kids and spits out C-minuses. She’d bombed her own test, but Andy… Andy had nearly cracked.

She watched herself cross the room, set the cup of coffee beside him, and then just sit. No pep talk, no dumb joke. Just quiet, the sound of her own breathing and Andy’s knuckles clicking as he picked at a stress rash on his thumb.

She didn’t say a word for a full hour, and that was the point. When Andy finally looked up, his face was all shadow and sweat, but there was gratitude in the lines around his mouth.

“Thanks,” he’d said, voice thready.

“No problem,” memory-Sam replied, as if it was the easiest thing in the world.

The scene snapped back to the Cabana, the afterimage of Andy’s haunted eyes burning behind Sam’s eyelids. She let her hand drop, flexing her fingers to work out the cold.

Norah, watching, said nothing, but Sam saw her stance soften, just a touch.

“Again?” Norah asked.

“Yeah. I guess.” Sam inhaled, reached again.

The next memory hit like a snowball to the head: sharp, stinging, and so blinding it took Sam a second to register where, when, she was.

Her apartment, sophomore year, three floors up in the brownstone with the stairwell that always smelled like wet dog. The “kitchen” was a strip of linoleum, barely wide enough for an anorexic galley chef, with a battered half-size fridge they’d found on the curb and wheeled home on a skateboard. Rain rattled the sash windows, and the heater’s clank was a steady metronome for the conversation she was about to have. She watched herself move around the apartment, restless, winding loops between open textbooks and the battered counter, unable to burn off the nerves. Her hands were already locked around a chipped mug, which was as close as she could get to hiding them.

Andy sat on the wobbly stool at the end of the counter, his hoodie two sizes too big and hood up, hair a mess. He looked completely at home in the chaos, but there was something in the way he leaned forward, elbows on knees—something that said he was bracing, like he could sense a storm rolling in. The only light in the room was the jaundiced flicker from the overhead bulb, and it made the shadows on his face deeper, the circles under his eyes more pronounced. He looked tired, but not of her. Never of her.

This was not the first time Sam had thought about this memory, but it was the first time it had texture—taste, smell, the cuticle-tugging anxiety and the phantom ache in her chest. She watched herself sit, plant both feet on the cracked tile like she needed the extra grounding, and take a breath so deep it threatened to invert her lungs.

“Andy,” she said, in that memory-voice that always sounded a little more certain than she ever felt, “I need to tell you something, and I don’t know how, because it’s not even a big deal, except that it is, and…”

He glanced up, waiting, not afraid. If anything, he looked quietly amused, as if he’d already guessed the punchline but was too polite to spoil it. That made it even worse.

Sam watched her past self fumble for words, turning the mug like a prayer wheel. She knew he liked-liked her. She’d rehearsed this conversation for weeks, over and over, in the mirror and on the walk to class and even in the shower, composing and discarding scripts until the words lost all shape. But now, with Andy right there, it felt less like a confession and more like a dare to herself. She remembered how her tongue got thick and the back of her neck buzzed with static, and how she stared at her own hands like they might betray her by speaking first.

She saw, in minute detail, the way Andy’s focus sharpened. The world slowed to the lazy drift of dust motes, and Sam felt the moment expand: this was the hinge, the before-and-after, the line she couldn’t un-cross. She watched her past self set the mug down, fingers splayed to keep them from shaking, and finally say it out loud, the words landing with the clarity of gunfire:

“I’m gay, Andy. Like, for real.”

There was a beat. Not an awkward beat, not a loaded beat, just a beat—a heartbeat, maybe two. Andy’s eyebrows climbed, but not in skepticism or shock. More like awe. Like someone had just handed him a box of fireworks and told him to light them in the living room.

“Yeah?” he said. “That’s awesome!”

No trace of sarcasm. No hurt. Not even the smallest molecule of weirdness or expectation. Just pure, undiluted joy, and maybe a touch of pride, like he’d just watched her stick the landing on a triple axel. Sam saw her past self blink, caught midsentence, as if her brain was still processing the possibility that this could be so easy. She remembered waiting for the shoe to drop, bracing for a punchline that never came.

Instead, Andy grinned, really grinned, the way he did when he was about to lose it in a game of Uno, or when he saw a possum in the garbage. Full-face, eyes-wrinkling, teeth slightly crooked but never less than honest. He pulled the hood back, rubbed the back of his head. “You wanna order pizza and marathon Parks & Rec?”

Sam, watching, remembered how relieved she’d felt, but also something more complex: a kind of retroactive grief for all the time she’d wasted worrying about this moment, and for all the times she’d doubted Andy would have her back. She’d spent so long assuming everyone would see her as a ticking time bomb, waiting to go off and destroy whatever friendship she’d managed to cobble together.

But Andy… Andy just stayed.

The memory flickered, ran a few seconds longer. Andy began picking toppings, riffing on the merits of anchovies versus jalapeños, and Sam’s past self snorted, rolled her eyes, and tried to steer him away from the abomination that was pineapple. There was a moment when she caught herself laughing, and realized she hadn’t been faking it. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, her chest didn’t feel like a fist.

The world blurred again, the smoke swirling away. Sam felt the cold of the Cabana reassert itself, sharper now. Her eyes stung, and she reached up to swipe at them, annoyed, but the tears were already tracking down her face. It surprised her, not the tears, but how small and harmless they felt. Like she’d shed something old and rigid, and there was space now for actual air.

She looked at her hand, still hovering near the candelabra, fingers numb with chill. She could feel the skin tightening, the goosebumps rising all the way up her arm. She flexed her fist, then let it relax, watching the blue flame pulse in time with her heartbeat.

From behind, Norah made a sound, something between a sigh and a laugh, but not unkind. Sam half expected her to make a crack about the waterworks, but when she turned, she saw that Norah’s expression was unreadable. Not distant, not judgey. If anything, it was a look of recognition.

Sam stood silent, letting the rest of the world settle back into place. The Cabana was smaller now, or maybe she was just less afraid of it. She wiped her face with the sleeve of her hoodie, squared her shoulders, and tried to steady her breathing.

Norah, still at the back of the room, didn’t mock her. In fact, she said, “I’m guessing that was the first time anyone took it that well.”

Sam sniffed. “Gold star for the Master,” she said. “Most people needed, like, a PowerPoint.”

Norah smiled, small but real. “He’s good at that. Accepting people.”

Sam nodded, wiped her cheeks, and went for round three.

A classroom, bright lights and cheap carpet, the air dead with boredom. Andy sat near the window, one foot tapping. At the front, Professor Bolek, six foot four, voice like a meat grinder—was laying into a kid who’d missed a question. He called Andy out by name, made him stand and explain his answer. Andy did, hands trembling. The professor sneered, made a joke about “some people not being cut out for STEM.” Laughter from the class.

Sam, in the memory, stood up. She remembered the anger—clean and sharp. She called Bolek a bully, said he shouldn’t humiliate students. The room went dead silent. The professor stared her down, but Sam didn’t blink.

“Sit down, Miss Collins,” he’d said.

Sam sat, but the damage was done. Andy met her gaze, and she could see the shock in his face. Because no one else ever had defended him like she did.

Back to the Cabana. Sam felt the anger still burning, and it felt good, righteous.

Norah watched, uncrossed her arms. “You don’t scare easy,” she said.

Sam grinned, shaky but proud. “I do, actually. I just don’t show it.” She hesitated, her heart clutched tight. “There’s one more thing. And…” She bit her lip, then, before she could stop herself, she passed her hand in the smoke.

Memory shifted, memory deepened. Sam, twenty-two, twenty-three years old, was back in her parents’ living room, but not as a distant observer: she was there, body and soul, every nerve ending strung tight with anticipation, draped in the familiar suffocating weight of lemon polish, bile, and a terror so old it might as well have been coded into her DNA. The lamps were on, but the light was pale, institutional, and Sam’s mom had drawn the curtains with unnecessary ****, as if the neighborhood might be watching, waiting for the Collins family to slip up. Andy perched beside her on the rigid, unforgiving couch, wearing the blue button-down she’d **** him into. His shoulders hunched, but his face was neutral, polite, and above all, calm. Sam’s parents sat on the matching love seat, knees aligned, hands folded, the perfect American Gothic. Her father’s tie was tight enough to throttle a horse. Her mother’s hair was lacquered to a metallic sheen, helmet-like, impervious to stray thoughts.

Sam remembered the pressure in her chest, remembered how she’d secretly measured her own pulse against the grandfather clock in the hall, like if she could synchronize with it, she might make herself more solid, less likely to fracture under pressure. The entire room was a biohazard of repressed emotion, the air alive with the crackle of everything unsaid. She could recite the plan: bring Andy, play heterosexual for two hours, ease them into the truth later, maybe after a glass of wine softened the edges. But it was already going wrong. Her father’s eyes were on Andy, predatory, and every time Sam leaned toward her friend, her mother made a note of it, pressed her lips, and stored the fact like ammunition for a later date.

Andy was the one who broke the silence first, a gentle joke about the couch’s springiness, a riff on how he’d never sat on a piece of furniture so rigidly upright in his life. Sam’s mother tried to laugh, and the sound was a hiccup of nerves. “We like to keep things tidy here,” she said, smoothing a wrinkle in her skirt that did not exist. Her father did not laugh. Instead, he launched straight into questions for Andy, each one polished to a gleaming edge.

“So, Andrew, what’s your plan after graduation?” The way he said Andrew: a summons, not an invitation.

Andy smiled, soft and deferential, but Sam saw the way his foot tapped under the coffee table, the only crack in his composure. “Looking at a couple of offers. One’s in Seattle, one’s in New York. I’m hoping Sam and I can end up in the same city, wherever that is.”

Her father’s nostrils flared. “And what does your family think of all this?”

Andy shrugged. “They want what’s best for me. For us,” he added, glancing at Sam with a warmth she tried to mirror, even as her stomach flipped.

It was all veiled, all coded. Sam could see her father trying to fit Andy into a taxonomy of manhood: Was he a provider? A protector? Was he appropriately masculine, or was there a flavor of softness that needed to be stamped out? The conversation twisted from job prospects to politics—her father quizzed Andy on “the current administration,” on whether he thought America was heading in the right direction, on whether he “believed in traditional values.” Andy handled it with grace, sidestepped the traps, but always circled back to Sam: her ambitions, her kindness, her drive. He made it a point, over and over, to say how proud he was to be her friend, to support her dreams, to be there for her.

But her father’s eyes narrowed at every mention of “friend.” There was a hunger there, a need to assert dominance, to reestablish the pecking order. He didn’t like that Andy didn’t refer to himself as Sam’s boyfriend. Sam felt small, and guilty, because she had asked Andy, begged him, to pretend to be, informally. And he was trying. Her mother, meanwhile, sat silent, never once looking Andy in the eye, instead fiddling with her wedding ring, twisting it until her knuckle turned white.

The moment of truth arrived, as they all knew it would. Her father leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands steepled. “Samantha, we’ve always wanted what’s best for you. I just hope you’ll make wise decisions, find a good man who can give you what you deserve. Someone strong, someone who will provide for you and—”

Andy coughed, cutting in: “You know Sam’s the best thing in my life, right?”

It was the most direct either of them had been, and the words hung in the air like a drawn blade. Sam could see her father’s jaw work, see the calculation behind his eyes. He was losing his grip on the script, and he knew it. For a moment, she wondered if he might actually try to win Andy over, to bend him into an ally, to use him as a tool for keeping his daughter “on the right track.”

But that was not what happened.

Instead, her father’s voice, cold and deliberate, split the silence: “Samantha deserves a man who can give her children, respect, stability. Not… whatever this is.”

The words landed with all the **** of a slap, and Sam’s hands began to tremble, first at the fingertips, then up the arms, her whole body a tuning fork for the **** in his tone. She felt herself shrinking, even as she tried to stay upright, to keep her posture from caving in entirely. She heard her mother’s sharp inhale, the way her lips parted in that old, familiar “don’t make a scene” grimace.

There was a moment—a single, crystalline moment—when Sam considered playing along, letting Andy take the lead, maybe even fully fabricating a fake relationship just to get through the evening. But the thought repulsed her. She looked at Andy, saw the patience in his eyes, the total absence of judgment, and she realized she could not undo herself, and subject him to this, just to make her parents comfortable. The cowardice of silence, she decided, was no longer an option.

The words came out before she could stop them. “I’m gay, Dad. Andy’s my best friend. He’s doing me a favor.”

The room dropped ten degrees. Her father’s whole body tensed—shoulders up, fists balled tight, a slow, spreading flush rising from his collar to his cheekbones, then draining away just as quickly. For a horrifying instant, Sam thought he might hit her. She braced, not physically, but in the way you ready yourself for a car crash: body rigid, heart a stuttering engine, mind already replaying the accident on a loop.

Her mother’s face went blank, all the blood vanished, replaced by an opaque sheet of disbelief. She made the sign of the cross, not even bothering to hide it, and started muttering prayers under her breath as though exorcism by volume might save her daughter’s spirit. Her father’s lips twisted, and he said, “Samantha Collins…” in the tone that always preceded a switching, the tone that meant he’d already decided she was guilty, and now he just needed to choose the sentence.

“I cannot believe you would bring such disgrace to this family. This is not how we raised you. Being gay is unnatural, a sin, an abomination. You’re throwing away everything we taught you for this… this corrupted lifestyle. What will people say? How do you expect us to face the community?!”

Sam’s vision blurred at the edges, a haze of shame and fury battling for control of her frontal cortex. She wanted to yell, to run, to shatter every piece of hideous, lemon-polished furniture in the room. But she couldn’t move. She was rooted, paralyzed, while her father’s words crashed over her like violent surf.

But Andy was not paralyzed.

Andy did something Sam had never expected, even after years of friendship. He squared his shoulders, placed a steadying hand on Sam’s back, and then, without theatrics, stood up. Taller than her father, but she had never thought of him as imposing. Until now. Andy simply occupied the space between Sam and the man who’d built her out of rules and punishment. He looked down at her father, eyes level, voice very, very calm.

“How dare you?” Andy said, tone stripped of all pleasantries, every syllable precise. “Do you have any idea what it took for Sam to tell you that? How scared she was? How hard she tried to be the daughter you wanted?” He didn’t raise his voice, but every word hit like a hammer on anvil. “You talk about what she deserves. She deserves love, respect, acceptance—for who she is. Not for who you want her to be. And if you can’t give her that, then maybe you don’t deserve her for a daughter.”

Sam’s mother made a faint keening sound, a noise Sam had never heard before, something between a sob and a prayer. Her father, for once, was speechless. His mouth opened, closed, opened again, but nothing came out. The whole house seemed to tilt, the axis suddenly off-kilter.

Andy reached for Sam’s hand. She let him take it, numb and unsteady, and when he gently pulled her to her feet, she stood. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder, protectively. Together, they walked to the door. Her father’s voice followed, but the words were incoherent now, splintered, drained of their power. The last thing Sam saw as she looked back was her mother, hands cupped over her mouth, eyes wide and wet, as if she’d finally seen her daughter for the first time.

The scene crashed around them, emotions raw and exposed. Sam felt the familiar sting of shame, but more than that, a profound sense of relief washed over her, buoyed by Andy’s unwavering defense.

She looked at Norah, found her watching with something like respect.

“You want to go?” Sam asked, gesturing at the candelabra. “Or is this a one-woman show?”

Norah shrugged, but there was no edge to it. “You’re doing fine. Better than fine, actually. Want my advice?”

“Lay it on me,” Sam said, bracing for a punchline.

Norah stepped forward, her arms uncrossed, her voice even. “You’re not going to win by competing with the other women. You’re not here to seduce him. You’re here to anchor him. Be the friend. The constant. That’s your power, Sam. Don’t hide from it.”

Sam felt a flicker of annoyance—wasn’t that what they said to girls who weren’t pretty enough to date?—but then she looked at Norah’s face and saw no condescension. Just honesty.

“You’re saying I’m the sidekick,” Sam said, half-challenging.

“I’m saying you’re the hero’s foundation,” Norah said. “If you try to be a love interest, you’ll lose to one of the others. And you don’t want to be the love interest, let’s be honest. Any of the other women would be more your type than Andy. But if you’re the person who holds the whole thing together, you can’t lose.”

Sam absorbed that, turned it over like a smooth stone.

“Thanks,” she said, after a long time. “That actually… helps.”

Norah smiled. “Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation.”

They both laughed, and the cold in the Cabana faded a notch.

Andy lingered at the edge of the gazebo, braced against the smooth railing and watching the sunlight hammer itself flat over the water. The last hour of day always did this—painted the sand with gold, made the whole island look less like a set and more like something someone had once loved. The contest would be re-starting soon. The memory sessions would end and the women would return, changed or unchanged, and the next phase would begin. But for now, everything was still.

Arabella had moved back there, near the foot of the throne, arms folded tightly at her waist. Her posture was off—shoulders a shade too low, her head bowed not with elegance but with fatigue.

She didn't notice his gaze at first, which gave Andy a few seconds to observe: her lips drawn in a thin line, the long fingers of her right hand massaging the space just above her right eyebrow. She looked… human.

It felt wrong to spy on her, so Andy made a show of turning and heading towards the throne, letting his footfalls thunk solidly on the wood. Arabella startled, her whole body snapping upright. She tried to look casual, but he saw her knees wobble before she locked them.

"Rough afternoon?" Andy asked, making his voice as light as he could.

Arabella smiled, the familiar, Host-issue smile, but the edges were ragged. "Hardly. You should see what I've survived on Wednesdays." She straightened her emerald dress, but her hands betrayed a faint tremor.

Andy took a seat in one of the stools near the throne, studied her. "You don't have to put on a show for me," he said. "I'm not the Audience."

Her eyes flicked up, startled. It was the most off-guard he'd ever seen her.

"It's nothing, Andy," she said, softer now. "A touch of the usual. Too much to do, too little time. I am quite practiced at managing."

"Even gods get tired," he said, half joking.

Arabella laughed, and there was genuine warmth in it, even if it was tinged with something else—regret or homesickness, maybe. "You flatter me. But I’m not a god. Not even close. And trust me, I’ve met gods." She glanced at him, and for a moment, there was a real question in her gaze. "Are you ready, Andy?"

Andy took a deep breath. "I'm just trying to not mess anyone up more than necessary. Harder than it looks, apparently."

Arabella nodded, the movement slower now. The wind picked up, and the loose strands of her hair blew across her face; she didn't bother to fix them. "You see too much," she said, almost to herself.

Andy hesitated, then asked the question he'd been rehearsing in his head for a day. "Are you okay, Arabella? Really? You seem… I don't know. Tired. Not just the Host stuff. The rest of it."

For a second, her face went blank. Then she blinked, and a new mask dropped in place—gentler, but more distant.

"Thank you for asking, Andy," she said, and this time the words didn't sound like a catchphrase. "I suppose I am tired. There are more necessities that need addressing behind the scenes. I have not been joining you and yours as much as I should, due to this. But I have a job to do, and I intend to finish it." She gave him a wry look. "No rest for the wicked, as they say."

Andy smiled back, but didn't let it drop. "If you ever want to talk, you know, without the stage directions… I'm around."

Arabella laughed, quieter now. She looked away, out at the empty beach. "Careful, Andy. If you keep seeing me, I might have to start seeing you back." For a moment, she looked like she might say more, but she caught herself, straightened, and fixed her dress with a practiced sweep of her hands. "Now, if you'll excuse me… I have a pageant to run. The runway waits for no one."

She started down the steps, her walk elegant but a touch too brisk. As she moved across the grass toward the path that led to the Cabana, Andy watched her go, trying to map the shift he'd just witnessed—the real person flickering through the lines of the Host.

He sat down in the throne, for once not feeling like a fraud. The sun was just about to hit the horizon, and the shadows across the sand drew everything toward the water, like the world was trying to pull itself out to sea.