When his hand settles over mine on the console, I don’t analyze it this time. I don’t calculate the shelf life of thegesture. I squeeze his fingers once and let his warmth settle into my bones.
He lifts my hand to his lips and presses them against my skin without looking at me, as if he’s sealing something he doesn’t yet know how to articulate.
He’s fighting more than opponents.
And so am I.
Twelve weeks until his next fight. Twelve weeks to prove he can hold focus. Twelve weeks before I step into his family’s world and let them see pieces of me that were built in places most people don’t understand.
This time, I’m not bracing for collapse.
I’m choosing to stay.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ANDI
I’m having a difficult time focusing on the outdoor furniture catalog Linda is showing me, not because I’m uninterested. Quite the opposite. I want to care about the shape of the wicker, the depth of the cushions, and whether cream will stain too easily near the pool. But every time I shift in my chair, I’m reminded of last night and this morning with Luke, and the pleasant soreness that follows is enough to scatter my concentration all over the glossy pages. I mentally scold myself and lean closer to the table, determined to take this seriously.
She’s showing me options for the garden seating around the pool, pointing out which finishes will lastlonger in direct sunlight and which fabrics hold up in humidity. It’s such a small thing, choosing patio furniture, but it doesn’t feel small to me. I’ve never had a mother ask for my opinion about anything before. The fact that she values it makes me feel rooted in a way I didn’t expect.
She finally settles on a dark-framed sectional with wide arms and thick cream cushions just as Sam walks into the kitchen. “Honey, I’ve decided,” she announces with satisfaction.
“Wonderful. On what?” he asks in the tone of a man who has heard that phrase hundreds of times but still knows better than to ignore it.
“The patio set.”
That gets his attention. He studies the page she slides toward him, whistles low at the price, and shakes his head. “It’ll have to wait, babe.”
She doesn’t argue. “I figured we’d catch it at the end-of-season sale if there are any left.”
There’s no tension in the exchange, no power struggle. Just a partnership. I watch them more closely than they realize, cataloging the easy give-and-take between them and wondering what it must feel like to build a life alongside someone rather than rebuild alone.
Linda and I cook while Luke and Brandon help Sam lay concrete pavers outside for the patio extension. Through the kitchen window, I can see them moving in sync, sweat-darkened shirts clinging to their backs as they lift, level, and measure. Inside, Linda fills the space with stories—Luke trying to repair a lawnmower at age eight and nearly dismantling it beyond recognition, Brandon daring him to jump off the roof into the pool, Alicia playing referee like she’d been born to manage chaos. I laugh until my cheeks hurt. I could sit here and listen to her talk about their childhood for hours, soaking in the sound of something stable and whole.
At one point, she slips her arm around my shoulders and squeezes me close for no reason at all. The gesture is brief, almost absentminded, but it hits harder than she knows. I blink quickly and keep chopping vegetables, refusing to let the sting in my eyes turn into something noticeable.
By the time the men pile into the kitchen—dirty, hungry, and loudly debating whether the patio slopes enough for proper drainage—the house feels warm and lived-in. We set the table together and take our seats, with conversation flowing easily from childhood stories to harmless teasing. It’s inevitable that eventually the focus shifts to me.
“Andi, do your parents live nearby?” Sam asks between bites.
Luke’s fork stops midair. I can feel his tension before he says anything. “Dad, I don’t know if?—”
I touch his arm lightly. “It’s fine, Luke.”
Then I turn back to Sam. “They used to live here. They died when I was six.”
I keep my tone level, almost conversational. It’s easier that way. If I treat it like a fact instead of a wound, other people usually follow my lead.
Linda’s eyes soften, but not with pity. With understanding. “I’m so sorry,” she says quietly.
“What happened?” Sam asks, then glances at Linda when she shoots him a look. “If you don’t mind.”
Linda gives him a disapproving look before turning to me. "If you don't want to talk about this, we won't push."
“No, it’s okay. That is, if Luke doesn't mind. We haven't gotten around to all this yet," I say, looking around the table at the people whom I'm beginning to think of as family before turning to Luke. His face softens at my statement directed at him and nods. “They were killed in a car accident. I wasn’t with them. I’m told it was instant.”
Luke’s hand finds mine under the table and laces his fingers through mine.
