“Who did you live with after that?” he asks carefully.
Here we go.
“My mom’s cousin Jean and her husband took me in at first,” I explain. “But when she realized she couldn’t access my inheritance, she decided she didn’t want the responsibility.”
The silence that follows is heavier than before.
“She gave you to the state?” Brandon asks, anger flaring in his voice.
“Yes,” I say simply. “I stayed in foster care until I was sixteen. Then I contacted my parents’ attorney. He’d been their friend for years. He helped me petition for emancipation so I could access my trust.”
Luke isn’t eating anymore. He’s watching me like I’m someone new.
“That’s when you met Mack?” he asks.
I nod. “I was staying in a rough area for a few weeks before I moved into my own apartment. One night, a group of guys decided I looked like an easy target. Mack happened to be leaving a nearby building. They recognized him and immediately backed off. After that, he insisted I train with him every day.”
Luke’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt. He swallows hard, taking it all in and considering what to ask next. I know how hard it is to find that balance betweencuriosity and rudeness, so I try to help fill in some of the blanks.
“I finished high school early at an alternative program and went to college. I lived in the dorms, made friends, and studied too much. That’s where I met Christina and Tania.” I hesitate for a fraction of a second before adding, “Then I went to law school.”
That opens a new round of rapid, overlapping questions. Did I pass the bar? Am I licensed? Why am I not practicing full-time?
“Yes, I passed the bar,” I answer, trying not to shrink under their collective astonishment. “I’m licensed. I do pro bono work in juvenile justice when I can. Mostly, I focus on the youth center.”
The silence that follows feels different this time. Not shocked. But they’re recalibrating who they thought I was versus who they know I am now.
LUKE
I thought I knew her.
Not everything, obviously. But enough.
Foster care. Emancipation. Growing up alone. Law school. A trust fund she never flaunted.
And she never once made it about her.
I’ve spent months unpacking Megan, dissecting betrayal, revisiting my father’s business losses, wrestling with my fear of losing something again. And she sat there, steady, letting me talk, letting me work through it, never once asking, “You think that’s hard?”
When Mom asks how she can afford to live if she’s not practicing full-time, I snap before I can stop myself. “Mom!”
But Andi squeezes my hand and answers calmly, explaining about the trust. She’s not defensive. She’s not embarrassed.
She’s composed.
Andi and I really should’ve had this discussion before now. I’m learning all these significant details about her at the same time they are. She was hesitant at first, but I saw what others only perceived as humility. Part of it is because she realizes she didn’t tell me first, but I know she’s not telling the full story.
Maybe she’ll tell me when she’s ready.
Later, outside by the pool, she settles between my legs on a chaise lounge and leans back against my chest as if shebelongs there. I wrap my arms around her, and she folds hers over mine, holding tight in a way that feels less like insecurity and more like certainty.
When condensation from my beer drips onto her arm, I brush it away and let my fingers linger over the lines of her tattoo sleeve. It’s intricate and deliberate, every inch of it intentional.
“What made you decide to get the sleeve?” I ask.
She shifts in my lap and takes my hand, guiding it slowly up her arm. It doesn’t register at first. Then it does.
Raised lines beneath the ink. Faint but unmistakable.
