Chapter 33: Shower Steam and Soapy Goodbyes
The morning sun cut through the blinds in thin, aggressive stripes, striping the bedroom walls with light that felt almost accusatory after the golden warmth of Jan's magic.
Emily sat on the edge of the guest bed, her suitcase open beside her, folding clothes with the mechanical precision of someone who had packed and unpacked too many times in her life. Concert tours. Hospital stays. The years of not knowing where her brother was, packing and unpacking hope like a garment she couldn't quite bring herself to throw away.
Now she was packing to go home. To her husband. To her kids. To the life she'd built in the absence of the brother she'd thought was dead.
Her hands moved automatically, smoothing wrinkles from a blouse, tucking it into the corner of the suitcase. The fabric smelled like the Williamson house—like coffee and cat fur and something indefinable that she was starting to recognize as the particular scent of people who had seen too much weirdness to be bothered by any of it.
She thought about Mark. About his hands on the other side of that table. About the way he'd looked at her—like she was still thirteen, still the little sister who'd followed him around the neighborhood, still the girl who'd cried when he left for college.
He'd aged. Of course he had. Twelve years in the world of Evelyn Shaw, twelve years of doing things he couldn't talk about, twelve years of carrying a weight that had bent his shoulders and carved lines into his face.
But his eyes were the same. Kind. Tired. Full of love.
She zipped her suitcase closed.
Down the hall, Mandy was throwing clothes into a duffel bag with the kind of chaotic energy that suggested she'd never quite mastered the concept of folding. Her shaggy brown hair was still wet from the shower—the first shower, the one she'd taken alone before the chaos started—and she was wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt that said "I'm Not a Robot" in block letters.
Beth sat on the bed, her camera in her lap, scrolling through the photos she'd taken the night before. The dinner party. The barbecue. The impromptu piano concert. Emily's hands on the keys, her face soft with concentration.
"You got some good ones," Mandy said, glancing over.
"I got some weird ones." Beth turned the camera to show her. "Look at this. Hank eating ribs. It looks like he's having a religious experience."
"That's just how Hank eats."
"I know. That's what makes it art."
Mandy snorted. She shoved another shirt into her bag—a faded band tee from a group that had broken up before she was born—and looked around the room.
"Where's my charger?"
"Bathroom."
"Why would it be in the bathroom?"
"You were charging your phone while you got ready."
"I don't remember that."
"You never remember anything before coffee."
Beth stood up, stretching. Her short blonde hair was sticking up in every direction, and she was wearing nothing but a pair of boy shorts and a tank top that had seen better days. She looked like a young woman who had spent the night in a pile of bodies and wasn't particularly sorry about it.
"I'm going to miss this," she said.
"Miss what?"
"All of us. Together. It's been a while since we were all in the same house."
Mandy paused, a pair of socks dangling from her hand. "Yeah. It has."
"Calista's been talking about visiting Miami more. Maybe we could do this again. Sooner."
"I'd like that."
They exchanged a look—the kind of look that passed between sisters who had shared everything from secrets to showers to the particular intimacy of growing up in a house where weirdness was the norm and love was unconditional.
Then Calista appeared in the doorway.
She was wearing a silk robe that barely reached her thighs, her silver hair loose and wild, her golden eyes bright with the particular energy that came from a night of revelry and a morning without regret.
"You two," she said. "Bathroom. Now."
Mandy raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"Because I said so."
"That's not a reason."
"It's the only reason you need." Calista's smile was wicked. "Emily's leaving in an hour. You two are going back to Miami. I'm not letting any of you go without a proper goodbye."
Beth and Mandy exchanged another look. This one said: well, okay.
The bathroom was already fogged when they got there.
Steam curled from the shower in thick, restless clouds, filling the space with the scent of citrus and something sharper—ozone, maybe, or the particular electricity that seemed to follow Calista wherever she went. The mirrors were covered in condensation. The tile floor was wet.
And Katrina was already inside.
She stood under the spray, her long black hair plastered to her back, her pale body gleaming in the heat. Her grey eyes found them through the steam, and she smiled—a slow, knowing smile that made Beth's stomach flip.
"Took you long enough," she said.
Mandy was already pulling off her shirt. "Some of us have to pack."
"You can pack later."
"I can't. My flight is in three hours."
"The portal doesn't leave without you."
"It leaves without me if I'm not there."
Katrina stepped aside, making room under the water. "Then you better be quick."
Calista slipped out of her robe and stepped into the shower like she was stepping into a warm bath, her body moving with a grace that seemed almost supernatural. She reached for the showerhead and adjusted the temperature, then turned to face the others.
"Emily," she said. "Come here."
Emily had been hanging back, her clothes still on, her expression caught somewhere between hesitation and hunger. The night before had been... transcendent. Jan's magic had stripped away her defenses, let her feel things she hadn't felt in years.
But this was different. This was daylight. This was real.
"I should—" she started.
"You should come here," Calista interrupted. "You're not going home without saying goodbye properly."
"Properly?"
"Properly."
Emily looked at the others—at Mandy, already naked and stepping under the spray; at Beth, her tank top on the floor, her boy shorts following; at Katrina, watching her with those patient, knowing eyes.
She thought about Mark. About the years of distance and silence and not knowing. About the fact that she was about to drive back to Indianapolis and pretend, for the sake of her husband and children, that everything was normal.
She thought about the way it felt to let go.
Her clothes hit the floor in a hurry.
The shower was big—bigger than any shower had a right to be, one of the many oddities of the Williamson house that everyone had long since stopped questioning—but five women still made it crowded.
Skin pressed against skin. Elbows bumped ribs. Someone's foot found someone else's ankle, and there was a brief, laughing negotiation of space before everyone settled into something approaching comfortable.
Calista's glamour filled the steam.
It was subtle at first—just a warmth, a tingling in the air that made the water feel softer, the heat feel more intimate. Then it grew, spreading through the shower like ink in water, until every breath tasted like honey and every touch felt electric.
"What is that?" Emily asked, her voice coming out breathier than she intended.
"That's me," Calista said. "Sorry. I can't always control it."
"You don't have to apologize."
"I wasn't really sorry."
Katrina moved first.
She pressed Emily against the tile wall, the cool ceramic a sharp contrast to the hot water streaming down their bodies. Her hands found Emily's hips, her mouth found Emily's mouth, and for a long moment, there was nothing but the kiss—deep and searching and full of a tenderness that made Emily's chest ache.
"I've wanted to do this since last night," Katrina murmured against her lips.
"Why didn't you?"
"You were crying. It didn't feel right."
"And now?"
"Now you're not crying."
Katrina's hand slid between them, fingers finding Emily's cunt with a familiarity that was almost startling. She was already wet—had been wet since the moment Calista's glamour hit her—and Katrina's fingers slid through her folds like they belonged there.
"Fuck," Emily breathed.
"That's the idea."
Katrina's fingers pushed inside—slow, deliberate, curling against that spot that made Emily's knees buckle. Her thumb found Emily's clit, circling with a pressure that was just this side of too much.
"This is what you needed," Katrina said. "Last night. Today. All of it. You needed to feel good."
"I—"
"You spent twelve years holding your breath. You can breathe now."
By the shower door, for her part, Mandy dropped to her knees with a splash.
The water hit her back, streaming down her spine, but she didn't care. She was focused on Beth, who was leaning against the wall with her legs spread, her eyes already glazed with anticipation.
"Remember that time in Miami?" Mandy asked. "When we were both drunk and you said you'd always wondered what it would be like?"
Beth's breath caught. "I remember."
"I've been thinking about it."
"You have?"
"Every time I've seen you since."
Beth's hands found the shower bar, gripping it tight. "Then stop thinking and do it."
Mandy didn't need to be told twice.
She buried her face between Beth's thighs, her tongue dragging through her sister's folds with a hunger that bordered on desperate. Beth gasped, her hips bucking, her fingers white-knuckled around the bar.
"Fuck," she said. "Fuck, Mandy, that's—"
"Shut up and enjoy it."
"I hate you."
"You love me."
"I do. I really, really do."
Mandy's tongue found Beth's clit, and Beth stopped talking.
Calista watched them for a moment—her sisters, tangled together in the wet heat, their bodies moving with a rhythm that came from years of knowing each other—and then she turned to Emily.
Katrina's fingers were still working inside her, pumping in a steady rhythm, but Emily's face was tight with a need that demanded more. Calista understood.
She knelt in the water, her knees hitting the tile with a splash, and brought her mouth to Emily's clit.
The sound Emily made was something between a moan and a cry.
Calista's tongue was soft, insistent, circling Emily's clit with a precision that made her legs tremble. Above her, Katrina was still kissing Emily's neck, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below her ear.
"Let go," Katrina whispered. "We've got you."
And Emily did.
The orgasm hit her like a wave—sudden, overwhelming, washing through her body and leaving her gasping against the wall. Her juices mixed with the shower water, running down her thighs and pooling on the tile before swirling toward the drain.
"Good girl," Katrina murmured. "That's it. Let it all go."
Emily sagged against the wall, her chest heaving, her heart pounding. But before she could catch her breath, Calista was standing, pulling her into a kiss that tasted like her own cunt.
"Again," Calista said. "We're not done yet."
"We're not?"
"Not even close."
What followed was a blur of bodies and mouths and fingers, a chaotic symphony of pleasure that moved from one configuration to the next without ever losing momentum.
Katrina ended up on her back, her head resting on the edge of the shower bench, her legs spread wide while Calista ate her out. Her hand found Beth's cunt, buried two fingers inside, and worked her with a rhythm that matched the movement of Calista's tongue.
Beth had her own fingers inside Mandy, fucking her from behind, her chest pressed against her sister's back, her teeth grazing Mandy's shoulder.
Mandy's hand was between her own legs, rubbing her clit with a desperate energy.
Emily, still floating on the afterglow of her first orgasm, found herself drawn to the tangle of limbs like a moth to a flame. She knelt beside Calista and lowered her mouth to Beth's breast, sucking the nipple between her lips, her hand reaching down to join Beth's fingers inside Mandy.
"Fuck," Mandy gasped. "Em, that's—"
"Hush," Emily said, the word coming out with a confidence that surprised her. "Let it happen."
The second round of orgasms came faster.
Katrina was first, her cunt clenching around Calista's fingers, her body arching off the bench as she cried out. Then Beth, who came with her face buried in Mandy's hair and her fingers deep inside her sister.
Mandy followed a moment later, her entire body shuddering as the pleasure rolled through her.
Then Calista—who came with a gasp that sounded almost surprised, her golden eyes wide, her silver hair plastered to her face.
And finally Emily, who came for the second time with her mouth on Beth's breast and her fingers tangled with Mandy's, the taste of salt on her lips and the sound of laughter in her ears.
The water ran cold.
It happened gradually—the heat fading, the steam thinning, the warmth draining away to leave nothing but goosebumps and shivering skin. They stumbled out of the shower one by one, grabbing towels, laughing at nothing, their bodies still humming with the afterglow.
"That was—" Mandy started.
"Yes," Calista agreed.
"We should—"
"Definitely."
"Every time."
"Absolutely."
They dried off with the kind of messy enthusiasm that came from five women who had just spent the last hour fucking each other in a shower. Wet footprints covered the floor. Towels were abandoned in heaps.
When they finally made their way downstairs, still damp, still glowing, still laughing, Mike and Casey were in the kitchen.
The smell of omelets filled the air—cheese and peppers and onions, the particular comfort of a meal made by hands that had made it a thousand times before. Mike stood at the stove, his spatula in hand, his shaggy brown hair still damp from his own shower.
Casey sat at the table, a cup of coffee in her hands, her silver-streaked dark hair pulled back in a messy bun. She looked up when the women entered, and her mouth curved into a knowing smile.
"Morning," she said.
"Morning," Mandy replied.
"Good shower?"
"The best."
Casey nodded. She didn't ask for details. She didn't need to. Twenty years of marriage to Mike, twenty years of friendship with Jan, had taught her that some things didn't require explanation.
Mike glanced up from the stove. "Should we have checked on you?"
"You were thinking about it," Calista said. It wasn't a question.
"I was standing right here thinking about it," Mike admitted. He slid a finished omelet onto a plate and gestured toward the table. "Eat. You need your strength."
"For what?"
"For whatever comes next."
The words hung in the air—a reminder that the world didn't stop for pleasure, that there were flights to catch and highways to drive and prisons to visit. That the people in this kitchen had things to do and places to be and problems that couldn't be solved by a good orgasm.
But for this moment, none of that mattered.
For this moment, there was only the warmth of the kitchen and the smell of eggs and the sound of easy laughter. There was coffee and orange juice and the particular comfort of being surrounded by people who loved you.
Emily found a seat at the table. Her hair was wet. Her skin was still flushed. There was a mark on her neck that she'd probably have to cover with a scarf before she saw her husband.
She smiled.
"What?" Casey asked.
"Nothing," Emily said. "Just... thank you."
"For what?"
"For this. For all of it. For being the kind of people who take in strangers and make them feel like family."
Casey reached over and squeezed her hand. "You're not a stranger. You're Mark's sister. That makes you family."
Emily's eyes welled up.
"I'm not going to cry," she said.
"You can cry if you want to."
"I don't want to. I've done enough crying."
"Then don't."
Emily laughed—a wet, shaky sound that was halfway to a sob. "You're very good at this."
"At what?"
"Making people feel better."
Casey shrugged. "I've had practice."
Mike set a plate of omelets on the table. "Eat," he said again. "Your portal leaves in an hour."
The portal to Miami opened in the basement.
It was an odd thing—a shimmering oval of light that hung in the air like a doorway to nowhere, its edges flickering with colors that didn't exist in the natural world. The Dark Market portal system had been one of the few things to survive the fire, and while it wasn't technically legal, no one had bothered to shut it down.
"Rainbor's people set it up," Mandy explained, adjusting the strap on her duffel bag. "It's officially a 'research and development experiment.'"
"That's what they're calling it?" Beth asked.
"That's what the paperwork says."
"And the paperwork is..."
"Bullshit. But useful bullshit."
They stood in the basement, the four of them—Mandy, Beth, Calista, and Katrina. Emily had already left—she'd taken her car, preferring the long drive to Indianapolis to the disorientation of portal travel.
"I hate goodbyes," Beth said.
"Then don't say goodbye." Mandy slung an arm around her shoulders. "Say 'see you later.'"
"See you later."
"See you later."
Calista pulled them both into a hug—a fierce, enveloping embrace that made the air around them smell like woodsmoke and something sweet. "You'll visit soon," she said. "Both of you. I mean it."
"We will," Mandy promised.
"Lizzy—"
"I know. Take pictures of everything."
"Everything."
"And tell Marty I said hi."
"He's not a dog, Callie."
"He's close enough."
Beth laughed, but it was a wet laugh, the kind that came with tears you didn't want to acknowledge. She hugged Calista one more time, then stepped back.
"Take care of Katrina," she said.
"I don't need taking care of," Katrina protested.
"Yes, you do. You need people to remind you that you're allowed to be happy."
Katrina's expression softened. "I have people."
"Good."
Mandy and Beth stepped toward the portal. The light swirled around them, settling on their skin like a second layer of clothing, and for a moment, they were silhouettes against the glow.
Then they were gone.
The basement was quiet.
Calista stood in the aftermath of the portal's light, her silver hair settling around her shoulders, her golden eyes soft. She thought about the night before—the shower, the laughter, the particular intimacy of holding her sisters close. She thought about the road ahead.
There were things to do. Modeling jobs waiting in Chicago. A family that needed her. The ongoing project of helping Katrina adjust to a world that had moved on without her.
But for now, she simply stood.
Katrina appeared beside her, her hand finding Calista's. There was something in her grey eyes—a glimmer of the storm that had been there when they first met, but settled now. Softer.
"Come on," Calista said. "Let's go upstairs. Mike's making more omelets."
"More?"
"He always make more."
Katrina laughed—a real laugh, the kind that came from somewhere deep. "He really does."
They walked up the stairs together, leaving the portal's glow behind.
The kitchen smelled like burnt toast and coffee that had been sitting on the burner too long. Mike stood at the counter, scraping the blackened remains of his third attempt at breakfast into the trash, muttering something under his breath about eggs being "fundamentally unreliable."
Casey sat at the table, her bare feet propped on the opposite chair, a mug of cold coffee forgotten in her hands. She was watching her husband with the particular fondness of someone who had seen him fail at cooking a thousand times and loved him more for each disaster.
Rembrandt and VanGogh had claimed the windowsill, their bodies pressed together in a pool of sunlight that shifted with the slow arc of the morning. Neither cat acknowledged the humans. They had their own concerns.
Calista and Katrina emerged from the basement, still holding hands. The portal's residual glow clung to their skin like a fading memory, and for a moment, the kitchen felt brighter than it had any right to be.
"Did they make it through?" Mike asked.
"Safe and sound," Calista said.
"Good. That's good." He turned back to the stove, where a fourth attempt at eggs was sizzling in a pan that had seen better decades. "You two hungry?"
"I could eat," Katrina said.
"You always could."
She smiled—a small, private expression that had become more frequent in the months since she'd moved in. It wasn't the full, unguarded smile she'd worn before Bentley Ridge, before the void, before thirty years of nothing. But it was real.
Calista slid into a chair across from Casey, her long legs folding beneath the table. She was still wearing the silk robe from earlier, her silver hair a tangled mess, her golden eyes bright despite the hour of debauchery that had preceded breakfast.
"So," Casey said. "Emily made it home?"
"She left about twenty minutes before us," Calista said. "She should be in Indianapolis by early afternoon."
"How's she doing?"
"She's... processing. I think the visit to Mark was harder than she expected. Not in a bad way, but in a big way."
"It's a lot to carry," Casey agreed. "Twelve years of thinking someone's dead, and then suddenly they're not. That changes the shape of your whole life."
Katrina looked down at her hands. She knew something about that—about the way time could warp and twist until you didn't recognize yourself in the mirror. She'd spent three decades in a place where time didn't exist, and she'd come out the other side barely older, barely changed.
But everything else had changed. Everyone she'd known. Everything she'd understood about the world.
Mark had been the only constant. The one person who made sense in a world that had become alien overnight.
She thought about him constantly. About his hands on the other side of the prison table. About the way his eyes lit up when she walked into the visiting room. About the twelve years he'd spent working for a monster to protect a sister who thought he'd abandoned her.
She understood that. The sacrifice. The willingness to become something dark so that someone else could stay light.
She'd done the same thing, in her own way. She'd sacrificed her freedom to close the rift that Aemelia had opened. She'd given up her life so that thousands of others could keep theirs.
That was what love did. It hollowed you out and filled you with something bigger than yourself.
Mike slid a plate of eggs onto the table. They were scrambled, slightly overdone, but edible. "Eat up," he said. "I've got a call with a client at noon, and I need caffeine before I can pretend to be competent."
"Pretend?" Casey teased.
"I'm a very good pretender."
"You're a very good IT guy."
"That's debatable."
"It's not. You've kept this family's computers running for twenty years."
"That's because I'm the only one who knows the password."
Casey threw a napkin at him. He caught it one-handed and grinned—the same boyish grin he'd worn when they first met, before the kids, before the cats, before the weirdness that had become their ordinary life.
Calista watched them with a warmth that spread through her chest. She'd grown up in this house—chosen this house, really, since she hadn't been born into it in any conventional sense. She'd been created by Aemelia's designs, harvested from Rick's seed during a time travel adventure that still made family reunions weird.
But Mike and Casey had never treated her like a complication. They'd treated her like a daughter.
She'd spent years wondering what that meant—whether she was a Williamson by something other than blood, whether her place in this family was something she'd earned or something she'd been given. Eventually, she'd stopped wondering.
Blood didn't matter. Love mattered. And she'd been drowning in love since the day she arrived.