Page 98 of Split Decision

"Almost officially," Mom says, in the specific tone she uses when she's managing something that costs her to manage. She sets the coffee pot down and smooths her hands on her pants. "We keep hitting paperwork delays. The placement agency keeps requesting additional documentation—something new every few weeks. Our attorney says it's not unusual, but—" She stops. "Well. It's been longer than we expected. We expected to have the adoption finalized by now."

Kelly is looking at her pie.

She knows about the delays. Of course she does. She's fifteen, and she lives in this house, and she understands that *expected to have it finalized by now* means something has been in the way, even if no one has told her exactly what.

"It'll happen," my father says. The quiet certainty of a man who has decided it will and is not entertaining other possibilities.

"It will," Mom agrees. She puts her hand briefly on Kelly's shoulder. “She’s already our daughter, regardless of paperwork. We’d just like to have her last name officially changed.”

Kelly doesn't look up from the pie, but she goes slightly less tense under it, which is what matters.

I watch Marin during this exchange.

She's listening. Of course she's listening—she listens to everything, tracks everything, files everything. Her expression is composed and appropriate. A small sound of sympathy when Mom mentions the delays. Her eyes move to Kelly with what reads as genuine warmth.

Nothing visible. Nothing I can point to.

Just Marin, listening, in the room where my parents are describing a process that keeps getting blocked and can't explain why, while a fifteen-year-old girl tries not to look like she's counting the months.

After dessert, Brandon and Marin end up at the far end of the room near the bookshelf. Not deliberately, it seems. Just the drift of conversation.

My brother is in love with her.

Not infatuated. Not interested. In love. I can see it in the specific quality of his attention—the way he watches her face when she's speaking to someone else, the half-second of pride when she says something that lands. He's not performing this for anyone. He has no idea I'm watching.

Andi appears at my elbow.

She doesn't say anything. She just stands there beside me, looking at the same thing I'm looking at.

After a moment: "He's happy," she whispers.

"Yeah."

"That's the worst part," she says. Not bitterly. Just precisely.

She moves away to offer to help my mother with the coffee, which Mom will refuse because Andi’s on crutches. Some things don’t change.

Later,in the car going home, we're quiet for the first ten minutes. Andi has her head back against the seat, looking at the streetlights. The cast takes up most of the footwell on her side. She's been on her feet too long today, and I know it, and she won't say it.

"She said something to me," Andi says finally.

"Tell me."

"After dessert. We ended up at the counter together while your mother was looking for the cream. Just the two of us for about forty-five seconds." Andi is still looking at the streetlights. "She said, 'I know this has been a hard yearfor you. I want you to know I've tried to help where I could.'"

I wait.

"It was the right thing to say," Andi continues. "The exact right thing. The tone was right. The timing was right. It wasn't too much." She turns her head slightly toward me. "That's what keeps stopping me. She's never wrong. Every word she says is exactly calibrated."

"That's her skill," I say.

"I know." Andi looks back at the window. "I just can't tell anymore whether her skill is being applied to help us or to something else. And I've been trying to tell for months." She pauses. "Usually I can tell."

"She had you at a disadvantage. She knew your situation coming in."

"Yes." Andi goes quiet for a moment. "Luke—the board communications. The language in them. Some of those recommendations were in writing before Marin was formally involved."

I glance at her.