The bathroom door opens down the hall as Rafe is tugging his shirt back on, and Lindy reappears, taking one look at us and softening immediately. “Okay,” she says. “You look slightly less like you’re about to pass out. Good.”
Rafe steps back reluctantly, but his hand stays at my back as he pours without ceremony, generous but not reckless, and hands one to Lindy first.
“Cheers,” she says, lifting it. “To emotional devastation before noon.”
I huff a laugh despite myself and take the glass Rafe offers me. The burn of alcohol is sharp and welcome. Rafe takes his more quickly than usual. Not enough to comment on. Not enough for Lindy to notice. Just fast—like he wants the edge gone before it can settle.
We sit—me on the couch, Rafe beside me, Lindy facing me in the overstuffed chair.
“Okay,” Lindy says, businesslike now. “Let’s talk.”
I brace myself.
She looks at me, not unkindly. “What exactly do you think they can do?”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
She gestures vaguely. “Mom. Dad. The dramatics. The threats.”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “They could… cut me off. Publicly. Financially.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You’re a professional athlete with your own contracts, endorsements, and savings. You’ve been financially independent for years.”
“That’s not the point,” I say quietly.
“I know,” she says gently. “But it matters.”
Rafe stays quiet, listening, his thumb rubbing slow lines along my knuckles.
“They could disown me,” I say. “Cut contact.”
Lindy nods. “Yeah. They could.”
The acknowledgment hurts more than denial would have.
“But,” she continues calmly, “that says something about them, not you.”
I stare at her. “You say that like it wouldn’t destroy me.”
She leans forward. “It would hurt. A lot. I’m not pretending otherwise.” Her honesty lands harder than comfort. “But,” she adds, softer now, “any parent who would rather lose their child than accept who they love is making a choice. And if they make that choice, it doesn’t mean you failed.”
Something heavy lodges in my throat.
“They don’t deserve you,” she says simply.
The words knock the air out of me, and Rafe’s hand tightens around mine. “I hate that you’re right,” I whisper.
“I know,” she says. “And it would be shit. I won’t sugarcoat it. Losing them would be a sucker punch.”
She pauses, then smiles gently at Rafe. “But you wouldn’t be alone.”
I look at him then, really look at him—my husband, standing in my parents’ crosshairs without flinching, loving me anyway. “I have you,” I say, the truth settling into my bones.
Rafe’s gaze softens, something fierce and tender mixing there. “Always.”
I take a breath, heart pounding slower now. “You’re more important.”
The words are quiet but absolute.
