Chapter 20 Nina
Nina
I’m twenty minutes early, but Callie buzzes me through the gate like she expected it.
The moment I step through the front door, their house envelops me in warmth—the scent of charcoal spilling from the open slider, the sound of Zoey’s animated chatter from the living room where she’s building something elaborate with wooden blocks on the area rug.
It’s been ten days since the abortion—since I collapsed on my bathroom floor while Callie waited just outside. The cramping has faded to nothing, but something deeper remains tender. Not regret, exactly, but awareness of how close I came to a different kind of unraveling.
“You’re helping,” Callie announces before I’m fully through the front door. “Mason’s been fussing over the grill for an hour, and I need someone with actual knife skills to handle the salsa.”
She studies my face for a moment, checking on me without making it obvious. I give her a small nod and she returns it before leading me toward the kitchen.
I follow her, stepping carefully around Zoey’s architectural project. The toddler looks up at me with dark eyes that mirror her father’s intensity. She breaks into a smile broad enough to show off all six of her teeth and chirps, “Nina!” at full pitch, bouncing in place.
The sound makes my chest tighten—not the sharp panic of before, but something softer. Vicente’s words from yesterday’s session echo in my mind, his definition of family: “Biology stopped mattering years ago. Now it’s just about who shows up.”
When I don’t immediately react to Zoey’s greeting, she returns to her blocks with the focused determination of someone building something important.
“Ever since we started the plans for the new house, all she wants to do is build her grande chateau,” Callie says fondly. In the kitchen, she hands me a tomato and gestures toward the counter where ingredients are laid out like a surgical tray.
“In French, no less?”
I wash my hands, grateful for something to do. The water is cool against my skin, and I let it run longer than necessary before reaching for a dish towel. The mundane task grounds me, pulls me back from the edge of that memory.
“Marcella has been speaking to her in French. Mason in Spanish. We want her to have as much exposure to languages as possible.”
“That’s smart,” I say, grateful for the shift to safer ground. “Children who grow up in multilingual environments develop remarkable cognitive flexibility. Their brains form neural pathways that enhance problem-solving skills and cultural awareness.”
The professional distance feels safer than acknowledging how Zoey is growing into someone I might actually want to know, not just analyze from a safe emotional distance.
“Really?” Callie looks up from her prep work, genuinely interested. “I wondered about that. Some of the pediatric literature suggests multilingual kids might have developmental delays, but she seems so advanced.”
“That’s outdated research,” I say, warming to the topic despite myself.
“Language acquisition is exponentially easier before age five. And those supposed delays? They’re usually just processing time.
The kids are sorting multiple language systems simultaneously. It’s actually fascinating to observe.”
“Her vocabulary is definitely exploding,” Callie says, smiling warmly at her stepdaughter. “Yesterday she told Mason she wanted ‘more azul blocks’ for her tower. Mixing languages mid-sentence like it’s the most natural thing in the world.”
She eyes me askance for a beat. “That’s the most attention you’ve paid to her since we brought her home at the end of January. And after what happened last week—”
She trails off and my stomach churns. The memory is still too fresh—how I’d frozen when Zoey had reached for me that morning after the wedding, the familiar terror rising in my throat. How different it felt from last week, when the choice was mine to make and unmake.
I slice through the tomato, the knife hitting the cutting board with a solid thunk. “If being more analytical about her helps me be around her, then that’s what I need to do. This move wasn’t just about me starting fresh.”
Vicente and Arturo’s session yesterday keeps surfacing—how they’d talked about chosen family with such casual certainty. How they’d mentioned Mason and Callie as part of their extended household, woven into the fabric of their lives through Celeste and their shared history.
“You’re my family, Cal. I want to be here for you and Mason, and for Zoey. I want to look forward to seeing her grow up. Her and any other kids you two have.” My voice catches slightly. “I don’t want what happened to me—what I went through—to change that.”
Callie stops what she’s doing, really looks at me.
“Nina.” Her voice is soft, grateful, but also knowing.
She knows what I’m talking about—the trauma that shaped me, the fear that’s followed me since I was eight years old.
“That means everything to me. To us. And you don’t have to force anything—just being willing to try is enough. ”
She returns to her prep work, but there’s warmth in the silence now. I glance around the kitchen—it’s quiet without Mason’s mom flitting about, trying to do too much. “Where is Marcella?”
“Market run. She’ll be back soon.”
“How’s she doing with the driving?” I ask, eager to move away from the emotional territory we’ve been skirting.
“Better every week. Her right hand still gets tired easily, but her spatial processing has bounced back beautifully.” Callie’s voice carries the quiet pride of someone who’s watched a miracle unfold in increments.
“The neuroplasticity at her age is remarkable, especially considering how severe her stroke was last winter. We weren’t sure she’d ever drive again. ”
She glances toward Zoey, who’s still absorbed in her construction project. “Actually, I think Zoey’s vocabulary explosion has partly been because she and Marcella were practicing together. The speech therapy sessions became this shared adventure.”
I nod. Marcella and Zoey, rebuilding language together—each one helping the other remember. The parallel isn’t lost on me.
“She’s modified her dance routine, but her neurologist thinks her dance background actually gave her an advantage,” Callie continues, skewering vegetables on bamboo sticks.
“Years of training built neural pathways that survived the stroke damage. Her cerebellum compensated beautifully—her brain essentially had backup systems from decades of movement memory.”
“Sar...ah...bellum,” comes a small voice from the living room.
We both look up to find Zoey standing in the middle of her toys, wooden block in hand, her face scrunched in concentration as she carefully pronounces each syllable.
Callie and I exchange startled glances before bursting into laughter.
“I think we’ve been busted for speaking doctor,” I say, watching Zoey’s proud expression.
“Maybe we should stick to English a two-year-old can understand,” Callie agrees, beaming at her stepdaughter.
“Though apparently she’s picking up medical terminology faster than I expected, along with French and Spanish.
This child’s brain is just as fascinating as her grandmother’s.
But enough about us.” Her voice softens. “Tell me how the new job’s going.”
“First sessions went well,” I say. “Better than expected, actually.”
“Good clients?”
I pause, considering how much I can say. “Complex. But genuine. They want to do the work.”
Callie doesn’t push for details. She knows the boundaries of my job, respects them. Instead, she hands me a lime and starts pulling cilantro leaves from their stems.
“And the team?”
“Darius makes incredible coffee and notices everything. Lucia could probably hack the Pentagon from her phone. They’re good people.”
“But?”
I glance up from the cutting board. “But what?”
“You’ve got that look. Like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
The knife stills in my hand. Callie’s always been able to read me like a case file—every micro-expression, every shift in tone.
“It’s just a lot,” I say finally. “New city, new job, new everything.” I pause, wishing I could tell her about yesterday’s session, about the conversations that made me rethink what family means.
But those words belong to my clients, not me.
“I’ve been thinking about chosen family lately.
About who gets to be inside certain circles, who stays on the edges. ”
The Thanksgiving invitation sits uneasily in the back of my mind. I should probably decline, but something about it felt genuine.
Callie’s eyes sharpen with understanding. She sets down her knife and looks at me directly. “Nina, I know you can’t discuss your clients. But I should probably tell you—Mason and I are aware of who you’re working with. We know there’s some... overlap in our lives.”
My gaze remains fixed on the bowl as I scoop the tomatoes into it. Of course they know. Mason was instrumental in the operation that brought them in.
“I can’t—” I start.
“I know. You’re bound by ethics and probably a dozen confidentiality agreements.
But I’m not their therapist or their doctor.
” She picks up her knife again, returns to chopping.
“We have dinner there sometimes. Elena—their housekeeper—watches Zoey for us. Mason’s brother lives there with his partners. ”
She pauses. “Zoey adores Elena. Calls her Tía now. She teaches Zoey songs in Spanish, lets her ‘help’ in the kitchen. Zoey comes home with flour in her hair and new words Mason swears he didn’t teach her.”
The image of Zoey being doted on by a housekeeper at Vicente and Arturo’s compound creates a strange cognitive dissonance. But Zoey is Maddox’s niece. Of course she’d be welcome there.
Callie’s expression shifts, like she’s working up to something. “Actually, we’re having Thanksgiving dinner there next week.”
I take a breath. “They invited me too. Yesterday, at the end of our session.” The words come out faster than I intend. “I don’t know if I should accept. The ethical boundaries are already complicated, and…”
“You should come,” Callie says immediately.
“You really think I should?” I ask, uncertainty creeping into my voice.
She meets my eyes. “Before you spiral about the ethics of it all, remember, you’re not treating Mason or me. You’re treating them. And they invited you as a person, not as their therapist.”
The distinction feels razor-thin, but she’s not wrong.
“Nina, I know these men aren’t perfect. But I also know what Arturo did for someone I care about deeply.” Her voice takes on a different quality—respectful, knowing. “My surgical mentor? Dr. Yao? Earlier this year, I asked him why he worked with Arturo on the side. Why risk his license.”
I set down my knife, giving her my full attention.
“He told me Arturo pulled him out of a trafficking operation in Tijuana when he was fifteen. Got him across the border, found him a family, paid for everything—medical school, residency, all of it. Never asked for anything in return.” Callie’s hands still over her work.
“Yao said the man who was trafficking him looked legitimate on paper. But Arturo? You can see the criminal record if you look. And yet Arturo was the one who saved him.”
I absorb this, thinking about yesterday’s session—Arturo’s careful attention, the way they talked about family and showing up.
“So yes,” Callie continues. “They’ve done terrible things. But they also do this—pull people out when they’re drowning. And they don’t keep score.” Her voice softens. “That’s worth something.”
“I didn’t know,” I say quietly.
“Most people don’t. Yao’s private about it, and Arturo doesn’t advertise.” She returns to her vegetables. “But since you’re working with them, since you’re considering going to their table next week... they’re not just the men in your case files.”
She pauses, then her tone shifts to something more careful. “Nina, you might already know this, but Wyatt’s in town. Mason invited him to dinner tonight. I hope that’s okay—he thought it would be good for Wyatt to have some familiar faces while he’s getting settled.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “I know. He warned me in advance.”
She studies my face. “Are you going to tell him? About what happened?”
I’ve been rehearsing the words for days, but they still feel impossible.
“I want to. I owe him that much.”
“You don’t owe anyone—” Callie starts.
“I know. But I want him to know. He deserves to know.” I take a breath. “It might have been his. Or Chris’s.”
“Speaking of Chris,” Callie says, her voice carrying that particular tone of sisterly exasperation, “I finally got him on the phone yesterday. Apparently he’s been in LA for days without telling me.”
“I know that too... he came to see me when he got into town, actually. I invited him tonight too,” I admit.
She shakes her head, a small laugh escaping. “We’re both trying to drag him here, and you know he’ll probably still find some excuse to disappear. But he’d better show up—I have words for him about his vanishing acts.”
Vanishing acts. That’s one way to put it.
I’ve woken up alone after plenty of one-night-stands, but that night was different.
At least Wyatt showed up for breakfast—quiet, careful, but present.
Chris couldn’t even manage that. Just disappeared entirely, like the night meant nothing. Or maybe like it meant too much.
“Are you okay with this?” she asks more gently. “All three of you in the same room? After everything?”
The question encompasses so much—the night at the wedding, the pregnancy, the abortion, all of it.
“I have no idea,” I admit. “Having them both here, in the same space, after everything...” I trail off, unable to articulate the knot of dread and anticipation in my chest. “It’s going to be a disaster.”