Visitations, Part 3

The buzzer went off again less than ten minutes after Dawn had left. Andy was sprawled across the sofa, feet up, half-asleep and trying to convince himself the day was over, when the bright LED over the elevator panel blinked and the elevator chimed. Katherine smiled, put her hands together in the imitation of someone sleeping, then wagged a finger no with an impish, teasing grin.

Groaning, Andy blinked, then pushed himself up, smoothing his hair as if she might see him through the walls. He pressed the "Permit Visitor Access" button, and after a beat, the elevator doors sighed open.

Claire stood inside, her pale blue eyes a little owlish in the harsh overhead light, her hair back in a careful low ponytail. She was dressed in a long cream cardigan over a white shirt, dark jeans, and black leather flats, as if she was visiting a professor’s office hours rather than the suite of a guy she once claimed not to love. She held her ever-present leather notebook clutched to her chest, a pen wedged between its pages. She stepped out with a small, nervous wave.

"Hi," Andy said, “Come in?"

Claire smiled, wide and apologetic, and walked toward the living room, her steps small and precise. She looked around at the room, her gaze lingering briefly on the painting of Katherine—who, Andy noticed, had gone back to her original neutral expression, as if she hadn't spent the last ten minutes teasing him in pantomime.

Andy hesitated, not sure where to start, then gestured toward the couch. "Um, want to sit? Or… do you want a drink or something?"

Claire sat on the couch, tucking her legs under her in a way that made her seem about sixteen again, rather than a grown adult with an actual job. She started scribbling immediately, the sound of her pen soft and frantic. She ripped out the page, folded it, then passed it over.

He took it, careful not to tear the edges. In neat, small script, it read: Not thirsty. Just wanted to see you. Hope that’s OK.

She added, after a beat, a quick sketch of a smiley face, then looked up at him, eyebrows raised as if daring him to protest.

"Of course it's okay," Andy said. "You can come up any time. That’s what they keep telling me, anyway. I think there’s a rule that I should humor you, at least until week one." He grinned, then tried to soften it, not wanting to seem like he was mocking her predicament. "How are you… you know… adjusting?"

Claire shrugged, then started writing again, but stopped after only a few letters. Instead, she flipped to a new page and held it up, already written:

Less awkward than you’d think. I spent years wishing I could take back things I said. Now I don’t have to worry about that. Silver lining?

She cocked her head, eyes glittering. He laughed, but Claire shook her head, then set down the notebook and made a big, exaggerated show of zipping her lips and tossing away the imaginary key. The motion was playful, but her hands shook.

He hesitated, then said, "I'm sorry this happened to you. You should be able to speak, Claire. You always had the best words."

She shook her head again, and scribbled:

Words are overrated.

Then, after a pause:

Sometimes I’d say the exact wrong thing at the wrong time. Now I must think before I write. Or I gesture, and you interpret.

She looked up at him, and Andy realized that while the surface was playful, there was something else underneath—a sadness, but also a peace. Like she’d already been grieving her voice for a while, and now that it was gone, she could finally rest.

He sat down next to her, close enough that their knees almost touched. "If you ever want me to try and get Arabella to change it back—"

Claire shook her head violently, then made a cross with her hands.

Andy reached for the notebook, but she snatched it away, sticking her tongue out. Then she scribbled and handed him the page:

You always were the one who wanted to fix things. Some things are better broken.

He read the line, then looked up at her. She had the same look she’d had when they were juniors in high school and he’d gotten caught copying her chemistry homework: mischief mixed with exasperation, like she was letting him off easy but he better not make a habit of it.

He smiled, unable to help himself. "You know, if you’re going to talk in riddles, you could at least let me catch up."

Claire made a show of considering, then shook her head again and held up a finger, wagging it.

They fell into a strange rhythm. At first, Andy tried to fill the silence with awkward small talk, his words tumbling out in a nervous rush. "So, uh, how have you been, Claire? It's been... what, ten, eleven years?" he asked, scratching his head awkwardly.

Claire smiled softly, her eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. She picked up her pen and scribbled on another page of her leatherbound notebook:

Busy. You?

"Busy's one way to put it," Andy chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Coding. Business meetings. Due diligence. All the bad words." He shook his head as a memory of their time in high school, before they fell out, flashed into his mind. "Hey, remember that fiasco with the science project in tenth grade?"

Claire rolled her eyes dramatically, her hands weaving an imaginary explosion in the air. She scribbled again:

You mean the one we almost set on fire?

"Hey, that was mostly your idea!" Andy retorted with a laugh, his shoulders finally relaxing as the years of distance began to melt away.

Claire shrugged, a playful smirk on her lips, and wrote:

I was the brains. You were the brawn.

Andy feigned offense, placing a hand on his chest. "Only the brawn? I'm both flattered and offended! But I guess you are right, you were always the instigator."

Claire raised an eyebrow, tapping her pen against the paper, before jotting down:

You were the charming accomplice.

Their conversation started to flow more effortlessly, punctuated by Claire's expressive gestures and Andy's easy laughter. The awkwardness of their initial reunion was replaced by a warmth reminiscent of their old friendship. As Andy leaned in closer, he said, "You know, I've missed this. It's like we're picking up right where we left off."

Claire nodded, her eyes softening. She wrote another note, sliding it across the table with a grin:

Me too.

He noticed things about her he never had before, or hadn’t for a long time. The way her lips pursed when she was thinking, the small callus on her middle finger from years of writing, the soft flush that crept up her neck when she smiled. She seemed older than he remembered, but only in good ways—smarter, less anxious, more grounded.

He told her as much. "You look… different," he said, then immediately backpedaled, "I mean, good different. You always had the best posture, but now it's like you’re not even trying anymore. Like you're just… yourself."

She wrote:

I spent a lot of years pretending to be normal. It’s nice not to have to, anymore.

She paused, then, biting her lower lip, she glanced at him with those pale blue eyes, and added in a smaller script:

Why don’t you hate me?

Andy blinked. "What?"

She pointed at the line, then at him, her eyes serious.

He thought for a long moment. "I was mad," he said finally. "Back then. When you… you know, pushed me aside. Or just… didn’t respond, I guess. I held onto that for a while. But then I realized it wasn’t worth it. After I pushed away, after high school… I realized I missed you. But… “ He shrugged, “It was too late."

She bit her lower lip, her eyes going glossy. She scribbled:

I was stupid in high school. Didn’t know what I wanted. Didn’t mean to hurt you. I just panicked.

Her pen hovered, then finished:

I missed you too, Andy.

He read it, and felt the words settle inside him, warm and heavy.

"Me too," he said, voice low. "I missed you, too."

She reached over and put her hand on his, soft and cold. He forgot that. Her hands were perpetually cold, he remembered now. As if she constantly put them in ice. He looked at her, and for a second, it was like being seventeen again, riding the city bus at night, trying to keep her awake with dumb jokes while she fell asleep on his shoulder.

She let go and wrote:

Maybe we can be friends again?

He didn’t even wait. "I’d like that," he said. "Though I should warn you, I’m still pretty mad that you beat my Mario Kart time on Rainbow Road. I haven’t gotten over that."

She grinned, wrote a quick taunt (Some wounds never heal) and pointed at the TV.

He laughed, led her downstairs to the den, where a Nintendo console sat near the other large TV, controllers side by side. The next twenty minutes passed in a blur of races, red shells, and silent, cutthroat competition. Claire didn’t need to trash talk; her victory dances said it all. After one especially humiliating defeat, Andy threw his hands up. "This is rigged," he declared. "You’re clearly hacking."

Claire mimed innocent shock.

After three more losses, Andy put the controllers down. "Okay, okay. You win. I surrender."

Claire set her own controller down, then opened the notebook one more time. She wrote slowly this time, her hand shaking a little.

You’re worried about all of us. I can feel it.

She looked at him, questioning.

He hesitated. "Arabella said… with your change, you can sense what I’m feeling. Is that true?"

Claire nodded. She scribbled:

Yes. Not words. Just… a feeling. Like a song I can’t quite make out.

Andy swallowed. "Is it… bad?"

She wrote:

Sometimes you’re sad. Sometimes scared. Guilty? Mostly you’re lonely. But you don’t have to be.

She paused, then finished:

Let me help. Please. That’s what friends are for.

He didn’t know what to say. He’d never been good at letting people in, especially when the other person could read him better than he could read himself. But he nodded, slow.

"Okay," he said, voice rough. He smiled faintly at her. “You always knew what to say. Or write, I guess.”

Claire smiled, then wrote:

It’s going to get weirder, isn’t it?

Andy laughed, the tension breaking. "I think we have no idea."

She tucked the notebook away, then got up and stretched, arms over her head. The motion made her dress ride up slightly, exposing a sliver of pale thigh. She noticed him notice, and arched an eyebrow, the tiniest smirk pulling at her lips.

Andy felt his face go hot. "You always know when I’m looking, now, don’t you?"

She nodded, then mimed an exaggerated wink, which made him laugh again. It felt so easy, so normal, it was almost dangerous.

Claire picked up her notebook, then paused, writing one last time:

If Arabella is right, and we end up stuck together… I think I can live with it. I know it’s crazy. But I never found friends easy. But I could have friends now. I’d like to try. And I’m happy if we’re bound to you.

She hesitated, then, in much smaller handwriting:

Maybe we can try more than that, someday, if you want. I know a part of you hurts. I’m OK waiting. I just wanted you to know.

She tore the page out, folded it, and pressed it into his hand. Then she looked at him with her big, bright eyes and smiled.

Andy felt something loosen in his chest, the band around his heart unclenching, just a little. "Thank you," he said, and meant it.

She stood, smoothing her dress, and walked to the elevator. Andy followed, and at the threshold, she turned back. Her hand hovered in the air for a moment, then she mimed a big yawn and pointed at him, then at herself, then at the bed. Then she fanned her face, as if scandalized, eyes bright with laughter.

He barked a real laugh. "You’re incorrigible," he said.

Claire just shrugged, then blew him a silent kiss and stepped inside the elevator. The doors slid shut, and Andy was alone again, but it didn’t feel so lonely this time.

He sat back down on the couch, the folded note in his hand, and looked up at Katherine’s painting. This time, she was smiling—really smiling, lips parted just enough to show teeth, her eyes glinting with mischief and approval. He raised the note in a silent toast, and for a second, he thought Katherine nodded back.

The silence lasted only a few minutes. Then the buzzer sounded again.