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.
