30. Luther
Luther
By the time we’re seated around the long dining table in my parents’ Nob Hill place, the air has shifted from polite to easy in that way families do when they decide—tacitly—that someone is already one of theirs.
Everyone is already half in love with Anouk.
She’s seated between Dot and Ria, across from me.
Mom did that on purpose to make Anouk feel safe.
The table is full—my parents, Ria and Theo, Dot and Neil, even Finn—and somehow it’s not crowded. It’s as if the room adjusted itself around Anouk instead of the other way around.
Dinner is family-style because that’s how my mother has always done it.
Roast chicken with lemon and thyme, blistered green beans, a farro salad with roasted vegetables, and crusty bread still warm from the oven.
Mom has no problem hiring a chef or eating a Michelin-star meal—but for family, she’ll cook, Ria will bake, I will chop vegetables, and Dad will open wine bottles. He’s useless in the kitchen.
“Anouk, Jacob tells me that you did an amazing job presenting the Novagene project.” Mom wants to tell Anouk that she knows how special she is, how good she is at what she does—to give back to her what I took away.
“I…I….” She glances at Finn, who is sitting next to me, and then at me.
“Say thank you, Annie,” Finn instructs indulgently.
She smiles shyly. “Th-thank you, H-Hannah.”
Dad picks up his wineglass and asks with genuine curiosity, “What made you choose that volatility threshold?”
In our home, we always talk about work. My mother is retired now, but she used to work in finance—so our conversations went from market cycles and balance sheets at the dinner table to leadership mistakes, people problems, and the ethics of power.
Her eyebrows lift in quiet surprise. She wasn’t expecting Dad to talk business at home.
“I l-looked at Novagene’s historical re-rejection points.” She puts her wine glass down and sets her hands on the mahogany table. She does this to ground herself, I know. I want to change the topic, protect her, but I also know that I shouldn’t. She can take care of herself.
“Anything above f-five percent variance created d-downstream in-instability. It wasn’t r-risk—it was pre-pre-predictability they c-cared about.”
Dad nods seriously. “That’s elegant.”
That is a word that comes up often when people describe Anouk’s models.
She glances over at me, a flicker of disbelief crossing her face.
“Anouk is elegant,” I remark, my eyes on her.
For a moment, she freezes, like a deer caught in headlights, and then she smiles like clouds parting after a storm, letting the sunlight through.
As always, our dinner table is loud. Sometimes, everyone talks at the same time—but we will manage to give each other space to be ourselves and get our point across.
How could I have forgotten these lessons of inclusion I learned at my mother’s table and excluded Anouk? Erin is culpable for fueling my insecurity because of petty jealousy—but the majority of the blame still falls on me.
As the evening progresses, Anouk stutters less and less.
I notice. I know Finn does because he mentions it under his breath to me and adds, “Your family makes up for your assholery.”
“They do,” I agree.
“Don’t fuck this up again,” he warns and then cocks an eyebrow lazily. “You probably will, but try for it not to be as epic as this time, yeah?”
“You got it!” I laugh softly.
Soon enough, my family launches into what can only be described as affectionate Luther-bashing.
Dad starts with his favorite cautionary tale: The time I got a C in seventh-grade math despite acing every single exam—because I refused to turn in any homework.
“He said it was redundant,” Dad tells Anouk, shaking his head. “Thought mastery should count more than compliance.”
“It should,” I mutter.
Mom immediately piles on. “And don’t forget kindergarten. He had a crush on a girl called Lola and completely lost the ability to speak whenever she was within ten feet.”
“For the love of God,” I groan.
“He’d just freeze,” Mom continues cheerfully. “Like Charlie Brown and the redheaded girl. Mouth open. No words.”
Theo grins. “That tracks. Remember Paris, Ria?”
Ria lights up. “Oh, Paris. He refused to ask for directions and got us so lost we circled the same café three times.”
“They didn’t speak English,” I protest.
“You speak French,” Ria points out calmly.
I glance at Anouk. “My French is terrible.”
Theo wags a finger. “His French is fine. He just won’t open his mouth unless it’s perfect.”
“He speaks another language.” Anouk smiles, soft and wry. “I can barely manage English.”
The table goes quiet for half a beat.
Then, Ria scoffs. “Oh, please, Miss Data Scientist. You just explained volatility curves and supplier risk matrices, and I understood maybe twenty-five percent of it. Dad got sixty—and he actually works in this space.”
Dad lifts his glass. “Generously sixty.”
And just like that, my sister makes Anouk’s stutter completely irrelevant.
I watch Anouk take that in—the ease of it, the lack of pity, the total absence of discomfort—and I realize something quietly extraordinary is happening.
She’s not being accommodated, she’s being welcomed. And she knows it.
Mom pours more wine. Dad tells a story about Ria dismantling a consultant’s argument at seventeen. Dot chides my father for a leadership faux pas he committed a decade ago.
I sit back in my chair and watch her.
She leans in as she listens to the stories. Her scarf is loose, her scar is showing, but she’s not paying any attention to it.
She gestures with her hands as she talks, explaining something to Theo about why certain assumptions in predictive modeling are invalid.
Later, when the plates are cleared, and we’re lingering over port, letting the evening taper off instead of ending it, Anouk makes no move toward the door.
Finn leans closer, his voice low. “She’s usually scanning for exits by now. Guess I’m going to have to pry her out of here.”
Anouk is across the room, listening to my mother, nodding, relaxed in a way that’s rare for her—shoulders loose, hands still, no tension pulling her inward.
My family matters to me. So, seeing them welcome her without hesitation makes this night more than just a successful dinner.
“Annie, I have the early shift tomorrow, so chop-chop,” Finn finally ends the evening.
They say their goodbyes. My parents, Ria, and even Theo hug her. We’re huggers in my family.
“Here. You said you liked the farro salad.” Mom hands Anouk a container of leftovers she absolutely did not ask for, but has no choice but to politely accept because refusing Hannah Grant is a losing battle.
At the door, she turns to me, and then, because the universe is smiling at me, she rises on her toes just enough to bridge the space between us and presses a kiss to my cheek.
My entire body stills.
I don’t reach for her. I don’t crowd the moment. I meet her eyes, let her see exactly what that small gesture did to me.
“Goodnight, Luther.” Her eyes sparkle with delight.
“Goodnight,” I manage to say steadily despite the riot inside my chest.
Finn clears his throat loudly. “Alright”—he claps his hands once—“we’re outta here before this gets weird.”
Anouk looks chagrined. “Finn.”
“What? I’m being supportive.” He shoots me a look. “Good work.”
The door closes, and I breathe out the tension that’s been holding me in one piece.
“Well,” my father says mildly from behind me, “that was encouraging.”
I turn to look at my family.
My mother lets out a satisfied hum. “Very encouraging.”
Dot nods appreciatively. “That kiss may have been a quick one, but I do feel it had substance.”
Ria grins like she won…something. “You’re welcome, Luther.”
Theo raises his glass. “You owe us.”
Neil chuckles. “He definitely does.”
I cock an eyebrow in mock exasperation. “For what do I owe you?”
“For emotional labor,” Ria says promptly.
“For the seating arrangement alone,” Mom adds. “That took strategy.”
“For not embarrassing you any more than we did,” Dad interjects.
I know my family, so I tilt my head. “Sounds like you all…conspired.”
Dad shrugs. “Family meeting. Took five minutes.”
“And,” Mom continues, pointing at me, “you don’t take this for granted. That kiss?” She taps her own cheek. “That was earned. Good work, son.”
“So….” Ria arches an eyebrow, hand on waist, hip cocked. “What’s next on your Win Back Anouk project plan?”