Chapter 3 #2
“I disagree. If I walk away just because someone asks questions, the public will automatically infer I’m guilty.
Otherwise, I wouldn’t be so quick to back down.
That’s exactly what I would think in their shoes.
But if I stand my ground, present the documentation, and prove the critics wrong, that establishes trust and credibility and demonstrates innocence.
The very system that’s attempting to dismantle everything I’ve built would be the one in question at that point. ”
Marin doesn't flinch. She doesn't look at the board to gauge their reaction. She looks at me, which is all the more unsettling—the focused attention of someone who has already rehearsed this argument and has been waiting to address it.
"You're describing a strategy that works when the audience is impartial," she says. "When the people watching are genuinely undecided and willing to be persuaded by evidence." She pauses, not for effect—for precision. "That's not the audience you have right now. That audience is rare."
"Then who is the audience?" I ask.
"Three groups." She says it the way she says everything—measured, without apology, and with a reserved authority that makes others pay attention.
"People who already believe you, who will continue to believe you regardless of what you do.
People who already believe the narrative against you, who will interpret every piece of documentation you produce as proof that you had something to hide and needed to prepare a defense.
And the middle group—donors, parents, community partners—who aren't hostile, but who are conflict-averse.
Who read the word audit and the word review and decide that wherever there's smoke, the safest thing is to step back. "
She briefly rests her hands on the table.
"The third group isn't asking whether you're guilty.
They're asking whether engaging with this publicly makes their association with the center a liability.
The moment you hold a press conference or release documentation in response to questions, you've confirmed there are questions.
You've put the youth center in the story.
You've made every sponsor, every donor, every parent calculate their own risk.
" She gazes at me. "That calculation rarely goes well for the organization being defended, even when the defense is airtight. "
The room is quiet. No one speaks on my behalf.
No one will take a risk for me. Most of the people around this table have been with me for years.
They even brought their kids here to enjoy the facilities.
But now I’m the leper who needs to be quarantined instead of nursed back to health.
I never cease to be amazed at how conniving people can be when it benefits them. Though I should be used to it by now.
I want to push back. I know the words I would use.
But I can feel the board absorbing what she said—feel them measuring it against their own calculations—and I understand that she's not telling them something they don't already know.
She's giving them the language to say what they were already afraid to say.
"You're describing a situation where doing nothing looks better than telling the truth," I say.
"I'm describing a situation in which what you do publicly needs to be calibrated to protect the center, not to vindicate you personally." Her voice doesn't harden. "Those aren't the same goal. In a unique environment, they could be. In this one, right now, they're in direct conflict."
The room pauses.
Silently again.
"I know that's not what you want to hear."
Her words do more damage than an apology would. Apologies can be argued with. This can’t. She isn't sorry. She's not pretending to be. She's just telling me that the truth I hold in my hands is the wrong one for the fight I'm in.
And the worst part—the part that sits in my chest like a stone—is that she isn't wrong. She's just not telling me everything she knows about why she's right.
Brandon clears his throat. “Just until the audit’s done, Andi.”
Marin nods. “This isn’t removal. It is strategic insulation.”
Insulation. Like I’m the spark lighting the fuse of the stick of dynamite that will destroy everyone’s life.
“We’ve already had two sponsors ask if we’re exposed here.” One of the board members finally finds her voice.
My chest tightens, but I keep my voice steady. “And if I don’t step back?”
Marin’s expression doesn’t change. “Then you force the board to choose between solidarity and sustainability.”
There’s the heart of the matter. The line that isn’t a threat but functions like one. If I fight this, I risk everything. If I don’t, I lose something anyway. The difference is who pays for it.
I built this place with my own ideas, my own money, and my own sheer determination to help others. The additional donors and sponsors came later, as did the board. They’re all here because of me. These kids have been my life for so many years. Everything I’ve implemented here has been for them.
These programs were carefully selected, closely monitored, and carried out to give those kids a real chance in the world—chances I made sure they had when no one else was willing to give their time, money, or expertise.
And she’s asking me to disappear for their protection.
The room waits for my answer in complete silence. No one speaks on my behalf. No one demands the solidarity Marin mentioned. They’ve already decided her path is not only the best one, but it’s the only one.
I look at Brandon. He doesn’t look at me.
Brandon, who picked me up off the floor and carried me to his vehicle when Luke’s father ambushed me with the mental hospital documents.
Who called me every week when Luke and I were fighting our way through the worst of it just to make sure I was still standing.
Who once told Luke, in front of me, that I was the best thing that had ever happened to this family.
He looks at her.
That’s when I understand something small and terrible.
She’s not just advising. She’s steering. And everyone is letting her. The fighter in me wants to blurt out the truth. She’s not consulting—she’s directing, just under a more socially acceptable guise. Nomenclature shapes perception.
But I don’t.
“I’ll step back,” I reply, feeling smaller than I should.
Not because she’s right, but because the youth center can’t afford to bleed. The kids can’t afford to lose a place that’s safe, wholesome, and helpful.
Marin nods once. “Wise decision.”
Her summation feels a lot like I just lost the title fight by decision.
When the meeting adjourns, I gather my belongings in silence, then walk to my office and close the door behind me.
I have a few personal items here that I don’t want to leave behind during my extended absence, but I need a few minutes to wrap my head around everything that’s happened…
that’s changed in a matter of minutes. I drop into my chair, rest my head in my hands, and focus on simply taking the next breath.
Helplessly watching my life be dismantled is not my style.
My phone rings, and my immediate thought is that Luke is calling for an update on the meeting. I’m not sure I have it in me to talk about it at the moment, but I pull my phone out, anyway. I’m surprised to see Travis’ name on the screen.
A momentary distraction is just what I need.
When I answer, Travis’ usual cheerful voice fills the line. “Hey, Andi. Hope I’m not catching you at a bad time. Got a minute to chat?”
“Hi, Travis. You still don’t watch the news, huh?” My chuckle is humorless. “In fact, I do have a few minutes open. What’s up?”
“A couple of strong influencers have made our public service announcements songs viral sensations. So much so that there’s an online coalition demanding that we do an entire album together.
My producer thinks it’s such a great idea, she pitched it to the CEO.
He then called your CEO to negotiate a dual-label agreement…
pending your approval, of course. What do you say?
Wanna make a record and go on tour with us? ”
Travis sounds excited and completely on board with this idea, but I feel like I’m running to catch up with what he’s saying.
“I think I need a few more details to have an intelligent conversation about this. It sounds like a lot of decisions and plans have been made, but I have no idea what any of them are yet.” I lean back in my chair and listen to Travis explain it fully.
When he finishes, I can’t deny the appeal of taking a five-month sabbatical from everything in Atlanta.