Threads in Motion, Part 3

Harem -208 BP

By three o’clock, the Dance Hall was already unrecognizable. The sunlight through the high windows painted the blackwood floor in hot stripes, while the air shimmered with the scent of fresh citrus, glue sticks, and the institutional tang of frantically deployed glass cleaner. Even with the doors flung wide for cross-breeze, the hum of activity out-shouted the ocean: laughter, the thump of cardboard boxes, Sam’s steady command voice, and somewhere above it all, the ascending “More glitter!” from Emi, at the center of a storm of paper and sparkles.

By midafternoon, the polished blackwood was a minefield of packing peanuts, skeins of twine, colored streamers, and a pair of glitter bombs so aggressive that it looked as if someone had detonated a craft store in a fit of nervous breakdown.

Emi was at ground zero, six arms in a blur of kinetic joy, three hands wielding glue guns, the others unspooling tape, paper, and tissue pompoms. “Don’t let the glue drip!” she yelled, but the words were drowned out by the high-pitched whine of a second glue gun warming up and the not-unpleasant smell of lemon-vanilla melting stick. “More glitter! More! There’s never enough glitter!”

Sam, self-appointed official project manager of Operation Birthday, moved between workstations with the precise energy of a coach running late to a regional volleyball final. “Tablecloths, then centerpieces, then that’s it,” she barked at Riley and Liesa, who were locked in an increasingly sexual tug-of-war over a gold-threaded runner. “If I see one more wasted streamer, I’m burning the Dance Hall down. You got it?”

Riley shot Sam a look, defiant but friendly, as she looped the runner around Liesa’s waist and yanked hard. Liesa, for her part, let herself be pulled flush, then used the proximity to whisper something low and vaguely threatening in Riley’s ear. Riley’s response was a smirk, but also a full-body shiver that traveled down her spine and out into the tip of her hair, which immediately uncoiled and attempted to lasso her own wrists.

“Can someone help Riley before she hogties herself again?” Sam called, already halfway to the refreshment table.

Dawn, who had been kneeling on a chair to tape up a poster, hopped off and landed next to Riley in one graceful bounce. “I’ve got it!” she chirped, gently unwinding the hair from Riley’s wrists and smoothing it down with the same competence she used on sticky-fingered hotel guests back home. “You okay?”

“I’m great,” said Riley, a little breathless. “I was trying to get her back for the pool noodle prank, but I think I just lost to my own head.”

Dawn smiled, then fluffed Riley’s hair, which responded by fanning out like a mantling eagle. “It’s a good look,” she said.

Riley glared at her. Undaunted, Dawn scampered off.

Norah stood off to the side, arms folded, running a critical eye over a stack of jewel-toned CDs she’d liberated from the Dance Hall’s storage closet. “Who alphabetized this by publisher and not by artist?” she muttered, loud enough for the room to hear. “It’s pure chaos. Pure chaos, I tell you.” She started laying out the discs in order, tongue sticking out in concentration.

Across the room, Chloe and Erin had just returned from a raid on the Annex. Chloe was carrying a huge, unwieldy bundle wrapped in metallic paper and duct tape, and Erin, fully nude but with not a single fuck to give, balanced a pyramid of party hats on her head while her breasts—improbably, almost comically oversized—served as both shelf and accidental bumper, catching every wayward box and loose streamer that wandered too close.

Chloe caught Sam’s eye as they entered, then gave an apologetic wave. “We found the sparklers, and, um… most of the snacks survived the walk.”

Emi, pausing in her cyclone of craft, called, “Dawn, could you help me hang these?” She held up a chain of origami cranes, each one more elaborate than the last. Dawn bounded over, and within moments they’d jury-rigged a display above the entryway, held together with a miracle of tape, twine, and hope.

Liesa and Riley, runner crisis averted, were now tag-teaming the first centerpiece: a scale model of the HH, made out of marshmallows, licorice, and what looked suspiciously like repurposed packing material from Norah’s gift boxes. Riley was in charge of the structural elements, while Liesa, fingers sticky with sugar, focused on the finer details—tiny icing windows, a jellybean garden, a gumdrop fountain. It looked like it would take them at least a week to get it into any sort of usable format.

“Is not supposed to be realistic,” Liesa said, tongue poking out as she affixed a chocolate-chip roof. “Is, like, an impression. Expressionism.”

Riley tilted her head. “You sure you didn’t just want an excuse to eat half the materials?”

Liesa popped a gumdrop in her mouth. “Why not both?”

Sam, making her rounds, stopped at Emi and Dawn’s station. “Looking good,” she said, surveying the paper cranes. “How’s the supply situation?”

“Running low on gold, but we can improvise,” Emi said. She was beaming, her cheeks dotted with glitter, her hair a little wild from the static. “Do you think Andy will like it?”

“I think he’ll love it,” Sam said, not pausing. “But if he doesn’t, we can always launch him into the sea.”

Emi giggled, then turned back to the cranes, her arms moving faster than ever. The energy in the room was building, not just from the caffeine and sugar but from the sense that they were, together, making something real. Something that had nothing to do with the next challenge, or elimination, or heartbreak.

Near the bar at the back of the Dance Hall, Myra and Marissa had found a quieter corner. The noise of the others washed over them, but the air between the two was calm, almost still.

Myra perched on the edge of a high stool, her tail coiled neatly around the chrome base. She held herself with the upright, alert posture of someone who had not yet learned to relax, even when sitting. Marissa sat beside her, knees together, hands folded over her lap, relaxed after the unexpected visit with Maeve. She had been thinking of the older woman's advice since coming back from Genet's set, as well as about Maeve's own concerns that she had shared with Marissa. Now, however, the therapist had other things to focus on. She watched Myra with that peculiar blend of therapist’s attention and genuine warmth.

“So, how are you really?” Marissa asked, her voice pitched low, as if she meant for it to float below the hubbub.

Myra hesitated, searching for a word that might encapsulate the tangle of fear, guilt, and almost unbearable relief she felt. “It’s… a lot,” she admitted. “More than I thought it would be.”

“Anything specific, or just the whole circus?” Marissa’s smile was small but not unfriendly.

Myra shrugged, brushing an imaginary speck from her skirt. “Last night, Andy and I talked. About the bridge, and Laura, and everything.” She paused, then, softer: “He told me what I did.”

Marissa nodded, neither judging nor surprised. “And how did it go?”

Myra’s hands fidgeted, her fox tail flicking in a tight, anxious spiral. “He didn’t hate me,” she said, like it was the strangest thing that had ever happened. “He said we all fucked up in some way or another. That perhaps it could be possible to start over, for me.” She looked at Marissa, searching for doubt, but found none. “Do you think that’s true?”

Marissa let the question settle. Then, “What do you think?”

Myra blinked, once, slow. “I don’t know. Part of me wants to believe it, but the rest just… doesn’t.”

Marissa turned in her seat, drawing her knees up so she could face Myra squarely. “Let me tell you something.” Her voice was gentle, but carried the **** of lived truth. “Sixteen years ago, you did a terrible thing. Maybe not intentionally, maybe not with malice, but you did it. And for sixteen years, even though you were not aware of the full implications of it, you tried to make up for it—by being better, by working harder, by taking care of everyone but yourself. That’s what guilt does. It turns you into your own warden.”

Myra listened, her whole body tense.

“But here’s the thing,” Marissa continued, “it’s not about paying off a debt. There’s no grand cosmic judge counting up your good deeds until you hit zero. You can’t undo what happened, and you shouldn’t want to. Not because it was good, but because it shaped you. The only thing you can do is honor what you lost—by being here, by living, by being kind to yourself, by helping Andy be happy.” She paused, eyes soft. “And maybe by letting yourself be happy, too.”

Myra’s blind gaze shifted away, fox ears twitching in the direction of Emi’s laughter. “You make it sound so easy.”

Marissa smiled, slow and sly. “Nothing’s easy. But you’re not alone, and you’re not as broken as you think. Andy’s forgiven you, I think. And I think so has Chloe, for what it’s worth. Maybe it’s time to start forgiving yourself.”

They sat in silence for a minute, letting the words filter in. Myra tried to focus on the sound of scissors snipping paper, the way Dawn hummed under her breath while tying bows, the faint scent of melting sugar and lemon. She let herself think, for the first time, that maybe this wasn’t penance. Maybe it was a second chance.

Marissa, sensing the shift, changed the subject. “How’s your vision?” she asked, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Myra exhaled, the tension easing. “No change. Still blind, but at least I can tell when someone’s happy. Or pissed.” She gestured at the room, smiling. “Right now, the only thing I feel is pure, unfiltered chaos.”

Marissa grinned. “That’s a good sign.”

The afternoon burned forward. Every so often, someone would shout “Hey, Sam!” and Sam would appear, clipboard in hand, to solve disputes or reassign resources. At one point, she caught Norah using two extension cords to jury-rig a disco light array above the stage. “That’s a fire code violation,” Sam said, inspecting the wiring.

“There’s no fire code here,” Norah replied.

Sam considered, then shrugged. “If the place burns down, it’s your fault.”

Norah grinned, pleased.

On the far end of the Hall, Chloe and Erin were assembling party favors. Erin’s breasts were a physical presence in every interaction, but she handled them with the easy confidence of someone who’d long since stopped being self-conscious. Chloe, on the other hand, seemed determined to ignore the transformation altogether, focusing instead on the perfect alignment of goody bags and the precise ratio of sweet to savory snacks.

“I think these look amazing,” Chloe said, holding up a finished bag.

“Andy’s going to flip,” Erin agreed. “You know, he used to hate parties. He’d go hide in the garage or the laundry room just to avoid having to make small talk.”

Chloe laughed, a bright sound that made the room seem lighter. “He’s gotten better. I think it’s the company.”

Erin grinned, then looked at Chloe, serious for a moment. “Hey. You’re good at this.” She sounded surprised.

“At what?” Chloe asked.

“At making people feel good about themselves.”

Chloe flushed, the compliment hitting her like a ray of sun. “Thanks,” she said, voice shy. “It works on preschoolers, anyway, right?”

From across the room, Riley watched the exchange, her expression unreadable.

At the table by the window, Liesa and Emi were now locked in an arms race of centerpiece one-upmanship. Every time Emi added a paper flower or a dab of glitter, Liesa would counter with a new sculptural element—a paper boat, a hand-folded bird, a tiny spiral of ribbon balanced perfectly on top. It was competitive, but not mean; if anything, the rivalry pushed both to greater heights of creativity.

After the fifth round of escalation, Emi set down her glue gun and declared, “I surrender. Yours is prettier.”

Liesa basked in the victory, then handed Emi a licorice bridge she’d crafted in secret. “For you,” she said, eyes twinkling.

Emi’s entire face went pink. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Sam, doing her final rounds, paused at the sight of the first completed tablescape. “Damn,” she said, admiration clear in her voice. “That looks incredible.”

Liesa ducked her head, pleased. Emi just glowed.

By the time the sun had shifted from vertical knife to golden parabola, the Dance Hall looked less like a luxury resort and more like an accident in the party aisle at Target. Balloons bobbed in defiance of all reason, tape and streamer fragments clung to the window mullions, and the scent of sweat and sugar dominated over any trace of lemon-scented glass cleaner.

Sam did her best to corral the chaos. She kept her clipboard pressed tight to her chest, her pen tucked behind her ear, and used the Voice—the one she used at Blue Bean during the espresso rush, the one that could shatter a bickering table of undergrads into respectful silence. Not that anyone ever listened for more than three seconds.

“Liesa, can you help Riley with the runner? I know she’s strong, but it’s a two-person job.”

“Yes, captain!” said Liesa, her Flemish accent as thick as the glue on her fingers. She glided over—always glided, never just walked—and joined Riley in smoothing the gold-threaded fabric over the longest table in the room. If their movements were a dance, Liesa was the ballerina and Riley the punk who’d wandered in looking for a fight, but somehow the end result was mesmerizing.

“Dawn, when you’re done with the banner, would you—oh, you’re already there. Wow.” Dawn had, in the time it took Sam to cross the room, managed to staple two banners and install a whole chain of twinkle lights with only the smallest of tiptoe jumps.

Dawn grinned, her bunny ears flicking with pride. “I used to do the holiday displays at the hotel. I can show you how to do the corners, if you want?” She didn’t wait for an answer, just bounded up onto a chair, knees together, skirt flying, and in five seconds had the whole chain secured. The cottontail at the base of her spine waggled in satisfaction.

On the floor nearby, Emi and Chloe knelt over a vast pile of party favors, dividing the spoils into neat little pyramids. Emi’s hair was already dusted with blue glitter, and her six arms darted in and out like an overclocked windup toy—taping, folding, stuffing, sealing. Chloe, meanwhile, worked at her own slower, gentler pace, but she caught every error, every backward wrapper, and corrected it before Emi’s third hand even got there.

Chloe said, “You’re really fast, Emi.”

Emi beamed, all six hands pausing at once. “Thanks! I used to get in trouble for going too quick. But you’re really good at catching the mistakes.”

Chloe flushed, hiding her face behind the party hat she was assembling. “I’m just okay.”

Emi leaned in, lowering her voice. “No, you’re awesome. I wish I could be as careful as you.”

Chloe’s cheeks went from pink to beet red. She tried to respond, but the words stuck. She gasped, squirming, and settled for nudging a finished bag in Emi’s direction and smiling shyly.

On the other side of the Hall, Norah was in a world of her own at the impromptu DJ station. She’d wrestled the battered 90s stereo from a storage closet and now hunched over a laptop, cataloging the dozens of jewel-toned CDs she’d scavenged from the Annex. She wore a pair of massive noise-cancelling headphones, which she didn’t strictly need, but which lent her a certain gravitas as she flicked from track to track, head bobbing in time.

Erin—mint green, gloriously naked, the sort of presence that made the air feel a degree or two cooler wherever she went—drifted from group to group, offering muscle or dry humor or both. She had become the unofficial problem-solver: whenever a streamer refused to stick, or a snack station collapsed under its own weight, Erin was there, breasts bouncing with the **** of her enthusiasm.

At one point, Riley tried to sneak a donut from the display table, only to be intercepted by Erin, who grinned and threatened to flex until Riley surrendered.

“You realize you could just take it, right?” Riley said, sizing her up.

“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?” Erin replied, crossing her arms under her breasts with what should have been a smirk, but on her looked almost noble.

Riley, never one to back down, squared her shoulders and met the challenge. The donut remained in play for a full five minutes as the two circled, faked each other out, and finally agreed to split it, giggling like sixth graders behind the gym.

It was during one of these donut detentes that Riley paused, gaze lingering on Myra and Marissa in the corner. Her expression shifted—less wonder, more something like suspicion.

The main event, for all its noise, left a quiet eddy where Myra and Marissa sat, just out of the traffic pattern of party prep. Marissa had her hands folded over her knees, but she looked as relaxed as Andy had ever seen her. Myra, by contrast, sat stiff and upright, her fox tail curved like a question mark around the base of her stool.

They watched the swirl of color and motion in silence.

“I think the last time I was at a party, I spent the whole night hiding in the bathroom,” Myra said at last. “My internship group threw one at the end of third year. I only went because I thought I had to.”

Marissa nodded. “I spent my first college party on the fire escape. It was the only place I could hear myself think.”

Myra’s smile was tiny, but real. “You ever get used to it?”

“Not really,” Marissa said. “But sometimes you find people who make it worth staying.”

Myra laced her fingers together. “I’ve never really had that.”

Marissa waited, the silence easy. After a few moments, Myra continued, “I thought if I worked hard enough, got good enough, I could leave it behind. But the whole time, it was just—” She fumbled for the words, “just a story I was telling myself, to get through the day.”

“You’re not alone in that,” Marissa said. “The story is sometimes all we have, until we find something better.”

Myra let her fox tail tap against the bar, the white tip flicking. “I keep thinking about what Andy said. That maybe there is a way forward. That it’s not about making it right, just… making it count.”

Marissa’s eyes softened. “I think he’s right. And I think it does count. All of it.”

They sat for a while, not talking, just breathing in the static of tape being torn and Dawn’s high, delighted laughter. After a minute, Myra spoke again.

“Do you think Laura would hate me?”

Marissa took her time. “I never knew Laura, of course. Only what Andy has told me, and what he, Chloe, and Emi have shared since arriving here. I think Laura would hate what happened, but I also think she’d want you to be okay. She wouldn’t want you to punish yourself forever. She’d want you to live. To help Andy live, too.”

Myra closed her eyes, ears flattening in relief.

Marissa changed the subject, her voice a little more brisk: “You know, you’re the only one in here who could probably tell if the party’s about to go off the rails.”

Myra perked up. “Because of the empathy thing?”

“Exactly. You’re our emotional early warning system.” She grinned. “It’s basically a superpower.”

Myra’s tail twitched. “That’s a better way of seeing it.” She turned her head, pinpointing the location of each friend by the scent and pulse of their emotions. “They’re happy. Almost all of them. Even Norah, though it sounds like she pretends otherwise.”

“That’s the point,” said Marissa. She didn’t have to ask who wasn’t, feeling Riley’s gaze boring into her skull.

They watched as Sam directed traffic at the food table, then headed over to check on the progress at the entryway, clipboard in hand. Liesa and Riley were deep in an architectural crisis—part of their gumdrop-and-marshmallow model had collapsed, and both women were now eating the debris with the solemnity of mourners at a wake. Dawn was taping up a “Happy Birthday” sign, humming along with the faint pop song Norah had piped in through the stereo. Emi, flush with success, had started making origami versions of everyone in the room, the table around her scattered with six-armed paper dolls.

Chloe and Erin were filling gift bags with the precision of an assembly line. Chloe was quiet, focused on her task, but every so often she’d look up and catch Emi’s eye, or Riley’s, or even Marissa’s, and the smile that followed made her eyes light up.

When Riley saw Chloe’s smile, she felt her anger—about Laura’s ****, and John’s, and John Jr’s, and about the past—slacken just a bit. But she clung to it, because she still had nothing else.

The break between setup and first tentative run-through was technically only supposed to last ten minutes, but the momentum of the group held for nearly half an hour. Everyone floated to their corners of the Dance Hall—snack tables, music stations, clusters of mismatched folding chairs—and decompressed in low, unhurried conversations.

It was in this lull that Erin made her approach. She slid onto the stool next to Marissa and Myra, greeting both with a nod. “How’s it going?” she said. Myra immediately recognized the voice of her roommate, thanks to the conversation they’d had the previous day, before Andy’s arrival.

Erin’s approach was impossible to miss. Even in a room vibrating with energy, she moved with the confidence of a battleship carving a channel through a marina—unstoppable, inevitable, drawing all attention whether it wanted to come or not. Myra felt her presence before she heard her voice: the warmth of her aura, shot through with traces of curiosity and something like a slight confusion. Marissa’s hand found Myra’s knee in a gesture of silent support, and for a second Myra let herself pretend that she didn’t know what was coming next.

“Doctor!” Erin called, slipping onto the stool with all the subtlety of a fireworks show. “Are we getting the band back together, or is this strictly a gloom session?”

Myra laughed, unexpectedly. “If it was a gloom session, you’d be the right person to break it up.”

Erin grinned, then gave Marissa a respectful nod. “Didn’t mean to crash the therapy hour. But I wanted to check in on my roomie.” She set her elbows on the bar, all mint-green skin and undimmed bravado. “How’d it go last night? The big talk.”

Myra exhaled. “It was hard. Andy didn’t… he didn’t hate me.” The words were still a wonder to her. “He said he wanted to start over. That maybe I could too.”

Erin cocked her head, scanning Myra’s face for signs of bullshit. She found none, then softened. “Yeah. That tracks.” She held Myra’s gaze. “I’m not gonna say it doesn’t matter, what you did. But the you that did that is… what, sixteen years gone? That’s a long time to hate yourself.”

Myra said nothing.

Erin looked at Marissa, then back at Myra. “I’ll tell you a secret,” she said, leaning in conspiratorially. “Look. When Andy told me what happened—about the lie—I wanted to throttle you. Not because I thought you were evil, or because you ruined some perfect love story, but because what happened to Laura hurt him so badly he’s still carrying it, and because I know exactly what it’s like to fuck something up so bad it warps the whole universe.” She paused, the weight of it settling between them. “But then I thought about how much you hated yourself for it, even before you knew the whole story. And I realized, the Myra who did that? She died a long time ago. What’s left is someone who spent her entire life trying to make up for it.”

Marissa’s hand squeezed Myra’s. “She’s right,” she said. “If you want to be better, you already are.”

Erin, who could never leave a serious moment undisturbed, added, “Besides, if Andy can forgive you, anyone can. He’s like the original grudge-holder.” She grinned, then sobered. “I know you want to hide out. Or fix it all yourself. But maybe let us help you. That’s why we’re here, right?”

Myra’s throat tightened. “Thank you,” she said, her voice small.

Erin shrugged, as if embarrassed by the sincerity. “Hey. That’s what roomies are for.” She straightened, the emotional moment passing as quickly as it had arrived. “Speaking of, if you ever want to switch up the side of the bed, just say the word. I know my boobs take up half the bed, but I can do side-sleeping.”

Myra blinked, then said, “I think we’re good for now.”

They lapsed into a companionable silence. Myra felt something shift inside her: a loosening of the chain that had kept her anchored to her own regret. She wasn’t sure it would hold, but for now, it felt like enough.

The party setup whirled on. At some point, Sam made a surprise inspection tour, clipboard in hand, as if the fate of the free world depended on the proper placement of every streamer and bow. “Lots of work still to do, but… looking good, people!” she called. “Just remember, if there’s a glitter spill, I’m holding the entire group responsible.”

Dawn saluted with a streamer, nearly poking Riley in the eye. “Yes, ma’am!”

Emi had graduated from cranes to elaborate paper garlands, and was now trying to see how many she could balance on the lighting fixture before gravity intervened. “Fifty-three is the record!” she crowed, and a moment later, the whole chain collapsed in a magnificent, sparkling avalanche. Emi, unbothered, simply started over.

Norah, perched at her DJ station, had discovered that the stereo’s “party” setting included a strobe light effect. She gleefully tested it, plunging the Hall into a rave-like seizure of blue and pink pulses, until Liesa groaned and threatened to pour coffee in the circuitry.

Amid all this, Chloe moved like a quiet star—never the center, always orbiting, but somehow holding the room together. She worked the tables with a gentle, almost invisible efficiency, checking on supplies, smoothing out wrinkled banners, pausing to listen when someone needed to vent. She smiled shyly at Erin, offered Riley a donut, and at one point, spent five minutes getting tape unstuck from Emi’s hair without once drawing attention to herself.

It was during one of these slow orbits that Chloe found herself standing beside Myra at the bar. Myra hadn’t noticed her approach, but she recognized the swirl of Chloe’s emotions—kindness shot through with something old and sad, like a song she’d known by heart as a child.

Chloe said, “Hi, Myra,” her voice soft but clear.

Myra startled, then composed herself. “Hey, Curls. What’s up?”

Chloe hesitated, then said, “I just wanted to see how you’re doing. I know this is… hard.”

Myra blinked. “It is. But it’s not as hard as I thought it would be. People have been… kind.”

Chloe smiled, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “That’s good. I hoped it would be.”

They stood in silence, both slightly awkward, both unsure where to go next.

Finally, Myra said, “I never got a chance to say… I’m sorry. About everything. I know you and Laura were close.”

Chloe looked down, her hands folding and unfolding. “We were. But it wasn’t your fault. Not all of it, anyway.” She took a breath. “We were kids. We all hurt each other, one way or another.”

Myra tried to protest, but Chloe cut her off. “I’m not saying it didn’t matter. But I’m not going to punish you for it. I don’t think Laura would want that.” She looked up, her eyes big and blue and impossibly gentle. “I just want everyone to be okay. Even you.”

Myra felt tears prick at the edges of her eyes. “Thank you,” she managed, voice barely above a whisper.

Chloe nodded, then—impulsively—reached out and squeezed Myra’s hand. “If you ever need to talk, I’m around,” she said, then vanished back into the flow of the party, leaving behind the scent of lemon and a lingering note of hope.

Across the room, Riley watched the exchange. She had been keeping an eye on Myra all afternoon—not with suspicion, exactly, but with the wary focus of someone who didn’t want to be caught off-guard. She’d seen Chloe approach, seen the two of them stand close, heads bent together, then watched as Chloe reached out and held Myra’s hand.

It felt like a betrayal. It felt like a lie.

Riley’s jaw tightened. She strode across the room, her boots hitting the blackwood like warning shots.

She found Chloe at the far table, reorganizing the napkin display.

“Hey,” Riley said, voice flat.

Chloe looked up. “Hi, Riley,” she said, as if nothing was wrong.

Riley didn’t waste time. “What the hell was that?” she demanded, stabbing a finger toward the bar where Myra still sat.

Chloe blinked. “What was what?”

“That,” Riley spat, “the hand-holding. The little heart-to-heart. Are you just going to let her off the hook? She killed Laura. You were there. I was there. She started the whole thing, and you’re just… what? Hugging it out?”

Chloe flinched at the words, but didn’t back down. She straightened, drawing herself up to her full height—5’2’’, a full inch shorter than Riley, but somehow every bit as unmovable. Riley had never seen Chloe stand up for herself like this before. It was unsettling. “We were all thirteen,” she said, her voice steady. “We all did things we regret. Myra’s been paying for it every day since. I don’t think she needs more punishment.”

Riley shook her head, curls flying. “That’s not enough. She doesn’t get to walk in here and be forgiven because Andy says it’s okay.”

Chloe’s hands trembled, but she didn’t look away. “We don’t know what he thinks of it, but it’s not about Andy. It’s about us. And it’s about Laura.” Her voice wavered. “I know you’re angry. I am too. But being angry forever won’t bring her back.”

Riley opened her mouth to retort, but Chloe pressed on.

“You did the same thing to Andy last week,” Chloe said, gentle but relentless. “You made him the villain, because it was easier than being sad. I get it, Riley. I really do. But if you keep doing this, there’s never going to be an end.”

For a second, Riley was too stunned to speak. She felt her anger collapse inward, turning into a white-hot knot in her chest. “You think I want to be like this?” she whispered.

Chloe shook her head. “I don’t think you want to, but I think you don’t know what else to do.” She looked down, then up again. “I’m not going to pretend Myra didn’t hurt Laura. But I’m also not going to pretend she hasn’t tried to be better.”

They stood in silence, the tension between them almost electric.

Finally, Riley said, “You’re too nice for your own good, Chloe.”

Chloe smiled, sad and sweet. “Maybe. But someone has to be.”

Riley didn’t have an answer for that. She turned and walked away, her hair flaring behind her like a signal flare.

The hallways were empty except for their footsteps—a hush that felt special, set aside for the two of them. Emily led the way, her hair swirling in soft pink and gold clouds that lit the glass corridors with their own candlepower. Andy watched her walk, amazed, as always, by the fact that she could be so entirely exposed and yet so perfectly self-possessed. He thought about reaching out and taking her hand, but before he could, she stopped and looked back at him.

“Are you ready?” she asked, voice light as meringue but edged with a buzz of real anticipation.

“Lead the way,” Andy replied.

The 88 Club was empty this time, the silence making the space feel even more vast than when he'd visited with Marissa. The obsidian and gold surfaces gleamed under the thousand tiny star bulbs overhead, no bodies to absorb their light. The checkered dance floor stretched out untouched, and the plush banquettes sat in pristine readiness. Behind the unmanned bar—a polished expanse as long as a city block—bottles shimmered in their perfect arrangement, waiting.

Emily moved with purpose across the space, her footsteps echoing slightly. "I've always wanted to see this place," she said, trailing her fingers along a booth's velvet edge.

Andy smiled. "Marissa made it."

Emily approached the bar, eyes lighting up at the wall of bottles. Without hesitation, she slipped behind it, immediately at home. "I used to do this, you know," she said, plucking a shaker from the rack with a practiced twirl. "I was never very good at small talk, but I loved the part where you get to make something that makes people happy." She paused, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. "Plus, you don't have to wear clothes if you work the late shift."

Andy grinned, settling onto a barstool. “Is that a house rule?”

She winked. “Only in certain districts. But I always thought it would be fun to try.” She surveyed the bottles, running her fingers over the gleaming labels. “Okay. You want something classic, or do you want something custom?”

“Surprise me,” Andy said, meaning it.

She pursed her lips, thinking, then began assembling ingredients with speed and precision. Gin, elderflower, a splash of lemon, a ribbon of cucumber sliced so thin it looked like a filament. Every move was confident, even the way she cracked the ice and slapped the mint leaves to wake them up. Andy realized, watching her, that this was one of the only times he’d seen her so entirely herself—not trying to be perfect, or invisible, or even the ideal contestant. Just… working, in her element, happy.

She shook, poured, garnished, and set the glass before him with a flourish.

“Taste it,” she said.

He did. It was cold and floral and almost electric with freshness. “That’s amazing,” he said, and meant it.

Emily made a little jazz-hands motion, then produced a second glass and poured her own, minus the gin. “We call that the Cooper Surprise,” she said, and laughed when he blushed.

They clinked glasses.

He sipped again, letting the silence settle.

After a minute, Emily leaned her elbows on the bar, head cocked. “So, do you want to hear my superhero origin story?”

Andy choked on his drink, laughing. “Absolutely.”

She folded her arms, serious but not solemn. “It’s not much of a story. I was the weird, artsy kid in a family of mathletes. I wanted to be a painter or a writer, but they told me I should focus on getting a real job. I did okay in school. Never dated much—too weird, too quiet, too… whatever.” She swirled her drink, watching the ice. “And then… I met Jake.”

Andy nodded, letting her set the pace.

“He was sweet, but he wasn’t…” She shook her head. “I don’t know that he was never really in love with me. We never really... got around to discussing it. I was much younger than him, you know. And I knew it, but I wanted it so badly I convinced myself it was enough.” She looked up, blue eyes fierce for a moment. “I think that’s why the Arrangement would have worked. Because I never believed I was worth loving on my own. And after my transformations, it was easier to just do what I was told.”

Andy was silent, and she didn’t seem to mind.

“But then I met you, and you made it—” she searched for the word— “safe. Not easy, not always, but real. Like I could have a voice. Even if it’s just in moments like this.”

He sipped his drink, felt the warmth spread, not just from the **** but from the pride in her voice.

“I always wondered what it would be like, to be someone’s first choice,” Emily said, softer now. “Not the default, not the last girl left on the shelf. Just… chosen, for real.”

“You are,” Andy said, before he thought it through. “Although you chose me first.”

She blinked, stunned, then smiled. “I did. But thank you.”

They drank, not needing to talk.

After a minute, she said, “Your turn.”

Andy hesitated. Then: “I was the opposite. I grew up as the golden boy, the one everyone expected things from. My parents weren’t strict, but they had their own version of perfection, and I tried to live up to it. I was never the best at anything, but I was always just good enough to matter. And then… Laura died.” He paused, the word landing like a brick. “After that, it was like I forgot how to be anything but sad. I went through the motions, dated, even had fun sometimes, but it was always—” He made a fist, opened it, letting the emptiness show.

Emily nodded, sympathetic but not pitying.

“When I got here, I thought it would be a nightmare,” Andy continued. “But it’s not. It’s weird, and sometimes cruel, but it’s also… I don’t know. It’s the first time I’ve felt anything in years.” He set down his glass, looking her in the eye. “You all do that. Not the hotel. You.”

Emily’s mouth opened, then closed. Her cheeks went pinker than her hair.

She wiped a tear from her cheek, laughing at herself. “I’m sorry. That’s so corny.”

“I like corny,” Andy shrugged.

She smiled, then bit her lip. “Can I tell you something?”

“Always.”

Emily looked at him, face open and so **** he wanted to reach across the bar and hold her. “I think I’m falling in love with you,” she said, like she was admitting to a crime. “Not because of the Arrangement, or the magic, or any of it. Just… because you see me. And I don’t want to lose that.”

Andy’s heart stopped for a beat, then started again, loud in his chest. He didn’t know what to say—didn’t trust himself to say it right. So he just reached across, took her hand, and squeezed.

Emily covered his hand with both of hers, her hair drifting down to brush his wrist. She looked at their joined hands, then at him, and smiled with a kind of wonder.

They sat that way, together, until the ice melted and the sun shifted through the windows, casting the bar in long stripes of orange and gold.

The next hours unfolded in a kind of golden suspension—no clocks, no deadlines, only the slow unspooling of time between Andy and Emily as they drifted from the 88 Club back toward the upper reaches of the hotel. There was no plan, and neither of them seemed to need one. Emily wanted to walk the long way, trailing her shoes over the patterned carpets and polished floors. Andy, not yet ready to return to the suite and the expectations that might wait there, let her guide the pace.

The air was thick with evening, the light going honeyed in the hallways. Emily slipped her arm through Andy's, hair soft against his shoulder. Her steps were deliberate, as though she wanted to make sure each moment left a footprint.

They didn't speak for a long stretch. The hush between them was companionable, filled with the echoes of what they'd shared at the bar, and the things that had gone unsaid. Andy let himself fall into that quiet. He let himself notice the rhythm of Emily's breathing, the way her thumb found the crease of his elbow, the faint citrus tang of her skin.

It wasn't until they were halfway up the glass corridor to the residential wing that Andy spoke. "Can I ask you a weird question?"

Emily smiled, turning her face up toward him. "Always."

"Do you ever feel like the hotel changes to fit what you need?"

She considered. "Sometimes. Not always. I think it tries to. But sometimes it gets it wrong, and you end up with a room that doesn't have a bathroom, or a closet full of only ski jackets, or the fridge restocks with nothing but celery. Which is weird, because I've never eaten celery in my life." She gave his arm a little squeeze. "Why?"

Andy shrugged. "I just keep thinking about all the places here. How they're all beautiful, but some feel more real than others. Like… Marissa's bar, or the cliffs, or the beach. It's like they're waiting for something important to happen. Or maybe someone important."

Emily was quiet for a few steps. Then she said, "Maybe they're waiting for you."

The words hung in the air, simple and impossible to ignore.

Andy almost changed the subject, but Emily stopped him with a soft, "Hey, can I ask you something too?"

He nodded.

"Are you okay? After last night?"

He didn't answer right away. They reached the landing at the top of the stairs, and Andy paused at the window that overlooked the lagoon. The sun was slipping behind the farthest ridge, burning the clouds into a sheet of fire. "I don't know," he said, finally. "I keep running it through my head. What I said to Myra, what she said to me. I think… I think I was crueler than I meant to be. But also, I don't know what else I could have said."

Emily listened, silent and steady. They kept walking, past the empty lounges and the echoing arcade, until they reached the row of guest suites at the far end of the east wing. Room 143 was at the very end, overlooking the lagoon and the stilted boardwalk. Andy stopped in front of the door, unsure.

Emily touched his arm. "I'll wait out here," she said. "You should go in alone."

He nodded, grateful, and knocked.

There was a pause. “Who is it?” She called out.

“It’s Andy,” he replied. A few moments, then the door opened, slow, and Myra stood framed in the light.

She'd changed since the night before. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, fox ears upright and still. She wore a simple, sleeveless dress in soft gray, and bare feet. Her tail curled in a nervous question mark behind her, and her blind eyes didn't quite find Andy's face.

She smelled of soap, and something like sandalwood.

"Andy," she said, voice quiet. "Come in?"

He did. The room was dim and cool, the only illumination coming from the sunset beyond the open balcony. Myra left the door ajar, as if expecting Emily to join them, but didn't say anything about it.

Andy stood in the middle of the room, hands loose at his sides. He realized he didn't know what he'd meant to say, or even if there was a point to this visit.

Myra seemed to sense it. "You don't have to talk," she said, voice careful. "If you just want to sit, we can sit."

She crossed to the bed, muttering something like counting under her breath, sat at the edge, and patted the spot beside her. Andy joined her, leaving a polite distance. They both looked toward the balcony, where the sky was going a deeper orange with every minute.

For a few moments, there was only the sound of water against the pilings, and the faint, echoing laughter from the far side of the lagoon.

After a while, Myra said, "I keep replaying it too."

Andy glanced at her, but she wasn't looking at him. Her eyes were on the horizon, focused on nothing.

"I thought if I told you everything, it would make it better," Andy said. "I don’t know if it does. But I want to make sure I didn’t make it worse."

She shook her head. "No. It helped. Maybe not in the way you meant, but… it's better to know." Myra was quiet, her hands twisting the hem of her dress. "Do you still hate me?"

The question was soft, almost childlike.

Andy hesitated. "No," he said. "I'm just… sad. For all of us."

Myra nodded, a long, slow dip of her head. "Me too."

They sat together, silent, as the sun finished its descent. Andy felt the sharpness of last night's pain dull to something more distant, something almost manageable. He realized, suddenly, that Myra was crying. Not openly, not in the wrenching way of the night before, but in the quiet, inexorable way of someone who had run out of words.

He reached out and took her hand.

Myra startled, just a little, but then squeezed back.

When she spoke again, her voice was steadier. "I don't know what happens next," she said, "but I want to help you. However I can. I want to be better."

"You don’t need to," Andy said. "You’ve worked at it for the last sixteen years."

They sat for a few more minutes, hands joined. Then Myra let go, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, and smiled—small and a little watery, but genuine.

"Thank you," she said.

Andy stood. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

She nodded. "I'd like that."

He left, closing the door behind him. Emily was waiting a few feet away, leaning against the hallway wall. She offered him a smile, gentle and a little proud.

"How did it go?" she asked, voice just above a whisper.

Andy exhaled, letting the air empty his chest. "I think it went okay."

Emily took his hand. "She'll be alright. And so will you."