The Weight of Change, Part 2

Andy found Liesa in the southern courtyard, pacing in slow, angry orbits around a shaded table. She had changed into an old Brussels marathon T-shirt and running shorts, both items clinging to her with fresh, excruciating tightness. Every muscle of her body seemed to conspire against her: even her irritation manifested as pure theater, each stomp of the foot rolling into a hip-sway, each pinched fold of her arms pressing her breasts together with pinup precision.

She was muttering to herself in Flemish, the words spiky and fast, but he didn’t need to understand them to guess the meaning. Two benches away, Dawn perched on the backrest, ears up, chin in her hands, watching Liesa’s circuit with gentle concern. Sam hovered nearby, hands in her pockets, shifting from foot to foot as if waiting for a problem that might be hers to fix.

Andy waited for a break in Liesa’s loop, then stepped into her path. She saw him, sighed, and promptly turned a quarter-circle to avoid him. He moved again, intercepting. This time, she faced him with arms crossed, shoulders set, but her new transformation betrayed her: her chest rose and fell in perfect cinematic rhythm, and when she cocked her head in exasperation, the motion was pure invitation.

“You do realize,” he said quietly, “that your anger is coming off as… kind of devastatingly hot?”

She rolled her eyes. “Is the worst part. I just want to walk like a normal person, and instead I look like am about to film a perfume ad.” She glared down at her own legs, as if she could discipline them into behaving. “Is not how I wanted to stand out.”

Dawn snickered from the bench. “It’s pretty impressive, though. If you ever need a distraction, just walk into a room and pout.”

Liesa groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Don’t even joke. I had to ask Riley to help me down the steps because I kept… undulating. Like an eel.”

Andy reached out, resting a hand on her shoulder. “You’re still you, Liesa. No transformation can take that away.”

She shot him a skeptical look. “Easy for you to say. You didn’t just try to put on sunscreen.”

He grinned, then let the smile fade. “If it gets bad, you can tell me. Or Sam. We’ll figure it out together.”

Liesa’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “I hate that it actually helps, when you say things like that.”

Liesa looked at Andy for a moment, then away, as if afraid her face would give away how much she needed to hear it. Her arms, stubbornly crossed, pressed her breasts into something barely contained by the old race shirt. She relaxed them an inch, maybe less.

“Is not like I want to be a sex cartoon,” she muttered, folding her arms tighter as if to will her body into compliance.

Andy kept his hand steady on her shoulder, not moving, just letting her feel the solidity of his presence. “You can still run circles around everyone here,” he said. “Even if your hips have to lead the way.”

She made a noise, halfway between a scoff and a laugh, then squared her stance. “Maybe I will pole-dance for you.”

Dawn piped up from the bench. “I dunno, Liesa. You could weaponize it. Like, if there was a challenge, you’d destroy everyone.”

Liesa glared at her, but the effect was neutralized by the involuntary flick of her hips, which seemed to emphasize everything she was trying to downplay. “Weaponize this,” she said, gesturing at herself with exasperation. Even the gesture was somehow sensuous, her elbow leading into a slow undulation.

Sam, who’d hung back until now, stepped in. “If it makes you feel any better, I can’t stop thinking about the new round of transformations, and all I got was… alcohol and plastic surgery.” She grinned, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Andy caught her glance. He knew Sam hated being vulnerable, but here, among friends, she let it show. He nodded at her, subtle, then turned back to Liesa.

“Give me a hug,” he said, opening his arms.

Liesa looked at him, surprised, then at her own body as if expecting it to betray her. It did: she stepped forward, and the contact of their bodies was instantly electric. She wrapped her arms around his waist, the press of her breasts unmistakable through two thin layers of fabric. Andy hugged her tight, anchoring her.

He heard her sigh—frustrated, but also relieved. “You see?” she whispered, voice muffled against his chest. “Even this is… too much.”

“Not too much,” he said quietly. “Just right.”

He looked up and caught Sam’s eye. She grinned, but it was a little brighter this time, as if she’d taken something from the moment. He jerked his chin, and she came forward, wrapping both Andy and Liesa in a three-way embrace.

Liesa hesitated, caught between the press of Andy’s arms and the unexpected warmth of Sam against her back. The hug was a strange sandwich, and it worked. Her breath slowed, the rhythm of her body syncing up to Andy’s heartbeat through his chest and Sam’s gentle squeeze around her ribs.

For a moment, Liesa let herself melt into the contact. Her hips relaxed, but the transformation had no off switch: her entire body still telegraphed sexuality, every curve pressing in all the right places, her bare legs tangled with Andy’s jeans, her arms roped around his shoulders. If anything, being held made her more aware of the ridiculous way her body responded. She let out a sharp exhale, somewhere between relief and mortification.

“See?” Sam said, chin resting on Liesa’s shoulder. “There’s nothing wrong with you, schat. Andy and I are both professional weirdos. You’re just finally on our level.”

Liesa looked down, face buried in Andy’s T-shirt. “You say that, but is not you who has to live with being… like this.” She drew a finger in the air, then flopped it, as if her own body bored her. “I am tired of being so much. Even when I am tired, I am too much.”

Andy squeezed her tighter, careful not to crush her. “You’re not too much. That’s the best thing about you.” He felt the tension bleed from her shoulders, bit by bit.

Liesa took a shuddering breath, then, quieter: “You really do not mind?”

Sam snorted. “Babe, if you could see the way Andy is looking at you, you’d never worry again.”

Andy felt his face flush, which only made Sam grin wider. Liesa let out a helpless laugh and banged her head lightly against his collarbone. “You are both crazy.”

Andy rested his chin on her hair. “Maybe. But I know Marissa is probably heading to a cold shower right now.”

Sam barked a laugh, a real one this time, and Liesa finally gave in to the humor. Her body shook with a laugh that rolled through all three of them, making the embrace go a little sloppy around the edges, a tangle of arms and laughter and quick, accidental squeezes.

Liesa, now more relaxed than Andy had seen her all day, allowed herself to lean fully into him. Her hair, which was always just a little wild, tickled his jaw. She looked up and met his eyes, her own green and glinting with unshed tears—of relief, maybe, or gratitude.

“Thank you,” she said, voice raw. She turned to Sam, not quite able to let go. “Both of you.”

Sam let the moment hang, then said, softer: “You don’t have to be perfect, Liesa. You just have to be with us. That’s all.”

Andy loosened his hold, careful, as if easing a glass bird from his arms. Liesa shifted her weight and let Sam cradle her for a second longer, then wiped her nose and tried to put herself back together.

He watched the two of them—Sam anchoring Liesa, Liesa letting herself be held. Andy reached up and smoothed Liesa’s hair where it had gotten mussed, then, with a sudden impulse, pressed a kiss to her head. It was soft, meant as comfort, but the effect on Liesa was immediate: she trembled, then buried her face in Sam’s shoulder, laughing and crying at the same time.

Sam caught Andy’s eyes over the top of Liesa’s head, eyebrows raised in a silent, approving salute. She mouthed “thank you,” and Andy nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

The three of them stood like that for a few more breaths, a strange little battery, before Andy finally wriggled free, and straightened his shirt. “I should let you two have time alone,” he said, warmly.

Dawn, still perched on the bench, clapped softly. “I give it a ten. You three could hug for Belgium.”

Dawn’s ears flopped in concert with her giggle, the heels of her feet dimpling the wood, hands braced on either side like she might leap at a moment’s notice. Andy sat next to where she was perching, letting Sam and Liesa enjoy a bit of closeness. Dawn looked up at Andy, then the others, and in one practiced hop, landed neatly in his lap.

Her entire body relaxed, like she’d dropped anchor in a safe harbor. “Benches are the worst,” she said. “It’s like there’s a rock, right here, no matter what angle I try. But this—” She patted Andy’s thigh, then wriggled to settle herself more comfortably. “—this is luxurious. Five stars. I can see why Arabella said it would be addicting.”

Liesa laughed, dropping into the bench seat next to them. Sam sat on the other side, hands folded behind her head. “I’m offended that you ignored my lap for Andy’s, you know?” Sam called, mock jealousy in her voice.

Dawn grinned, the tips of her teeth just slightly visible. “Arabella did say his would be the best one, though!” She leaned back against Andy’s chest, ears splaying out like a pair of parentheses around his face.

Andy put his arms around her waist, careful not to trap her tail. “You know you’re welcome here anytime,” he said, feeling the press of her spine against him.

The bench was barely wide enough for two, let alone three, not counting her, but Dawn didn't seem to care—she'd just shifted sideways and plopped herself fully onto Andy's lap, legs tucked crosswise like a kid at a birthday party. Her bunny tail, which he'd only recently learned to appreciate as more than a costume, pressed soft and warm against his thigh. If Andy had ever wondered what pure comfort looked like, this was it.

She draped one arm over his shoulder and rested her head against the side of his, ear brushing his cheek, so close he could hear the soft, rhythmic thump of her pulse. Her other hand dangled off his knee, fingers tracing lazy shapes on the denim. The girl radiated contentment—except for the tiny quiver in her foot, a tell Andy recognized. Something was unsettled, even as she pretended to melt.

Dawn caught him watching. “You know, you make a terrible bench,” she said, voice pitched for just the two of them. “But a world-class pillow.”

Andy smiled, letting his own tension dissolve. “I’m glad I can be of service. You looked like you needed a soft landing.”

She snorted. “It’s not even close. The wooden bench was like sitting on a pile of rocks, and the second I try your lap, it’s—” She wriggled, grinning. “—like those fancy foam beds from the mall. No contest.”

Sam, lounging on the other side with her feet propped on a planter, made a face. “Don’t let him get a big head, Dawn. I’m still recovering from the last group hug. He’s got, like, negative bone density. I think he’s actually made of marshmallow.”

Liesa, who had finally settled beside them, snorted hard enough to draw a glare from a nearby lizard. “Is true. He is soft. You could bounce a coin off his butt, but it would never come back.”

Dawn looked at Andy, eyes bright with mischief. “You see? Even the scientists agree. You’re a walking mattress.”

Andy gave an exaggerated sigh of defeat. “I accept my fate. But for the record, I don’t think you actually weigh enough to make a dent.”

Dawn bopped him on the nose with her finger. “Flattery won’t get you out of bunny seating duty,” she said.

For a while, none of them said anything. The air was heavy with late morning warmth, and the sound of water burbling from a hidden fountain lent the moment a kind of hush. Andy felt Sam and Liesa relax, their bodies syncing up with Dawn’s gentle, even breathing. Liesa’s fingers curled around his arm, not possessive, just present. Sam slouched further, her posture slipping from “ready to spring” to “content to watch the world go by.”

Dawn shifted in his lap, this time not from discomfort but from the weight of something unsaid. Andy felt the question before she voiced it—a growing density in her chest, a need to confess.

“You ever get scared,” she said, low and quick, “that something you do could actually hurt people? Like, not on purpose, but… accidentally?”

Andy heard the wobble in her voice, saw her eyes drift to the courtyard’s edge. He thought about all the things he’d done—intentional and not—that left marks on people. “All the time,” he said. “Especially here.”

Dawn nodded, then looked at Liesa and Sam as if to anchor herself. “I’m worried,” she said, “that I might make things worse for everybody. With my new—uh, transformation.”

Liesa turned, her green eyes sharp. “What transformation?”

Dawn took a breath, the tips of her bunny ears trembling. “The Way to a Man’s Heart? Arabella said… when I cook now, or bake, the stuff I make will carry whatever I’m feeling when I make it. Like, if I’m happy, it’ll cheer people up. But if I’m sad, or anxious…” She trailed off, hugging herself tighter. “It could make everyone else feel it, too.”

Sam let out a low whistle. “Whoa.”

Liesa was silent, processing.

Dawn’s ears drooped. “I don’t want to accidentally make people sad,” she said. “I mean, food is supposed to make people happy, right? It’s the only thing I was ever really good at. And now if I screw up, I could just… spread it everywhere.” She sounded tiny, like she might collapse in on herself at any second.

Andy’s heart ached. “I don’t think it works that way,” he said quietly, “I think you get to choose if your food has an effect, and what effect it has.” He just wrapped both arms around her and held her tight, rocking gently until her shaking slowed.

Andy just wrapped both arms around her and held her tight, rocking gently until her shaking slowed. Dawn’s bunny ears slowly un-drooped, then stood at half-mast, a subtle semaphore only Andy and maybe Liesa could read. She let herself relax against him, burying her nose in his neck. Her breath came cool, then warm, then cool again—like she was still deciding how much of herself to trust with the air.

After a minute, she spoke, her voice so low Andy felt it more in his collarbone than his ears. “What if I can’t control it? What if it’s like, I don’t know, emotional food poisoning?” She pulled back enough to look at him, brown eyes glossy but alert. “I don’t want to be the reason anyone here feels worse. You know?”

Andy squeezed her tighter. “You won’t. If anything, you’ll be the reason everyone feels better. There’s never been a time when your food didn’t help someone. I think Arabella just supercharged your talent.”

Dawn blushed, the pink blooming from her nose up her cheeks to the tips of her ears. “You’re so corny,” she said, grinning in spite of herself.

“Corny, but right,” he said, brushing a lock of her hair behind her ear. He wasn’t sure when it had become natural to do that, but it felt less like a gesture and more like a promise now. “Besides, I trust your cooking more than Mildred’s any day of the week.”

Liesa, who had been following their exchange with a practiced nonchalance, leaned in and rested her head on Andy’s shoulder opposite Dawn. “I do not care what you make,” she said. “If it is from you, it is good. Always was.”

Dawn reached out and squeezed Liesa's hand—a brief, gentle pressure that seemed to say everything neither of them needed to voice anymore. Dawn’s smile widened, her whole body unclenching like she’d just passed a secret test. She shifted, nestling into Andy’s lap and laying her head on his chest, her bunny tail wiggling as she got comfortable. Sam scooted closer and threw her arm across the backs of both Andy and Liesa. “I’m with them,” she said. “Even if you gave me a cookie that made me cry, I’d eat the whole damn batch.”

Dawn burst out laughing, the sound lifting something heavy from Andy’s shoulders. He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until it escaped, soft and content.

“Okay, okay,” Dawn said, wiping her eyes. “I get it. You guys are too much.” She looked up at Andy, her lips close enough that he could feel the brush of each word. “But you’re the worst offender, Andy Cooper. You always know what to say to make people feel better. I think that’s your superpower.”

Andy rolled his eyes, trying for a smile, but she caught the faint stutter in his jaw.

“No, really,” she said, bopping his nose again with her finger. “It’s freaky how you just… get it.” She tapped his cheek for emphasis, then wriggled closer, her thigh sliding across his in a way that made his thoughts scatter like spilled rice.

He cleared his throat, tried to refocus. “I’m just glad you’re okay. You deserve to be happy, Dawn.”

Her eyes softened, then grew serious. “Can I tell you something weird?”

“Always,” he said, and meant it.

“When I was little, and my mom got sick,” Dawn began, voice a little unsteady, “I was so scared of making things worse that I’d only cook happy foods. Like, I made banana bread even though I hated bananas, because I read somewhere that the smell made people feel calm. But when my abuela died—” She hesitated, ears drooping again. “—I baked her favorite cookies, and I let myself be sad. And the weird thing is, that was the first time my family actually talked about missing her. Like, we didn’t have to pretend everything was okay.”

She looked up at Andy, searching for the right word. “Sometimes sad is the only way you can get through the day, you know? I don’t want to mess that up. For anyone.”

Andy nodded, feeling the old ache—grief and hope and the fragile grace of people who survived in spite of the world. “You won’t,” he promised. “But even if you do, I’ll be there to eat the sad cookies with you.”

Dawn let out a long, contented sigh. “Can I stay here a little while longer?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“Stay as long as you want,” Andy said, the words catching in his throat with a raw, happy ache.

She was silent for a minute, then: “I should probably go try it, right? See what happens if I cook something now?”

Andy hesitated, not wanting the moment to end. But Dawn was already gathering herself, the anticipation plain in the bounce of her legs. She pushed herself upright, then turned around on his lap so she faced him, straddling his thighs like she was about to conduct an interview.

“Wish me luck?” she said, her face inches from his.

“Always,” he said again.

Dawn leaned in and kissed him, quick and soft, then popped back and made a show of brushing imaginary dust from her shorts. “I’ll be back,” she said, pointing at Liesa and Sam. “If I burn the kitchen down, you guys are accessories.”

Sam grinned, giving Dawn a double thumbs-up. “Go forth and knead the world’s problems into bread, or whatever.”

Dawn hopped off Andy’s lap, landing with a lightness that almost made her float. As she left, she paused, looked over her shoulder, and said, “Thank you, Andy. For being the best bench.”

He laughed, more at the flush in his cheeks than the words themselves.

When Dawn disappeared into the house, Liesa let out a low whistle. “She’s really going to do it, isn’t she?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, more thoughtful than usual. “She’s going to heal all of us, one pancake at a time.”

---

Andy found Riley on the old stone bench under the eaves, the one Chloe has jokingly referred to as ‘Riley’s Thinking Seat.’ The marble was cold even in the morning sun, but Riley sat with her knees hugged to her chest and her head bowed, like she was waiting for a verdict. Her hair—now a living thing that pooled around her feet and crawled up the columns—was a tangled net, half wild, half elegant, and all of it vibrating with a nervous energy that mirrored her own.

He approached quietly, not wanting to startle her, but the hair noticed before she did. The tips flicked in his direction, then curled away in a slow, tentative wave. Riley’s head came up, and she studied him through the dark curtain.

“Hey,” he said.

She smirked, but it was a tired smirk. “You look like shit, Cooper.”

He shrugged, sitting on the opposite end of the bench. “It’s been a week.”

Riley huffed, tried to tuck her hair behind her ears, but a stubborn lock resisted, then snaked back over her shoulder. She gave it a sharp tug—only to gasp as the sensation rippled through her whole body. Her face flushed, just a touch, but she didn’t let go.

Andy watched the show, equal parts fascinated and heartbroken. “Is it always that sensitive?” he asked.

“Only when I’m worked up.” She grimaced as the ends of her hair spiraled around her fingers, pinning her hand to the stone. “Which, lately, is always.”

He waited, letting her struggle with the hair. After a minute, he reached over and gently untangled her wrist, one loop at a time.

Riley’s breath slowed as he worked. “You have a thing for rescuing lost causes?”

Andy kept his focus on the hair, which seemed to obey his hands but not hers. “Only the ones that punch above their weight.”

She snorted. “You’re full of it.”

He smiled, then let the smile drop. “If it gets unbearable, you should tell me. I can ask Arabella for an adjustment.”

Riley shook her head. “That would be defeat. Besides, transformations can be… upgraded, right? You told me that.”

Andy blinked. He hadn’t expected her to echo his own pep talk back at him.

“Maybe it’s not a trap,” he said, “maybe it’s a strength. You could use it.”

Riley looked at him, eyes hard. “You sound like a self-help book.”

“Sorry,” he said, but he didn’t move his hand from the strands now coiled in his palm. “But it’s true. No one else has hair that fights for them.”

She arched a brow. “Or gropes them. Or ties them up.” She paused. “The last part… could be fun.” Then she glared at him. “Don’t get any ideas…”

He tried to laugh, but the sound stuck in his throat. “Silver linings?”

Riley sighed, then leaned back, letting the hair fall across her lap. She stared at him, expression unreadable for a moment. Then she looked away, twisting the hair around her finger, quieter now.

Andy was about to stand when Riley said, “I don’t like her being here.”

He knew who she meant, but waited.

Riley’s voice went softer. “Myra. It’s not just what she did to Laura. It’s what it does to you.”

He was silent.

She looked up at him, eyes sharp and wet. “It hurts you, Andy. It hurts me, too. It’s not fair, and I hate watching it.”

He exhaled, slow. “I know.”

Just then, Chloe approached, walking with careful steps. Her face was flushed, her hair in wild disarray. She glanced at Andy, then Riley, then back to Andy, her eyes big and wary.

“Hey, Chloe,” Riley called, patting the bench between herself and Andy. “You want in on the misery?”

Chloe winced. “Not for very long. Got my own misery to process, right now.” Her eyes flashed to Andy. “You owe me a couple of firsts at least, Andy. Or you need to outdo yourself. Otherwise, I’m not sure I’ll make it to the end of the round.”

She looked from Riley to Andy, then back again. "I was friends with her. Myra." Chloe's fingers twisted the fabric of her blouse. "I told her about the kiss. I was thirteen and stupid and thought she'd understand." Her voice cracked. "If I'd known what she'd do with it—"

"You were a kid," Andy said quietly, cutting her off. "How could you know she'd twist it into something to hurt Laura?"

Riley's lips thinned. "Andy’s right. Doesn't change what she did."

Chloe nodded, eyes glistening. "No. But maybe it means you don't have to carry all this alone. None of us do."

Riley ran her fingers through her hair again, this time letting the strands wrap her wrist without a fight. “Yeah,” she muttered.

Andy looked at both of them, the weight of their words landing heavy in his chest.

He realized, for the first time, that the anger he’d carried for so long wasn’t just his. It belonged to all of them. He nodded, once, then got to his feet, leaving the two women on the bench together. It was time to start the task Arabella had given him.