“I’m an expert painter,” Cass reports. “When I turned twelve my parents let me repaint my room, and I was going through a goth phase, so I went black, which was a mistake. Fixing it really sucked.”

“Let me guess, Lulu, you’re not as experienced.” Ryan smirks at her dress and tights, her shearling-lined jacket, like she would have worn them if he’d just been a normal person and warned her about what they’d be doing.

Lulu’s not going to be cowed. “What, Ryan, did you go to art school for this? Still photography and intermediate abstract wall painting?”

“I’m a regular Rothko,” he says. “Nah, my dad made me do this stuff growing up sometimes. Builds character, whatever. Plus, that way you know if the guys you hire are lying to you, or being lazy. You know what a good job looks like and how long it takes.”

The way he says it makes Lulu’s skin crawl. She hates the idea of Riggs Senior teaching Ryan to dabble in manual labor, and how to keep an eye on his workers to make sure they don’t slack or cut corners on his dime. It occurs to her that even as she’s watched The Hotel transform in the last few weeks, she’s been shielded from the sight of the men who’ve been making that happen. Like their work is shameful, or strange.

“I have clothes for you guys to wear if you don’t want to get dirty,” Ryan says. “Come upstairs so you can change.”

Ryan’s shirt hangs loose on Cass: It fits like proper boyfriend clothes. Lulu remembers the way he wrapped himself around her when they set up the tent that first night. It’s hard not to feel like their bodies make sense of each other: his proportions and hers. One large, one small; one girl, one boy. On Lulu’s curves, Ryan’s clothes just look dumpy.

The job isn’t hard, though. Dip a roller in paint; glide it up and down a wall. Stand close and check for evenness; wait for it to dry and check again. Layer after layer after layer. They turn the room from a pale yellow Easter color to a gemstone-y rose quartz pink.

“We get, like, sweat equity on this, right?” Cass says, midway through the afternoon. “This is the Shapiro and Velloro Memorial Suite. It’s ours whenever we want it. The VellShap. The ShapVell.”

“You guys looking to book a staycation together?” Ryan asks. There’s acid on his tongue, and Lulu doesn’t understand why. She’s wearing your T-shirt, she wants to tell him. She’s asking you a question.

“I’ve been thinking I want Lulu to teach me how to be a better girl,” Cass says. “Manicures. Face masks. Loofahs? I don’t know other kinds of girl accessories.”

Lulu laughs. “That’s a good start,” she says.