Page 102 of Left-Hand Larceny
For once, I don’t disagree.
Tristan swirls her straw in her drink. “Did you ever tell them? Your parents? About how Christian treated you?”
I shake my head.
“They might surprise you,” she says gently.
I pick at the label on my cider bottle. “I’m not sure I could handle it if they didn’t.”
Mads is watching me closely. “Has anyone ever made you feel safe telling them? Other than us, of course, because we’re the shit. You’re welcome.”
I think of Ragnar. The way he looks at me. How quiet he is when I spiral. Wrapping an arm around my waist and lendingme his physical strength. How he doesn’t push or pry but always makes space.
And suddenly, I can’t stay still anymore.
“My whole life,” I say, voice soft, “I’ve been afraid of people pulling away. Of leaving me.”
The table falls silent.
“I know that sounds dramatic,” I add quickly. “But it’s not just Christian. Or school. Or my parents. It’s… old.”
Jen leans in. “Go on.”
I take a deep breath. This is so dumb of me. I’m overreacting. Quinn’s dad had fucking cancer. Her mom fucked off when she was a baby. Tristan't parents were neglectful. At best. She single-handedly raised her siblings when she was just a kid herself. I, on the other hand, was raised by two wealthy doctors who gave me everything I ever asked for.
I just didn’t think I could ask for unconditional love. I didn’t believe I deserved it.
“I was adopted from a baby box. Hours old. Someone left me wrapped in a blanket at a hospital, and my parents took me home two days later.”
The girls are quiet. Not in a judging way—just listening.
“I’ve always known. My parents never hid it. But I don’t think they ever really understood what it meant.”
“What do you think it means?” Mads asks gently.
“I think,” I say slowly, “there’s a scar on my brain I can’t see. A blueprint laid down before I could speak. That says: everyone leaves. That says: if someone could walk away before even holding me, knowing me… then maybe everyone can.”
Jen whispers, “Sadie…”
“I know it’s not logical. I know they didn’t mean to hurt me. But I also know that even newborns recognize voices, scents, the rhythm of a heartbeat. And when all of that disappears in a blink? It hurts.”
None of them speak. So I keep going.
“I’ve read the science. I’ve read the trauma studies. Babies who lose their birth parents, no matter how loved they are after, still feel it. We recognize the trauma in kids adopted from foster care or hard places, but not the ones like me. And I think that’s why I’ve spent my whole life trying to be who everyone wanted. I don’t have a bad past. I wasn’t…hurt. But—”
“You don’t have to do that anymore,” Tristan cuts me off, voice calm but furious. “Your pain is fucking valid, Sadie. I don’t care if you grew up with pony lessons.”
“I don’t know who I am without it.”
Quinn reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “Then let’s find out.”
I smile, shaky and real. “You guys are the best.”
“We know,” Mads says, grabbing her drink. “Now go pee so we can order nachos without interruption. We know you can’t handle more than one drink without breaking the damn seal. Idiot.” She winks.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell them, slipping out of the booth, cheeks still warm from crying and laughing all at once.
Gershwin’s is warm and loud, sticky-floored comfort that smells like cheap beer, buffalo wings, and other people’s poor decisions. But tonight, in our little corner booth under the flickering neon sign, it feels like safety. Like home, in a way I’ve never really had.
