The Waiting, Part 2

Emily walked the halls in a daze, her hair sticking to the wet places on her back, her toes numb from the chill, her shoes splattered with river-mud. The Main Building was deserted, the Mildreds keeping an oddly respectful distance, the scent of fresh bread drifting from a kitchen she couldn’t see. She had a vague sense of passing other women—maybe Marissa, maybe Norah—moving through the corridors like ghosts. She barely registered them.

The door to her room clicked shut behind her, the heavy sound echoing in the quiet. She sat down hard on the edge of the bed, the soft mattress collapsing under her weight, the sheets cool against her skin. Her arms hung between her knees, her head down, her hair in a tangle of pink and gold.

She stared at the floor for a long time. The pattern in the tile was a blue-and-gray swirl, almost like a Van Gogh sky, and she let herself follow the lines until the shapes stopped making sense.

She was tired, but not sleepy. She felt like she’d been awake for a hundred years.

Every vision from the Garden ran through her head, in fast-cut montage. Emily realized she was collecting them, one by one. She was building a scrapbook, but every page was a different kind of hurt. She wanted to glue them into a book and lock it away somewhere, but her hands kept picking them up, over and over, turning them into little origami shapes that she folded and refolded until they tore at the creases.

She glanced up, caught her own reflection in the window. The face looking back was not the girl she’d been six months ago. The eyes were deeper set, the mouth not quite ready to smile. She looked like someone who had lived in another person’s skin for a while and forgotten how to get out.

The thought made her laugh, but the sound was bitter and sharp. She wondered what Jake would say if he could see her now—if he’d even recognize the woman who’d shot herself with a transformation gun for points, who told Andy she wanted to be his girlfriend and his toy and his sex **** at once, who had watched a miracle happen on a sandbar and not known if it was meant to be a gift or a punishment.

She let her head fall back, the ceiling a blank, bright square overhead. She wanted to sleep, but her mind wouldn’t let her.

Instead, she let the memory of the Hollow Garden rise up, filling her with the remembered scent of lavender and the hush of a world built for rest. She saw Sarah, hollow-eyed and perfect in her hospital gown, staring out at nothing and waiting for a miracle that would never come. She saw herself spooning soup into Sarah’s mouth, wiping her chin, singing off-key lullabies because it was better than the silence.

She wondered if that was the future for any of them: locked in a memory, cared for by strangers, unable to speak or move or even want.

Emily rolled onto her side, pulling the hotel’s thin blanket over her. The fabric smelled faintly of coconut and bleach. She curled her knees up, hugged herself. She tried to let the visions go, but they stuck to her like glitter, impossible to wipe away.

She squeezed her eyes shut. In the dark behind her eyelids, she heard Andy’s voice—not the real one, but the one from her dreams, gentle and low, promising things he couldn’t possibly keep. She remembered their conversation before the challenge, when he’d asked her what she wanted, and she’d answered honestly, even though it scared her.

“I want to be wanted,” she’d said.

She still did.

Even if the world didn’t make sense anymore, even if miracles hurt as much as they healed, she still wanted to be wanted. She wanted to be chosen.

She let herself drift in that thought, the world spinning on without her, until at last she was able to lie still.

Dawn found Emi halfway to the beach, her steps steady but with a cautious, almost rehearsed cadence, as if Emi feared that if she walked too quickly she might reach the end of something she wasn’t ready to finish. There was a strange kind of dignity in the way she moved, barefooted and dark-haired against the sandy shore, the wind snatching at the hem of her dress. The sky was the soft blue of the morning, pale and already fading to white above the glassy surf, but the sand underfoot still clung to the memory of night, hoarding the last of its cold against the coming heat. Emi’s hair was loose, tangled around her ears and jaw, and the tears that had dried on her cheeks glimmered in the sunlight, a silver latticework that caught every angle of the light.

Dawn didn’t announce herself, not at first. She was careful not to intrude on Emi’s rhythm, instead matching the slow sway of her steps, hands folded behind her back in a posture she remembered from childhood—her mother’s way of keeping her own anxiety out of her face. It was a small thing, but she hoped it would make Emi feel less observed, less alone.

They walked together for a while, saying nothing. The silence wasn’t total—the air was full of the staccato song of sandpipers, the slow grind of waves drawing back from the sand, and the distant thump of some machine at the far end of the gardens. But it was the silence of two people who understood, on a bone-deep level, that words could only ruin certain kinds of moment. Emi’s shoulders rose and fell with each breath, and Dawn fell into the habit of timing her own to match. When Emi stopped at the tideline, toes curling against the shock of wet sand, Dawn drew up beside her and waited, keeping her body angled toward the water rather than at her friend.

For a long time, Emi said nothing. The ocean was a flat blue sheet, and the rising sun painted a line of white directly at their feet. Somewhere behind them, gulls screamed over a scrap of bread, but neither woman flinched. Only when the wind shifted and drew a lock of hair into her mouth did Emi finally speak, her voice stripped of ornament, all the usual flourishes burned off by salt and grief.

“I saw her,” Emi said, and for a moment it sounded like a confession. “I saw Laura. Not as a ghost, or a memory, or some figment. I saw the real her. The girl who died, but all grown up.”

Dawn nodded, but didn’t risk a word that might break the spell.

“We talked,” Emi continued. “I thought it would be—” She cut herself off, huffed a small, incredulous laugh. “I thought if I ever got the chance, I’d just yell at her, or say all the things I was supposed to say at the funeral. But when I saw her, it was like neither of us could let go of the bad parts until we’d said everything out loud, even if it hurt.” Emi looked down at her hands, twisting together in a mess of nerves. “She told me she forgave me, Dawnie. And I forgave her, too. She promised, if she ever got another chance, she’d do better. That she’d try for real.”

Dawn let the words hang between them, suspended like a note at the edge of a song. She thought of her own vision, and how she’d watched Emi at Laura’s funeral, a child in a borrowed dress with a daisy chain around her wrist, her face locked in a grief too big for her body. The memory was sharp, almost painful, and Dawn wanted to ask if Emi remembered it the way she did—if she’d ever been able to let herself mourn, or if she’d just packed it away in some hidden corner of her heart.

Instead, she said nothing, and watched as the wind caught the water, flicking sheets of foam over Emi’s feet.

Emi’s hands stilled. The lowest pair twitched like they were unsure whether to hide or hold on. “The Garden messes with your head,” Emi said, “but this felt—I don’t know. Like it mattered.”

Dawn smiled, and put as much sincerity into the words as she could without making a scene. “I believe you.”

Emi’s lips parted in a brief, surprised hush, and for a second the tension in her shoulders uncoiled. She turned her face back to the water, watching the sunlight bounce off a wave, and when she spoke again her voice was softer, almost private. “I keep thinking, what if the real Laura doesn’t remember? What if she’s still mad, or worse, she doesn’t even know me at all?” Emi’s mouth twisted. “It’s so stupid. She died, and all I can think about is whether she’ll forgive me. Like I’m the one who needs it most.”

Dawn shook her head. “It’s not stupid, Emi. You want to fix things. That’s what people like us do.”

Emi didn’t answer right away. She just looked out at the horizon, where the ocean met the sky in a color Dawn couldn’t name. Then she said, “Were you scared, in the visions?”

Dawn nodded, the memory sharp and strange. “Yeah. I was.” She let the next words come slowly, shaping them around the ache in her own chest. “I saw you at her funeral. I saw how much it broke you.” She paused, searching for the right words. “I think the only way you get through something like that is to carry it until you don’t have to anymore.”

They stood there like that for a time, the words pulsing between them in sync with the pull of the tide. Dawn remembered, with a clarity that made her teeth ache, the feeling of watching someone you loved lower a flower into a grave and then walk away, and how the world just kept spinning as if the absence weren’t a wound in the air itself.

Emi was silent for a long time. The wind picked up, tugging at her dress, and the sound of the surf filled the spaces between their breaths.

Dawn reached out and closed her hand over Emi’s—one of the new ones, because it seemed to need it most. “If it’s real for you, it’s real. That’s how this place works.” She paused, then added, “And if it isn’t—if everything’s fake—then you remember for both of you. That’s how it starts to be real.”

For a while they just stood together, feet sinking into the cold, wet sand, Dawn unsure who was comforting whom. The wind had picked up, chapping their cheeks and tangling Emi’s hair into impossible knots. But neither woman hurried. They watched the waves, the gulls, the strange curling foam that laced the tide, and for a moment Dawn felt the kind of peace that only comes when you’ve bled out every last drop of regret and there’s nothing left but honesty.

After a while, Emi said, “Thank you,” so quietly Dawn almost missed it.

She squeezed Emi’s hand, then let it go, and they walked up the beach together, their shadows trailing long and thin across the sand.

The rec room in the Main Building was built for comfort, not intimacy—wide couches, low tables, lighting so soft it made everything look a little out of focus. Even so, by noon, most of the harem had drifted in, drawn by some primitive need to not be alone with their own thoughts.

Sam was the first, or at least the first to admit defeat in falling asleep, after all the chaos and the emotional onslaught of the Fourth Challenge. She padded in, grabbed a seat at the end of the largest couch, and propped her feet on the coffee table. She watched the sunlight shift across the tile floor, waited, and let the quiet settle in.

Chloe and Riley came next, bearing mugs of tea they’d brewed themselves in the staff kitchen. Chloe’s shirt was a size too small, the buttons barely holding, but she didn’t seem to care. Riley had dark circles under her eyes and a rawness to her voice, but her touch on Chloe’s elbow was gentle and sure. They set down the tray, poured out mugs for anyone who wanted them, then collapsed side-by-side into the loveseat, Chloe curling into Riley’s side like a cat seeking heat.

Norah and Liesa arrived together, Norah’s heels clicking even on the carpet, Liesa gliding beside her with that impossible mix of grace and exhaustion. Liesa sat immediately, pulling her knees up to her chest, while Norah hovered for a moment before sitting, hands folded in her lap, gaze flickering over the room like she was counting the exits.

Dawn and Emi came in after, arms still linked from their walk on the beach. Dawn guided Emi to a chair by the window, then perched on the arm, her bunny ears drooping at the tips. Emi’s face was clean now, but the skin around her eyes was swollen and pink. Dawn poured her a mug, pressed it into her hands, and only then let herself sit, watching Emi with a steady, careful attention.

Marissa entered a few minutes later, leading Myra by the arm. Myra’s cane tapped against the wall once, then she folded it and sat next to Marissa, her head down, hands clenched in her lap. Marissa brushed a stray lock of hair off Myra’s forehead, murmured something too quiet to hear, and kept her arm around Myra’s shoulders the entire time.

Emily never joined them, but Sam had heard her moving in her room—water running, a muffled laugh, the scrape of a chair on tile. She made a mental note to check in on her later.

Conversation, such as it was, never really found a rhythm. Someone would say something—about the color of the sky, the taste of the tea, the weird chirp of the island birds at midday—but it would die almost instantly, the silence rolling back in. Sam didn’t mind; sometimes people just needed to hear the sound of other people breathing. It was the same at the Blue Bean in New York, after a bad news day. Nobody said anything, but everyone sat together until they could.

It was Riley who broke the silence first, in a voice so casual it might have been a joke if anyone had the energy to laugh. “Anyone seen Andy?”

For a moment there was only the hush—mugs on wood, the faint whirr of the lobby AC. Then a halfhearted rustle of negatives: a shake of Chloe’s head, Norah’s brow furrowing, Liesa’s hands opening in a universal gesture of “not my problem.” Marissa’s eyes flicked up from her tea, sharp as ever, and she spoke with a clarity that seemed to cut through the collective haze. “He’s in the Suite,” she said. “With Laura, I’d guess.”

The syllables of Laura’s name hung like oxygen in the air—necessary, but too heavy, too dry, impossible to swallow. Sam felt the entire room tense, every woman there bracing for the aftershocks. There was no denying the reality, not after the morning’s miracle.

Chloe placed her mug down, fingers trembling just enough that the porcelain chimed against the tray. “Well. She’s probably the only one who gets to see him for a while, right?” Her tone was breezy, but her eyes were fixed on a point somewhere beyond the window, far past the neat lawn and the riotous flowers.

Norah folded her arms and leaned back in her chair. “Does anyone believe this… resurrection is going to change anything? For him, I mean.” She didn’t have to clarify what “anything” meant. Andy’s guilt had powered the sun around which they’d all orbited for weeks; if the center of gravity shifted, what did that mean for the planets?

Riley snorted, the sound brief but sincere. “It already did. Did you see his face on the sandbar? Dude looked like he’d actually come back from the dead, too.” The comment was meant to be sardonic, but it landed with enough **** to make Myra flinch. Sam saw it: the way Myra’s shoulders hunched, hands clutching tight to the cane she so recently had received.

Liesa offered a wry, exhausted smile. “I think it changes everything. For all of us.” She let her arms drape over the back of the chair, as though occupying more space might make her less prone to collapse inward.

Dawn nodded, her bunny ears drooping at the tips in a little show of hopeful solidarity. “He deserves it,” she said, softly; and Sam could tell Dawn meant it, all the way down to her bones. “Even if it… hurts, you know?”

Nobody answered her right away. Everyone was waiting—for Andy to walk in, for Arabella to appear in a puff of logic, for the game to announce with a flourish that the stakes had been raised. When nothing happened, Sam realized they were all looking at her, waiting for her to say something, as if she were the designated quarterback for group feelings. She reached down, pulled her knees up onto the chair, and hugged them against her chest.

“Whatever comes next, we should try to be ready,” she said, and the words surprised her with their steadiness. “We owe it to each other. And to him.” She didn’t mention elimination, didn’t say aloud what every single one of them was thinking. The game wasn’t done with them yet. Not even close.

Chloe let out a thin, shaky laugh. “Ready for what, exactly? For the next twist? Or for Andy to decide he’s changed his mind about which one of us he actually likes?”

Sam didn’t answer. The question was rhetorical, but it still left a mark. She saw Norah’s mouth twitch—something between a smirk and a wince—as though she too recognized the futility of preparing for anything in a place where the rules bent every day. Liesa glanced sidelong at Emi, who was curling into herself at the far end of the couch, face half-hidden behind a curtain of black hair.

Marissa finished her tea in two long gulps, then set the mug down with a gentle, deliberate thunk. “Sleep would help,” she said, not unkindly. “We should try.”

It was a signal, and one by one the women nodded, casting about for their own version of agreement. They sat a while longer in the thinning warmth of the shared room, letting the closeness and the caffeine do what they could against the undertow of exhaustion. Conversation never quite got off the ground. Each topic—weather, food, drunk stories—flickered and died, unable to sustain itself against the gravity of what none of them could articulate.

Eventually people peeled away in pairs or alone, as if guided by some unspoken schedule. Chloe and Riley left together, Riley’s hand at the small of Chloe’s back, guiding her with an assurance nobody could miss. Norah and Liesa shared a brief, murmured conversation before standing; they left shoulder-to-shoulder, a rare moment of detente between two women who usually only agreed on the necessity of competition. Dawn helped Emi up—Emi’s six hands clinging at first, then letting go one by one—and the two of them paused at the threshold. Marissa and Myra moved as a single unit, Marissa’s hand steady on Myra’s elbow, matching her stride to the slow, uncertain steps of the woman who still sometimes forgot how to walk in straight lines.

At the door, Emi looked back at Sam. There was a gratitude in her eyes that made Sam want to look away, but she held the gaze, nodded. “Thank you,” Emi said, voice barely above the hush.

Sam gave her a thumbs-up. “Anytime.”

When the Hall was finally empty, Sam waited a few more minutes, just her and the clatter of wind in the eaves. She counted the empty cups, lined them up on the tray, straightened the chairs, and turned off the light so the room lay in gentle, blue-tinged shadow. Only then did she go to the kitchen, close the door behind her, and let herself—finally, truly—fall apart.