I try to shift my thoughts back to compiling my notes from the session. They gave me intelligence—Serbian movement through the ports, someone significant consolidating power, possible escalation during holiday rush periods when everyone’s distracted. But they did it through metaphor and misdirection, through genuine therapeutic content about family and legacy and fear.
Dragons who think water makes them safe.
I pull out my phone and begin recording, then stop. Dragonov. Dragons. It’s not subtle once you see it, but in the moment, it was just conversation.
“Sons of bitches,” I mutter, with genuine admiration. “You played this perfectly.”
My phone buzzes.
CALLIE: Tomorrow’s still good? Mason’s making enough carne asada for an army. Also Chris confirmed he’s coming.
My stomach clenches. All of us in the same space.
If I can make it through the barbecue—through telling Chris and Wyatt the truth—maybe Thanksgiving won’t seem so impossible.
NINA: I’ll be there.
CALLIE: You okay? How are you feeling about seeing them both?
NINA: I’ll manage. See you then.
I set the phone down and walk to the window. The fog has burned off, revealing stark blue sky and the sprawl of Los Angeles beyond. Serbian criminals consolidating power. Celeste building an empire on the skeleton of her fathers’ legacy. Chris and Wyatt preparing for the barbecue, just like I am.
Three days until Friday. Until permanence. Until I never have to fear this particular ghost again.
But first, the barbecue. First, the truth.
I think of Vicente’s willingness to give Elena the choice—even if she chooses to hate him forever. His acceptance that some decisions can’t be forgiven, only lived with.
I can’t control how Chris and Wyatt will react when I tell them. I can only hope they’ll understand that some choices are complicated. That terminating the pregnancy, getting the sterilization—these aren’t rejections of them. They’re about knowing myself completely.
Even if they can’t see it that way.
20
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 château,” 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.”
