Chapter Text
Miranda woke with a sharp inhale. Her hands reached for the space next to her that Andrea occupied. It was empty, not cold, just unused. She had been dreaming of her wife again. Miranda was no stranger to dreams of Andrea these days; her wife had been overseas for far too long. The war was getting worse, and every time Miranda grasped for pictures, bylines, and videos of Andy from MSNBC, CNN, Al Jazeera, BBC, The Times, WP, and sometimes she would even scroll through socials. She waited with bated breath to hear that the borders had closed and her wife would be stuck. While a majority of Andy’s time had been spent on various military bases in the Middle East. When Miranda had last spoken to her wife, the girls had just started the year. The August heat clung to her children’s hair as they told their mother about their first day in 6th grade. Her wife informed her that her ability to call out was really limited until they reached the next base. Miranda had hummed her displeasure, doing her best not to add to her wife’s stress. There had been a somewhat steady flow of communication from Andy up until that point.
The silence had settled under Miranda’s skin like a cancer. At no point in their relationship had Andrea been silent; she was an overexuberant puppy at best. Muddy paw prints across Miranda’s pristine floors in the form of clothes strewn across the backs of chairs, shoes haphazardly kicked off. Papers piled on the floor where she would lie and work into the early hours, jewelry, pens, and glasses left in cabinets, sinks, cupholders, and, to Miranda’s deep displeasure, pockets. Mack had assured Miranda that the lapses in communication were normal, that Andrea would not be stuck in an active war zone, that the press was not left to…not left behind. Miranda brushed her hands across her face in frustration. She knew better; her wife was not over there simply for the press. Her calls had been increasingly concerning, trying desperately to scrub unacceptable images from her mind. As she stood and got ready for the day, each piece she put on was like a toothpick collage held together with entirely too much Elmer's glue. Miranda spent the car ride answering emails and making short, clipped calls. In the months that Andrea had been overseas, Miranda had become no less demanding, no, that's just who she was. But her worry stripped away the blood-tipped edges, leaving calm, calculating efficiency.
“Ma’am, we’re here.” Roy’s voice startled her.
“Thank you, Roy,” She said softly.
Time moved differently now. The worry that settled in her bones, even before her wife’s last call, had drastically changed how Miranda processed time. The doors opened to her floor. Amari was there waiting. She silently passed a coffee over.
“Well?” Miranda asked, the warmth of the coffee easing a bit of the feeling in her chest.
“Two calls from Italy for the show; there was a shift in the build, and marks need to be redone. Gene with the art department needs the edits to the YSL bows so they can meet the print deadline. David from Channel called, apparently the copy we sent over has their legal team in a fit. Mr. Ford called; he’s hosting a USO dinner in two weeks and wanted to see if you would speak. He also asked after Andy. I’ve left the features copy on your desk as well as the meeting lineup for this week.” Amari said, writing a few things down. Miranda nodded as they walked. The entire office knew she was unnerved. For the first time in her time at Runway, there were no whispers. The office was holding its breath, too. Settling at her desk, Miranda turned her gaze to Amari.
“Tell Gene that he should be done by lunch. I sent the edits on the bow and the shoes last night, and he chose not to look at them this morning. At the 10 am walk-through, we will remark the stage. I can’t imagine it will be a challenge. Let's make sure we talk to the stage crew and photography about lighting shifts. Have Emily call. I want you to move my 4 pm meeting with Susan to tomorrow. I simply cannot listen to her today whining about in her own department as if it's my job to fix it.” Miranda rolled her eyes. Amari nodded, her head tilting to one side in expectation of any further direction.
“If you would reach out to Mack, please,” Miranda said softly. Amari’s eyes softened a touch.
“Of course.” She paused on her way out. “I’ll be sure to prioritize it.”
“Amari.” The woman turned her eyes, meeting Miranda’s calmly. “I won’t be partaking in any military-related press; my answer is the same: no. I will speak to Tom; this is the third event he’s held since this whole thing started,” Miranda said sharply. Amari nodded and left; words of platitude were unnecessary. Miranda deeply appreciated it.
Miranda was unable to stop the tapping of her fingers on her desk. The Times sat on her desk as it always did now. A small, distorted black-and-white photo of her wife with her name under the byline. The article was excellent; they always were. Her wife was an extraordinary writer. But Miranda was also extraordinary. She was an extraordinary editor and extraordinarily well versed in Andy. This article, while mostly even-toned, followed a particular line of reporting that told Miranda Andy had, in fact, been working with the State Department. Andrea’s normal style of reporting landed more in the investigation of humanitarian injustice. This and many of her others, since she shipped out, had been about weapons, money, and movement of key players in what Miranda suspected was an attempt to collect nuclear arms. Miranda’s fingertips tapped torridly, the nervous energy that refused to settle.
They had been married for 8 years; in that time, Miranda had become achingly familiar with her wife’s tendencies to be too damn good at her job. This appeared to be one of those situations where Andrea had made herself indispensable. It happened a lot in their marriage: people demanded things from Andrea because she was good at whatever she put her mind to, which was everything. In the early days of her career, before she had the protection of being well-known, Miranda had patched her up more than once. But nothing prepared her for the first time she got a call from a hospital about Andy.
7 years ago:
Miranda could hear nothing; the usual sharp echo of her heels on linoleum floors was replaced by the soft but fast thump of the sneakers she found by the door. Andrea’s, they were too big, too long. Miranda rushed past the empty desk. It was late, no, it was early, too early. Miranda’s hands gripped the counter as she moved, hauling her body around the round structure. She knew the room number. It was private, she had demanded; it had been unnecessary. The harsh lights reflected sharply off the floor as she all but slid to the door.
Her wife’s name ripped from her lips.
“Andrea!”
The younger woman was settled in a bed, blankets pooled at her hips, on a tray sat soup and water with a stupid fucking plastic straw. Miranda sucked in a sharp, painful, ragged breath. Andy’s cheek was deeply bruised; dried blood clotted across a painful-looking open wound under her eye that crossed the bridge of her nose. Her hair was damp, and Miranda could see stitches along her temple. Miranda’s hands shook as she finally looked into Andy’s eyes. They were dark, tired, pain-laced, but so full of adoration and apology.
“Miranda,” She whispered. Miranda was moving before her mind told her feet to. Her hands were reaching desperately for her wife. Never in her life had she been so scared; the fear was still trapped in her veins, scraping along her ribs. One hand cradled Andy’s jaw, her fingertips feather-light against the bruised bone, the other gently pushed at damp bangs. Andy’s eyes fluttered closed. She looked worse up close. Dried blood patched under her nose and clung to her hair. Miranda tried to take comfort in her wife’s scent, trying desperately to calm her body down, but Andy did not smell good at all. Her wife smelled like a sewer, if Miranda was being honest.
“What happened?” She asked, settling gently on the bed, pushing the tray and the offensive straw away. Andy swallowed thickly, her eyes blinking. She ran her hand along Miranda’s arm, gripping her hand tightly. She took a breath that rattled. Miranda pressed her hand gently to her wife’s chest.
“It was just supposed to be a meeting with a source for the speed fash article.”Andy’s voice was ragged; she furrowed her brows. Miranda hummed; with shaking fingers, she attempted to smooth the tension away.
“The one about federal funding for global industry expansion?” Miranda asked, wondering how a report about federal funding to help startups around the globe contribute to the fashion industry would even remotely lead to her wife being in the hospital. Andy nodded softly.
“It was supposed to be a meeting; we had coffee. I promise.” Andy whispered, her voice raw with her pleading. The sound ripped jagged wounds inside Miranda. Her hands rested soothingly at Andy’s chest. Her fingertips were brushing along the hollow of her neck.
“Shh. Tell me how coffee landed you here,” Miranda said softly, leaning down to brush soft kisses along Andy’s forehead. To Miranda’s deep dismay, tears dripped down her wife’s face. Andy tugged at Miranda’s shirt.
“Okay, honey, I’m here,” Miranda whispered, shuffling closer.
“I’ve been following the money for three months. With what happened today, it’s a RICO case,” Andy sniffed through her nose.
“The meet was a setup. For us both.” Miranda pulled a sharp breath in through her nose. It was one thing to encounter an unexpectedly dangerous source in the field. But knowing someone had intentionally set out to harm her wife was deeply upsetting. How long had they been watching Andy? “We left the coffee shop at 2; he went left. I went right. I made it a block, Miranda. I woke up tied to a chair in an underpass.” Miranda could do nothing against the bile that built in her throat at the thought. “Apparently, my source had been informing the FBI. They thought I was part of it.” Andy held her breath. She stared past Miranda’s shoulder, her eyes dark.
Tears welled hotly in Miranda’s eyes; her fingertips brushed the stitches, letting the tears fall when Andy flinched.
“I was so scared,” Andy whispered, wrapping her hand around Miranda’s wrist. A wounded sound ripped from Miranda’s lips as she saw the splints on her wife’s broken fingers.
“You’re safe now,” Miranda whispered against Andy’s lips. The younger woman tangled her fingers in Miranda’s jacket, pulling her close. She kissed Andy so gently. Andy tilted her head up, tears spilling down her cheeks. Her breath catching on each inhale.
“Can we go home?” She asked, her brown eyes wide and tear-filled. Miranda brushed them away softly. Her wife sniffled, more tears dripping down her face.
“I just want to go home.” Miranda nodded, holding her close.
“Miranda?” Amari’s voice shook the vision of her wife’s bruised face from her memory. That was one of the worst encounters her wife had. Miranda had picked her up from jail and the hospital far more than she would ever like. This was worse. She couldn’t pick Andy up from this. She couldn’t hold her, wipe her tears away, ease her pain or fear, assuage her self-imposed guilt. Spinning her wedding ring, Miranda’s mouth thinned, and her jaw clenched; she could not think about this now; it would ruin her. Clearing her throat, Miranda straightened her desk, her fingers brushing across her necklace; Miranda waited for Amari’s update.
“Emily on the line,” Amari called gently.
“Hello, Emily,” Miranda greeted her sister-in-law warmly. Emily had married Andy’s brother Ryan four years ago. They had a two year old son, Aiden.
“Miranda.” The woman answered sharply. While there was no shortage of affection for Emily, the bond her wife had with the Brit was uncontestable. Surprisingly, Miranda got along far better with Ryan. Perhaps it was because both of their wives were deeply anxious people and often leaned on them for grounding.
“No, I haven’t heard from her yet,” Miranda said, letting her sister-in-law’s voice calm her. Emily and Ryan had been instrumental in Miranda’s function. They helped create structure and stability in Andrea’s absence.
“She hasn’t gone this long without calling before; I’m worried about all this.” Emily hissed.
“I know.” Miranda agreed, leaning back in her chair.
“I mean, what the fuck is she even doing? I mean, could she be any more obvious about the State Department?” Miranda could hear Emily’s eye roll through the phone.
“Yes, this piece is quite the statement. I’m not sure what qualifications my wife has on nuclear weapons, and yet,” Miranda trailed off, sarcasm thick on her tongue. “She’s headlining the Times over it”
“Overachiever,” Emily grumbled. Miranda laughed warmly. “Ryan’s picking up the girls today. It’s just the boy and me tonight, bring us some wine?” She said.
“That sounds good. I’ll text him. I really appreciate him spending time with them”
“Oh, stop, he loves them, Miranda. Plus, I’m not going to see that ridiculous movie. I’d do quite a lot for that man, but not that.” She snorted. Anything Miranda was going to say was interrupted by Amari.
“Mack’s on line 2”
“Emily, I’ve got to go. I’ll text you”
Miranda all but smashed the button for line 2. “Have you heard anything?” She asked her voice low with demand.
“I was gonna call you, Miranda.” He sighed fondly. Pulling air through her nose sharply, Miranda rolled her eyes.
“Mack,”
“Alright, settle down. I’ll put her through,” The man said softly. Miranda exhaled deeply. Her fingers finally lay still. “She got into base a few hours ago”
“Thank you.” It was a strangled breath. One that ripped jaggedly from her chest. It was so quiet, not because she was embarrassed to be grateful, but because the relief had taken the air from her chest. It caved in.
“Of course,” He said before wishing her well. Miranda liked that about him. He knew how stressed out she was, how little time she had for pleasantries. How scared she was. The line connected.
“Andrea?”
“Miranda.” Andy’s voice was low and soft. She sounded sleepy.
“Are you alright?” Miranda asked, gripping the phone tightly. “Are you safe?”
“Yeah baby, I’m all good, just tired. It was a long trip. I’ve been up since 4 am. I just crawled into bed. Are you at work? How are the girls?” She asked.
“I am at work. The girls miss you, of course, they like their teachers so far, I think the schedule is better for them. Having to actually go to class for each subject. Swimming is over soon.”
Miranda talked, happy to have a chance to discuss their children with her partner. She desperately missed having her wife there to navigate this uncharted territory of parenting 12-year-olds. She did her best to avoid the fact that Andy was missing this time with them. Miranda knew it was always on Andy’s mind. They spoke for a while more before Andy started to fall asleep.
“I gotta go, I’m falling asleep, Miranda.” Andy hummed softly.
“I love you, Andrea. Be safe, your children love you.” She whispered softly to her wife.
“I love you all.” The line went dead. Miranda wiped tears from her eyes. She steadied herself. Andrea was sleeping; she was okay. And her day was decidedly busy.
Weeks passed, and the world turned. Finally hearing from Andy should have settled Miranda, but it did not. Andrea’s communications were changing; her locations were no longer in hot offices. She called from a crowded street, her hair plastered to her face, sweat and dirt, and maybe something more clinging to her collar and temple.
In early October, while watching Andrea get dressed as they chatted idly about the girl's grades, Miranda noticed Andy lace up her boots, army standard issue ones. Not her own. The sole was an iron-rust color.
As the heat slipped out of the city and Cassidy and Caroline traded swimming for cross-country and tennis, Andy’s calls came with a growing intensity. Her eyes were less warm, and her face carried a seriousness their family had never seen before. Many times, Miranda could not share that her wife had called with their children, and Andy had not been in any shape to see them. Bruises, scrapes, and tears kept the call between them as wives. Miranda had tried to ask her about it. Tried to understand why her wife was doing this.
They cried together in early November. “Miranda.” Andy’s voice shook. She had been silent too long.
“How can I express my fears without adding to your stress? How do I tell you that your absence in this house is terrifying without making you feel guilty? How do I tell you the truth when clearly you have no control?” Andy looked stricken, tears gathered in her brown eyes. “Why is this your burden to bear? You are not a soldier, darling,” Miranda whispered. “I wonder how much it’s costing you. I can see the bruises. Are there more?” A ragged inhale told Miranda everything she needed to know. “Andrea, you have been lying to me for months. You have never lied to me. They have taken that from us, while I understand you cannot share the truth. I will not sit here and let you hide from me.” Her voice was steady despite the waves of emotion threatening to tear her apart. “Andrea, do you really think I believed you were choosing to stay away from your children? From me?” Miranda asked.
“I hoped not. But I would have understood. This isn’t what you signed up for. I should be there.” Andy said, shaking her head. “I’m missing everything,” she growled in anger.
“You didn’t sign up for it either. Unless you slipped away to Alabama for officer training while I wasn’t paying attention?” Miranda snarked, hoping to make her wife smile. She did not.
“I’m here because I must be. I can’t tell you, Miranda. The alternative is not something I can consider.” Andy said, her voice serious in a way that Miranda had never heard from her. Her eyes cold. Miranda cried then, unable to handle how vulnerable she felt, how lonely she was. How upset she was that her wife was hurting. That they were changing. Andy bowed her head and let silent tears fall too.
On Christmas Day in the dead of night, the pretense was abandoned. Andy had called, pulling Miranda from sleep. She had said nothing. Tears streamed down her cheeks, dried blood covered the left side of her face, and her hands were stained with the dark iron. Miranda came to the conclusion that much of it was not her wife’s. A cut above her eyebrow wept gently. Andrea made no effort to stop it. The younger woman had just stared at her wife, a grief swimming in her eyes that Miranda feared would never leave. Miranda had whispered softly to her, her own tears falling, hoping to offer whatever comfort she could. But the truth was there in front of her, Andrea was in real military gear, a tan bulletproof vest that did not say press on it, but instead A. Priestly. Miranda would never forget seeing shining pieces of metal stuck in her vest. In February, more than once, Andy had called from the back seat of a Humvee. The butt of an M16 just visible under her chest. Miranda had cried like a child in Ryan’s arms. Undone by the sight of the eyes he shared with his sister.
It was nearly spring break, and Easter was around the corner. Andy had said she would call later that night around 9.
“Amari, please make sure that I’m home at 6 no matter what. Cancel what you must.” She said, a soft smile at the thought of seeing her children early and her wife.
“Emily on the line,” Amari called gently.
“Did she call?” The woman answered sharply.
“Tonight,” Miranda said, twisting the line between her fingers. “You’ll be over?” as if her in-laws didn’t spend days at a time at her house.
“Yes. I see your notes on this budget; I’m not giving you that much fucking money. What should we do for dinner?” Miranda’s smile was a mile wide.
“See if Ryan wants to grill. Caroline’s pescatarian phase is growing on me.” Miranda hummed softly. Emily snorted.
“I made Cassie the last of that strawberry salad for lunch,” Emily mused, the sound of her pen scratching trickling over the phone
“Well, we can have salad without strawberries, I suppose, dear. The adjustments for the budget are needed its only 10%.”
“Right, that's sorted then; 10% is jail time.”
“We can leave together. Sounds like we need to discuss this in person. Shall I bring them up?” Miranda asked, brushing the totally not there dust off her clean desk. Her chest still ached; it was a cavernous space that sat unoccupied. A short silence followed her question.
“Miranda.” Emily’s voice was far too soft. “We have the walk-through at 10; I’ll settle in.” She said briskly. “My budget is pristine. You’ve got a screw loose if you think I’m adjusting this by that bloody much, Miranda; I’m telling you now,” She warned sharply, pulling them into a far safer flow of conversation for work. Miranda grinned; it was all teeth.
“I’m sure you won’t.”
They both knew, of course, that the request was built on the back of Miranda’s ever-present fear. They were both used to Andy’s presence; the lack of it was unacceptable. Emily knew that Miranda was not sleeping well; she knew that the girls missed Andy. She knew that Miranda would never just ask Emily to share space with her at work. She couldn’t. So they would spar about a budget Miranda approved weeks ago. Emily’s presence was a balm to the ever-present fear that scraped at her bones. The walk-through was done with the precision Miranda brought to every Runway matter. Her notes were unforgiving; even Amair’s HR hissing went ignored; these people ought to know better. They were the senior department heads of Runway; it was not, in fact, anyone's first day, and how dare she have higher expectations for a multi-million dollar magazine. Jeez. With an eye roll and scathing remarks, she sent the team scrambling to get reshoots done before the end of the month within Emily’s “newly” adjusted budget.
“You’d think they would know better by now,” Emily hissed, her eyes sharp as flint, watching Paul drop his notes just past the door. Miranda hummed her displeasure.
“They think because my wife might die, I’ll be too distracted to have high expectations.” She paused, her voice dangerously cold. “That is not the case.” Emily blinked rapidly, trying to process.
“ Sycophants .” She sneered venomously, turning back to her notes. Miranda’s grin was sharp and full of teeth. She couldn’t wait to see Emily at the helm of Runway in the future. It would be glorious.
At home, Miranda and Emily shed their tension like water. Soft smiles and infectious laughter echoed off the walls of the townhouse. Miranda refused to set little Aiden down, carrying him around on her hip like he belonged there. Emily smirked, knowing her son gave Miranda major baby fever. The little boy loved Miranda; he gripped her necklace in his tiny hands, shrieks of joy bouncing off her shoulder as Miranda moved around the house, moving backpacks and kicking shoes aside. Emily and Miranda stopped chatting to watch with unbridled joy as Ryan handed Caroline a bowl with some atrocity called cowboy butter to brush on the fish. Cassidy kicked a soccer ball against the brick of the house, happy to ignore her sister. She jumped in excitement, calling to her mother through the window after a particular trick.
“Mom, Aunt Emily, did you see that?!”
“We did bobbsey; that was very nice.”
“Well done, darling”
Dinner was a lively affair. Ryan was just like her wife, full of life, he was an idiot just like Andrea. The girls leaned into his vibrance; they loved their Uncle. In quiet moments tucked into their Mother’s bed, they told Miranda that Ryan reminded them of Mom and it was nice to be around him. It was just a little bittersweet to watch him share that boyish grin that Andy had.
Nine pm hit the house like a brick through glass. Miranda had long excused herself to their bedroom to wait for Andy’s call. The exuberant sounds of their family settled to a hum around 8:30 pm. Even little Aiden, settled between his cousins, snuggling into Caroline’s side, gripping his stuffed shark, letting the movie no one was watching play. Cassie’s pen hovered above her math notes; Caroline’s eye stared absently just past the TV, her finger stuck mid-turn of Miranda’s well loved copy of Coral Island. Emily dried dishes at the sink. Her hands moved with ease, in a well-practiced motion, but tension leaked from each firm click of ceramic touching the drying rack. Ryan grumbled in the hallway, replacing a bulb that 100% did not need replacing.
Miranda lay in their bed, the covers pulled to her chin. She played with the laces of her wife’s sweatshirt. The ring was loud. It echoed in the whole house. Miranda pressed the video call on the second ring.
“Andrea.” She whispered.
“Hi, baby.”Andy’s voice rolled through Miranda like a warm fire; it filled the aching in her chest with warmth that was almost too hot. She took in her wife’s face on the screen. She was so beautiful. It made Miranda’s chest swoop. She blinked the tears that formed away. Andy’s hair was a long, tangled mess, her bangs long gone. Miranda searched her wife’s face greedily, taking in every line and finding the thin scars. Andy looked tired, like no amount of sleep would make her feel better. Miranda noticed bruises along her jaw when the woman raked her fingers through her hair, yawning. “Good morning.” Andy smiled brightly, her eyes sparkling despite the tension in her jaw.
“Is it?” Miranda smirked softly.
“Yeah, it's 5 something here. I just woke up. Sorry to make you wait, I was asleep as soon as I sat down.” Her wife said, stretching. A sharp wince stopped Andy’s arms from raising up all the way. Miranda shook her head gently.
“Nothing to be sorry for, Andrea. Are you alright? How are things?” She asked
“I’m okay. Things are…” The woman trailed off, tossing her hands up before tangling them in her hair. “Things are fluid here. Hopefully I can offer some clarity soon.” Andy said too diplomatically. Miranda’s eyes narrowed instantly in displeasure at Andy’s tone. That seemed like a problem. One for them, after the girls had spoken to their Mother.
“Everyone is here tonight. Are you up for saying hello?” Miranda asked softly.
“Yes! Let me say hello.”
“Okay, we can talk after, yes?” Miranda said, raising an eyebrow, letting her wife know that she was not to end the call without talking to Miranda.
“Sure, baby.” Andy’s eyes sparkled. Gosh, she was beautiful. Miranda walked down the stairs, feeling the eyes of the entire group snap to her.
“Here she is,” Miranda said warmly, placing the computer on the table as the family flocked to see her.
“Mom!!!”
“Hi, Mommy”
Caroline and Cassidy called, taking the two closest seats. Emily and Ryan sat protectively around them. Greeting Andy as well. Miranda hummed softly, taking a sleeping Aiden into her arms. She stood just behind her family, rocking the boy gently, her eyes catching Andy’s. The love in them made Miranda swallow thickly against too much emotion. She moved to the stairs. She needed a second, needed some time to catch her breath, needed some space to prepare for whatever Andrea would tell her in the privacy of their bedroom. The small boy whined, nuzzling into her neck, his little fists tucked up under his chest, resting on her collarbone. She took him to the room he shared with Ryan and Emily.
Miranda padded softly across the room, putting him down in his crib. She made to leave, but her feet stayed still, her fingers brushing through his hair softly. She should go see her wife. Listen to her children spend time with their mother, she should be there to support them. Her feet wouldn’t move. She was rooted to the spot, her eyes filled with the tears she had been holding back for weeks. They dripped down her face steadily. Miranda knew Andy wasn’t coming home yet. She knew this move pushed her wife deeper into whatever State Department backstop bullshit she was doing. She knew that Andy really wasn’t choosing to be there anymore. Miranda was torn in two. How was she supposed to do this? Aiden whimpered, his eyes fluttering as though he could feel her distress. Taking a calming breath, Miranda soothed him gently. She missed when her girls were babies.
She looked around the room; Ryan’s suits were pressed and hanging up in the open closet. Emily’s perfume clung to the air; her shoes lined the closet floor. Blouses with dry cleaning tags that said Priestly hung neatly. Evidence of their permanence in her house was all over. Beer in her fridge, cut grass in the back, baby clothes in the wash, new designs for clothes laid out in the study, Emily’s exceptional draftsman work in every pen stroke. Firm loving voices helping her wrangle two almost teenagers out the door, loud voices at soccer games and school plays. She had never had this before, Andrea. She missed her so much. She felt so loved by these people. She couldn’t imagine doing this without Emily and Ryan. How could she go back to that life? A life without Andrea. Looking around the room, she decided to be the woman they needed her to be. She would be strong; she would dial back in. She would support her wife, no matter how painful it was; she would leave no doubt in Andrea’s mind that she was loved. And Andy would come home to them. Anything less was simply unacceptable.
The house was quiet when Andrea and Miranda finally settled into their room.
“I’m sorry,” Andy said, bracing herself for Miranda’s anger. She sat on Andy’s side of the bed, the computer charging, her wife’s eyes following every movement as Miranda tried to figure out what to say to Andy. In a rare move, Miranda decided to be brave like her wife and just start talking. Hopefully, she would say the right thing, or as Andrea had taught her across their marriage, she would say the wrong thing, but they would take it apart together.
“I know you are. I am too. But just know how loved you are. How proud of you I am. How much I want you to come home when you can.” Miranda said softly, knowing the words were right as they tumbled from her lips.
“I love you, Miranda. So much.” Andy said her eye blazing with the intense love Miranda had come to love over the years. They parted ways more united than they had been in months. Miranda slept far more soundly than she had since Christmas.
The call came three weeks later.
In the middle of the night.
The ring sharp and unwelcome. Miranda knew, before she said hello. Before she called Andrea's name. Her body was in a state of complete alarm.
“Miranda Priestly?” Miranda’s heart was stuck in her throat.
“Is she alive?” She whispered. Please let her be alive.