Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
ANDI
I’m having a difficult time focusing on the outdoor furniture catalog Linda is showing me, not because I’m uninterested.
Quite the opposite. I want to care about the shape of the wicker, the depth of the cushions, and whether cream will stain too easily near the pool.
But every time I shift in my chair, I’m reminded of last night and this morning with Luke, and the pleasant soreness that follows is enough to scatter my concentration all over the glossy pages.
I mentally scold myself and lean closer to the table, determined to take this seriously.
She’s showing me options for the garden seating around the pool, pointing out which finishes will last longer in direct sunlight and which fabrics hold up in humidity.
It’s such a small thing, choosing patio furniture, but it doesn’t feel small to me.
I’ve never had a mother ask for my opinion about anything before.
The fact that she values it makes me feel rooted in a way I didn’t expect.
She finally settles on a dark-framed sectional with wide arms and thick cream cushions just as Sam walks into the kitchen. “Honey, I’ve decided,” she announces with satisfaction.
“Wonderful. On what?” he asks in the tone of a man who has heard that phrase hundreds of times but still knows better than to ignore it.
“The patio set.”
That gets his attention. He studies the page she slides toward him, whistles low at the price, and shakes his head. “It’ll have to wait, babe.”
She doesn’t argue. “I figured we’d catch it at the end-of-season sale if there are any left.”
There’s no tension in the exchange, no power struggle. Just a partnership. I watch them more closely than they realize, cataloging the easy give-and-take between them and wondering what it must feel like to build a life alongside someone rather than rebuild alone.
Linda and I cook while Luke and Brandon help Sam lay concrete pavers outside for the patio extension.
Through the kitchen window, I can see them moving in sync, sweat-darkened shirts clinging to their backs as they lift, level, and measure.
Inside, Linda fills the space with stories—Luke trying to repair a lawnmower at age eight and nearly dismantling it beyond recognition, Brandon daring him to jump off the roof into the pool, Alicia playing referee like she’d been born to manage chaos.
I laugh until my cheeks hurt. I could sit here and listen to her talk about their childhood for hours, soaking in the sound of something stable and whole.
At one point, she slips her arm around my shoulders and squeezes me close for no reason at all. The gesture is brief, almost absentminded, but it hits harder than she knows. I blink quickly and keep chopping vegetables, refusing to let the sting in my eyes turn into something noticeable.
By the time the men pile into the kitchen—dirty, hungry, and loudly debating whether the patio slopes enough for proper drainage—the house feels warm and lived-in.
We set the table together and take our seats, with conversation flowing easily from childhood stories to harmless teasing.
It’s inevitable that eventually the focus shifts to me.
“Andi, do your parents live nearby?” Sam asks between bites.
Luke’s fork stops midair. I can feel his tension before he says anything. “Dad, I don’t know if—”
I touch his arm lightly. “It’s fine, Luke.”
Then I turn back to Sam. “They used to live here. They died when I was six.”
I keep my tone level, almost conversational. It’s easier that way. If I treat it like a fact instead of a wound, other people usually follow my lead.
Linda’s eyes soften, but not with pity. With understanding. “I’m so sorry,” she says quietly.
“What happened?” Sam asks, then glances at Linda when she shoots him a look. “If you don’t mind.”
Linda gives him a disapproving look before turning to me. "If you don't want to talk about this, we won't push."
“No, it’s okay. That is, if Luke doesn't mind.
We haven't gotten around to all this yet," I say, looking around the table at the people whom I'm beginning to think of as family before turning to Luke. His face softens at my statement directed at him and nods. “They were killed in a car accident. I wasn’t with them. I’m told it was instant.”
Luke’s hand finds mine under the table and laces his fingers through mine.
“Who did you live with after that?” he asks carefully.
Here we go.
“My mom’s cousin Jean and her husband took me in at first,” I explain. “But when she realized she couldn’t access my inheritance, she decided she didn’t want the responsibility.”
The silence that follows is heavier than before.
“She gave you to the state?” Brandon asks, anger flaring in his voice.
“Yes,” I say simply. “I stayed in foster care until I was sixteen. Then I contacted my parents’ attorney. He’d been their friend for years. He helped me petition for emancipation so I could access my trust.”
Luke isn’t eating anymore. He’s watching me like I’m someone new.
“That’s when you met Mack?” he asks.
I nod. “I was staying in a rough area for a few weeks before I moved into my own apartment. One night, a group of guys decided I looked like an easy target. Mack happened to be leaving a nearby building. They recognized him and immediately backed off. After that, he insisted I train with him every day.”
Luke’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt. He swallows hard, taking it all in and considering what to ask next. I know how hard it is to find that balance between curiosity and rudeness, so I try to help fill in some of the blanks.
“I finished high school early at an alternative program and went to college. I lived in the dorms, made friends, and studied too much. That’s where I met Christina and Tania.” I hesitate for a fraction of a second before adding, “Then I went to law school.”
That opens a new round of rapid, overlapping questions. Did I pass the bar? Am I licensed? Why am I not practicing full-time?
“Yes, I passed the bar,” I answer, trying not to shrink under their collective astonishment. “I’m licensed. I do pro bono work in juvenile justice when I can. Mostly, I focus on the youth center.”
The silence that follows feels different this time. Not shocked. But they’re recalibrating who they thought I was versus who they know I am now.
LUKE
I thought I knew her.
Not everything, obviously. But enough.
Foster care. Emancipation. Growing up alone. Law school. A trust fund she never flaunted.
And she never once made it about her.
I’ve spent months unpacking Megan, dissecting betrayal, revisiting my father’s business losses, wrestling with my fear of losing something again. And she sat there, steady, letting me talk, letting me work through it, never once asking, “You think that’s hard?”
When Mom asks how she can afford to live if she’s not practicing full-time, I snap before I can stop myself. “Mom!”
But Andi squeezes my hand and answers calmly, explaining about the trust. She’s not defensive. She’s not embarrassed.
She’s composed.
Andi and I really should’ve had this discussion before now.
I’m learning all these significant details about her at the same time they are.
She was hesitant at first, but I saw what others only perceived as humility.
Part of it is because she realizes she didn’t tell me first, but I know she’s not telling the full story.
Maybe she’ll tell me when she’s ready.
Later, outside by the pool, she settles between my legs on a chaise lounge and leans back against my chest as if she belongs there. I wrap my arms around her, and she folds hers over mine, holding tight in a way that feels less like insecurity and more like certainty.
When condensation from my beer drips onto her arm, I brush it away and let my fingers linger over the lines of her tattoo sleeve. It’s intricate and deliberate, every inch of it intentional.
“What made you decide to get the sleeve?” I ask.
She shifts in my lap and takes my hand, guiding it slowly up her arm. It doesn’t register at first. Then it does.
Raised lines beneath the ink. Faint but unmistakable.
Scars.
Scars she covered with art.
My entire body stiffens.
She watches my face carefully. “Luke,” she says quietly, “I need you to promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“When I tell you certain things about my childhood, I need you to believe me. Do you trust me enough for that?”
There’s fear in her eyes. Not weakness. Fear of being misunderstood.
I’ve never seen the first hint of fear in her before, and it bothers me that it’s emerging now.
She’s so strong and has apparently faced so much.
What would be left for her actually to fear now?
There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to take that fear away from her.
“I will believe you,” I tell her, meaning it with everything I have.
She nods and leans back against me again. “I got the tattoos to cover the scars. If people are going to stare, they might as well have something interesting to look at.”
I don’t press for more. Not here. Not in front of everyone.
I just hold her tighter.
Across the pool, Dad is quieter than usual.
He barely follows the conversation, seems distracted, and is almost irritated.
When it’s time to leave, Brandon hugs Andi easily.
Dad hesitates before he does the same. It’s only a second, but I see it.
I’ve developed spotting the slightest hesitation into an art form.
And for reasons I can’t explain yet, that hesitation unsettles me more than anything else I’ve learned tonight.