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Andy was 7 years old when she decided she was going to be a journalist. She had been watching Superman: The Animated Series when the thought occurred to her. Sure, Superman was impressive, but he could afford to be brave—he had powers! Lois, on the other hand, was brave not despite of her lack of powers, but because of it. She ran into the kitchen, her booming voice reverberating through the entire room.
"Mom! I wanna be a journalist!"
"Oh, darling, just like Clark Kent?"
"No! Like Lois Lane! She's so much cooler!"
Her mother chuckled. "Well, little miss journalist, why don't you report on why you haven't set the table yet."
Andy's eyes widened; she had been so immersed in the cartoon—she had completely forgotten to set the table. Quickly she opened the cupboards, pulling out the cutlery and plates.
Once they were all seated for dinner, her mother spoke again.
"Richard, darling, did you hear?—our Andy wants to be a journalist."
The man looked over the rims of his glasses, assessing his daughter. He still hoped that Andrea would follow him into law, but unwilling to break the spell, he nodded thoughtfully.
"Like Superman?"
Andy looked at him as if he had personally offended her. "No—I wanna be like Lois Lane!" she whined. Why could her parents not understand that Lois was so much cooler?
A couple of months later, they had a career day at school. Once the teacher asked if anyone wanted to share what they wanted to be, Andy's hand immediately shot up. With a huge grin, revealing her missing front tooth, she spoke.
"I'm going to be a journalist!"
"And why do you want to be a journalist?"
Andy's little face scrunched up, as though she didn't understand the question. As though it should have been obvious that journalists are the coolest.
"I wanna be like Lois Lane!"
The second the sentence left her mouth, half of the classroom was laughing. Some of the girls were pointing out that superheroes were for boys. The boys were laughing because they found Lois a nuisance that makes everything more difficult for Superman. One boy in particular yelled that girls could only be journalists if there was a hero to save the day. By the time the teacher had hushed the room, Andy nearly wept—her eyes big and red from the strain of holding back her tears.
That day she came home sulking, understandably so. She went into the kitchen and sat at the table, resting her head on her crossed hands. Her mother looked over from whatever she had been cutting.
"Honey, what's wrong?"
"Do you think journalists are stupid?"
Her mother's brows furrowed slightly; she didn't know where this came from.
"No, journalists are heroes. They tell the truth and bring secrets to light."
Andy's face lit up. She had always been quick to recover; a few kind words could easily restore her entire day.
Dreamily, she asked, "What kind of journalist do you think I will be?"
"Oh, I don't know, darling. But whatever you become, your dad and I will always love you."
Working for Miranda Priestly was not how Andy imagined her life post-graduation. She had expected to be in the bullpen, eagerly awaiting her next task. Running towards an interview, a suspect, the next story—running towards danger. In many ways, she was running towards danger. Miranda certainly was dangerous and Andy couldn't help but be drawn to it. The imperious editor was always in the eye of the storm, whether she was navigating social gatherings with keen expertise or dismissing some poor soul's entire collection. Andy was mesmerized nonetheless.
At first, adjusting to the job had been difficult. Every task Miranda set for her was more impossible than the last. Andy felt like she was cowering in the corner, simply taking punches. But Andy was smart—smart, fat girl, as Miranda had called her—and she would adapt. And she did.
Suddenly, Miranda's demands were no longer insurmountable villains; instead they became challenges. They tested every ounce of intelligence and capability she had. She was forced to think outside the box, to anticipate the brutally unpredictable woman. It was exhilarating.
Somewhere along the way—Andy wasn't sure when—she had fallen in love with Miranda. Somewhere between learning what an eyebrow twitch meant and watching the woman move mountains to be with her children. Somewhere around the time the imperious editor stopped being Miranda Priestly, the institution, and became simply Miranda: the woman, the mother.
In Paris, when Andy saw Miranda on that couch—without her armor, without the air of arrogance she always carried with her—it broke something inside her. All she could think was that, if Miranda were hers, she would have never made her feel that way. She wanted to yell at Stephen, ask him how he could fail to see the amazing woman he had and how he could treat her in such a manner.
The following day, when Miranda so blatantly betrayed Nigel, the closest person to her, Andy could not understand it. She thought back to the woman she had seen on that couch and she could not reconcile how they could possibly be the same person. Even when every ounce of her being told her to leave, to escape, to run as far as possible, she had found that she couldn't. She would not be like Miranda's foolish husband. She would see this through.
To say that Andy hadn't expected Miranda to return her feelings would have been an understatement. She had never planned to act on her feelings—content with simply soaking up as much of Miranda as she could before it was her time to move on. Then, one day, weeks after Paris, she had leaned in slightly too far—and as clear as day, Miranda's pale cheeks flushed. At first Andy thought that she was fooling herself, a desperate hope borne of her infatuation. However, Andy was nothing if not an aspiring journalist—so she followed the lead. She allowed their fingers to brush. She stood close enough to let the other woman feel her body heat. She blinked prettily and smiled invitingly.
In the end, Miranda broke first. She called her into the den, shoulders squared and expression unreadable.
"Andrea, this has to stop. It is not right. It is unprofessional. You are half my age and I'm quite literally in the middle of a divorce."
Andy took a couple of moments to observe her. Miranda had spoken far too quickly. Experimentally, Andy took a step forward. The second she did, Miranda stepped back, as though the air between them had suddenly become dense and impassable. Andy figured that she should argue, tell her that age was just a number, and that she would wait till the divorce got finalized, or any other clichés. But she found that words deserted her. Instead her entire body moved of its own volition. Within seconds she was in Miranda's space—preventing her from running away. Luckily for Andy, Miranda's composure did not account for the gentleness of that first kiss.
From then on, they were practically inseparable, even more so than they had already been as boss and assistant. Andy discovered that she was remarkably good at handling even the toughest of Miranda's moods. It seemed as though the second she entered a room, Miranda visibly—well, visibly only to Andy—relaxed regardless of circumstances. Andy was practically walking on cloud nine all the time. They seemed to just… fit together so perfectly.
Until one day, when Miranda had once again called her to the den.
"Andrea, it is time for you to move on."
Andy's shoulders tensed. What the hell was happening? Had she done something wrong? Has she just been a temporary distraction that Miranda had finally grown tired of?
"What—Miranda. Are you—are you breaking up with me?"
Miranda looked at her as if she had grown horns. "What a ridiculous notion. Andrea, it is time you move on from Runway."
"Oh." Andy wasn't sure if she should have laughed or cried. She immediately closed the distance between them.
"Silly girl." Miranda cooed gently.
"So… what happens now?" Andy murmured against the skin of Miranda's neck.
"Decide on the newspaper you wish to transfer to. I will make it happen."
"No, not that." Andy drew back just enough to look at her. "I mean with us."
"Oh… well." For once, the woman who ordinarily had backup plans for her backup plans fell silent.
Andy smiled into her neck. "You don't know, do you?"
"The future is notorious for being difficult to predict, Andrea."
Andrea stood in the aching cold of December, two trembling bodies leaning heavily against her. The weight of the twins held her together, anchoring her to the ground. Had it not been for them, she might have crumbled herself. She blinked back her tears as the officiant continued with the ceremony.
"… to honor and remember the life of Miranda Priestly."
Only a week earlier, the four of them had been comfortably lounging at the townhouse, arguing over some inane film they were watching. Miranda had disagreed with the fashion choices for the historical period.
"Honestly, Andrea. The frilled collars were not worn until a decade later. Have I taught you nothing?"
Andrea had always known that she would not have enough time with Miranda. As much as she ignored the difference in their ages, she understood the reality of it. One day, far in the future, she would be the one left behind. It was a small price to pay for a lifetime with Miranda. But they still had time.
They were supposed to have time.
Long after the funeral service had ended, Andrea and the twins remained, staring at the tombstone as if it might bring her back to life.
Cassidy finally broke the silence. "What do we do now?"
"I don't know," Andrea said honestly.
She had absolutely no idea. How would she even begin to answer this question? She could not conceptualize her life outside of the one she had built with Miranda. Their life, their home, their family—none of it was right without Miranda there.
Intellectually, Andrea knew what the question had meant. Where do they go now? In this immediate moment, do they go back to the townhouse? How are they supposed to go to the townhouse? Last time they were there Miranda was still—
Are they supposed to go live with their father now? Their father was always preoccupied with his new family—how are the twins supposed to fit into it? If they move in with him, do they need to change schools? Are they still going to school in the morning? And more importantly, how are they supposed to go to school in the morning when the most important person in their life is gone?
Although she was Miranda's partner, legally she had no say in what happened to the twins. If their father wanted them with him, she could do nothing. In the eyes of the law, she was as important to them as she had been when she was merely their mother's assistant. She also knew that the question was not purely practical. Logistics were simply much easier to think about in the moment.
She tried to think of what Miranda would say. How would Miranda have comforted her children?
The question only made Andrea want to cry harder.
She thought back of her shock to the first time she saw Miranda with the twins. How soft she had been. For a woman who could dismantle the toughest of men with a single gaze, she was remarkably gentle with her girls. When they were younger, she would coo at them, calling them her bobbsies. It was as though her cold and harsh nature dissolved the second her children were in the vicinity.
"No, Andy. Are—are you coming home with us?" Caroline's unsteady voice broke through Andy's thoughts.
Andy swallowed back her tears. "Yeah. Let's go home."
She pulled the two girls closer as they began walking. The logistics did not matter at that moment. Right now, they were going home—their home.
"Whatever happens, you will always have me."