by Emily Duvall
Charlotte tries the waterfall braid on me and I feel my body calm. I do like human touch. I crave human connection and warmth. We’re all different in our own way.
“You look perfect,” Charlotte announces, handing me the mirror.
“I want orange hair like Patrice’s,” I say.
Patrice chuckles. “We’ll set you up an appointment.”
“You’ll have more than one phone number by the end of the night,” Patrice says, tapping her warm hand on my shoulder. “Will I see you ladies next Friday?”
“Yes,” Charlotte and I both answer.
We hit the street with light still in the sky and the sound of music nearby. Despite how good I felt at the salon, another feeling takes over. I put my hand over my stomach and I look ahead, feeling so unsure about everything in my life. I miss hanging out with Caleb. I miss my friend.
Chapter 18
Caleb
Maren is all I think about—the person I thought about Saturday night at the boring, predicable, snoozefest of a fundraiser. Sara did as promised. She had gotten me a few introductions, but those were short and not worth the justification. Stop dragging this out, I tell myself. Don’t be an asshole. Don’t do the one thing you despise most. Don’t be a flip-flopper.
What’s left to consider? Nothing, except for the case. My case. I’ve got to switch my thoughts. Go with my instincts. Maren isn’t going to cooperate simply because I’ve asked. Not after how I left her at Libby’s apartment. Forget it. Forget that.
The trial begins in less than two weeks and we’re well past the twenty-five-day minimum to serve a witness notice to testify. What keeps the knots twisted tight in my stomach is I’m fearful of what she knows. I can’t stop Rosenthal from inserting herself into Maren or Libby’s life and getting them to go against Paul. I’ve got to get to Maren first, and right now, I’m dead last.
I never ever feel ready enough for a trial when I have all the resources and time I need to prepare. Getting handed Paul’s defense with almost no time for regrouping is uncommon, not unheard of and I’ve done this before on a smaller scale. The details I can control fall around the processes of selecting a jury, or Voir Dire for an official term.
I push the team harder with longer hours. We’re looking for specific characteristics for a potential jury. We want small business owners and middle-aged men and women. No one with family or friends who’ve been involved in DUI’s and we steer clear of anyone with strong opinions about underage drinking. “I would prefer the juror doesn’t have a daughter either,” I say to Jane, looking ready to nod off in her chair.
She startles and sits up slowly. “Maybe we can hold out for a robot?”
I scowl. “One can hope.”
“We should aim for a representative group.”
A shot of laughter escapes my mouth, the first in days. I observe her with circles under eyes, but the bright gleam of someone hungry for success. I also started this career with noble ideas. “We can be as picky as we want. What are they teaching you over there at your law school these days?”
“We want a neutral body.”
“You think Rosenthal will be sipping her vanilla latte and dreaming about neutrality?”
A bit of her spirit slips. Jane sits back in her chair and taps her hands on her knees. “It’s just that, do you believe Mr. Pierce? I want to think he’s telling the truth, but he’s not remorseful about what happened.”
“You don’t need to believe your client, Jane. Belief only gets you so far. He’s paying us to prove this wasn’t his fault. What you think of him as a person is inconsequential.”
“I keep thinking about Amanda, Beth, and Ellie. I’ve done my fair share of underage drinking. What happened to them was horrible. They shouldn’t have been there trying to handle their alcohol and making adult decisions to leave intoxicated.”
I lean my elbows on my desk. “They shouldn’t have been there in the first place.”
She lets out a long sigh and lowers her voice. Her long hair spills out of her bun and over her shoulders. “What if this wasn’t a mistake? What if Pierce let them go out of spite or to prove a point or something worse? How are you okay with yourself in the morning?”
It’s the same question I had asked myself in law school. “Sometimes you aren’t okay about it. Your job is to present the defense. Show the facts. Give the jury enough evidence to have reasonable doubt. The judge announces the verdict and you move on to the next client, and the next. You wake up and do the work. You can still have a conscience. You don’t lose your sense of right and wrong. The case doesn’t change anything for Ellie and Amanda, or Beth, when she wakes up in the morning. That night will replay for her every day of her life. To be a good defense lawyer, you have to look at the case from both sides and anticipate Rosenthal’s view. Give it a try.”
Jane sighs and tucks her hands beneath her legs. “The girls were in the wrong. They’re young. They made a bad choice. They showed Pierce and the other bartender their IDs. The place was busy, no one thought twice. Mr. Pierce has been in the business long enough to know better. But still,” she hesitates and sits up straight. “How could he possibly know? Second-guessing every customer would take time. No one would get served alcohol.”
“There you go.” I applaud her conclusion. “There’s your doubt. The jury cannot convict someone with a question like that lingering in their mind. At this point, whether he’s responsible or not is insignificant. Did he push them out the door? Did he hand Beth the keys with a parting shot of tequila? That would elevate this case to potential homicide charges if either of those girls die.”
She stands and paces in front of my desk. I let her stay on her roll. “Pierce could have called someone? Made them wait at the bar for a ride?” Jane looks at me for confirmation.
“Where is the rule that he’s required to use a breathalyzer on customers before they leave his establishment?”
“There’s no way he could do that,” she says with a conciliatory nod. “He would lose money if word got around that he gave breathalyzer tests to every customer.” Energy transforms her color and her eyes are bright. “I get it. I like the idea of proving Rosenthal wrong. Even if he is guilty, we still have a case for him.”
“And there you go. Well done.”
“I’ve got to get back to my office. I’ve got to keep going over the social media accounts. Let’s show the jury this wasn’t their first time playing dangerous.” She grabs a stack of documents.
“And Jane?”
“Yes?”
“You show that kind of thinking in the courtroom and you’ll do great.”
I get to work on my own stack of documents. They’re endless and the caffeine seems to have stopped working. I pause and turn around to see stars sprinkle the navy sky. My muscles are tight. My eyelids are heavy and dry. The rest of the offices are empty, lights off, and the murmur of the air conditioner. There’s no chance I’ll get sleep tonight. I rest my head down for a second, yawning as I do, my face presses against the crisp fabric of my sleeve.
The memories come so fast I can’t shoot them down. Darcy as an infant. Dark blonde hair and curious brown eyes to match. The pucker of her tiny lips. The background is blurry. There’s grass and an abandoned swing swaying. Girls are talking. Their sound is childlike at first, and then gradually matures, like how I would imagine her to sound as a teenager, but the voices I hear don’t belong to Darcy. The noises are drowned out by waves rushing over my head. Someone is grabbing my ankle. A shout of laughter. Three faces of three different girls. Where is Darcy? Where are you? I’m paddling with my hands, desperate for a glimpse. Just one. Her beautiful face comes into focus. I want to touch her cheek and smell her hair. Rosenthal is up in my business, yelling at me, pounding her fist on the table. “The doctors did all they could do. Get over it, Caleb. You lost.”
I wake with a start. My breathing is fast. The screen on my computer has gone blank. The offices across the way are empty, the lights are out. Rosenthal is
n’t around. A second wave of longing hits for my daughter.
My head promptly falls to my arms and I cry.
I cry myself to sleep, right here on my desk. This time the dreams are better. They are of Maren. I want to stay in this space of longing a little longer. She’s here. She’s against me. Her skin is soft and she’s calm, not hitting her hands at her sides. Her face rests against my bare chest and my arm drifts over her silky skin. Her hands are around me, gripping my shoulders, and she’s taking me, all of me, as I move inside her, giving up these parts of myself I’ve been escaping from. I’m drowning.
I’m awake. I’m awake.
Sunlight streams in through the office and the scent of caffeine is strong. People are talking, phones are ringing, the click of keyboards at use reaches my ears. I take an hour break, rush home, shower and change, and get back as if I’d never left.
Work drives me through the morning, the underlying hustle and energy of a nearing court case gets me through without another break until I’m typing out the first string of words for my opening argument. They’re stiff and disjointed, as the first draft always is, and in need of sentences that will pull at some major heartstrings.
Knock. Knock. “Hey, you,” Sara says, staying in the doorway. “I’m headed downtown for lunch. Want to join?”
I check my watch. “Already?”
“If you ask, then you need a break. Come on. My treat.”
“Give me ten minutes.” She smiles wide, in a way that reminds me what first attracted me to her and knowing what I felt Saturday night as I left Maren’s place to go to the fundraiser is more real than ever. I don’t want Sara and I owe it to her to put this to rest for good. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Ten minutes becomes twenty and I meet her in the lobby. “I thought you’d changed your mind,” she says, shoving her sunglasses up the sharp bridge of her nose.
“After you,” I say, opening the door and ignoring the comment.
A popular bistro is where we land. The hostess sits us outside on the sidewalk, a patio enclosed in wrought-iron gates and potted trees between tables. The waitress brings us waters and we stare at each other, wordless for a long minute. “What’s up?” I say, something’s on her mind.
She punches the straw out of the wrapper and stabs it into her water. “Nothing. Everything. I don’t know. What happened to you at the fundraiser? I thought a night out would do you good, but you were moody and disinterested. You looked like you’d rather be anywhere else. Then, when it was time to leave, we took separate cars home and you barely said good-bye. What happened?”
“We were going as friends. I made that clear.”
“While I agree that you gave me fair warning, you were different. You were somewhere else in your head.”
She’s right, I wasn’t 100% all in at the fundraiser. My mind was with Maren and what she thought of me going to an event with Sara. “I shouldn’t have committed to going with you.”
Her mouth twitches and her eyes become slits. “This is what I was afraid of, you, pulling up your boundaries when it’s convenient. You have no idea how frustrating and exhausting it can be from the other side of this table. All I’ve ever wanted from you was to let me in. Leaving a toothbrush at your house doesn’t translate to marriage. Do you have any idea how lonely it is to be with you? I want you, I’ve made that clear from the first time we spent the night together. I still want that, and I can see you’ve suddenly got a case of having nothing to say except shutting me out.”
“You had expectations about what would happen afterwards, I didn’t.” I lean forward, caustic and unable to hold back my irritation. “I don’t want you, Sara.”
“Trust me, I get that.”
“Then why drag me to lunch and pretend any different?”
“You don’t get it. I’m trying to help you. You’re such an asshole.” She closes her menu, keeps her face stoic, and stands. “I’m not hungry. Enjoy your lunch. Alone. That’s how you’re going to end up and you deserve that life.”
I stay behind, not hungry either, not in the mood for anything than to go back in time and quit my job and move to New York before the case ever came across my desk.
I glance up from my phone and do a double-take. There goes my heart. Slamming right into my chest. Maren, walking towards me, is the last person I need in my path. She looks different, good in a way I can’t ignore. Hair in a loose braid hanging over her shoulder and her expression, aloof and uncaring, and I like knowing that no one else picks up on this. She just appears like she has life figured out when I know she’s probably calculating how many points to get a high score on one of her games. A long flowy shirt covers her skin-tight pants and she’s wearing flats, though I miss the sneakers, the essence of her quirkiness is appealing. My mind races back to my dream and the inner craving, the downright need to have her, to feel her. I realize my lips are stuck in a grin.
She walks right past me.
“Maren,” I call out, holding back the urge to take her hand.
“Caleb Allan,” she says, back to two-name usage.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m meeting Doctor K.” She points to the buildings across the street. “She’s on the third floor. Suite 103. Do you want to meet her?”
I don’t immediately answer the question. “What’s with the braid?”
“A new skill I’m perfecting.”
“I heard you started cooking again? You’re busy.”
“I have a life,” she states.
The effect on Maren is striking. I want to take out the rubber band and unravel the braid to feel her hair swishing over my chest and her lips parted and on me. A knot tightens in my stomach. I’m halfway to hard and I haphazardly throw down some cash for the waitress.
I exit through the fence and we fall into familiar step. I owe her an apology, an explanation at the least about hurting her. I’m not ready though. I’m holding back, waiting for the right time. “How’s the speech coming for the big event?”
Maren shrugs. “I’m reconsidering.”
I touch her elbow. “But why? You’ve got a great opportunity.”
“There’s going to be two-hundred-and-fifty people in the audience. They’ll all be looking at me. I don’t want them laughing at me. How do you get up in front of a jury and not mess up?”
“Years of practice.”
“I don’t have years and I don’t have a fake audience.” She points to the building in front of us. The modern high-rise with a glass exterior. “Doctor K’s office is in there.”
“I’ll walk with you.” I step ahead of her and open the door.
“Hey, Trudy,” Maren says, checking in with the receptionist and continues down a hallway.
A pregnant lady is walking through the hall and she looks up from the documents in her hand. She freezes and keeps her eyes in my direction. “Maren,” she says, surprised at the sight of me. “Who’s your friend?”
“Caleb Allan,” I respond, shaking her hand. She’s got smooth brown skin and pretty eyes to match. My grasp is quick and firm. “I ran into Maren. She asked me to walk her over.”
She looks at me pointedly, like she wants to say more. “It is so great to meet you. You know, I realize we’ve just met, but I started a new group, first Thursdays of the month for families and friends of people with Autism. If you’re interested, my assistant can give you the meeting information.”
Attend a support group? No way in hell. “No, thanks, I’m not interested.”
My answer doesn’t affect her smile. She scribbles a number on the document in her hands and tears off the corner. “If you change your mind, call my office. Maren, I’ll be in there in a second, go ahead of me. Caleb, it was nice to meet you.” She walks past us, leaving me and Maren.
Maren’s face is turned up to mine. “I’m still your friend,” she says, “even if you aren’t mine.”
Tell her you’re sorry. Tell her you messed-up. Show her how much you don’t want to walk away. M
y hand falls back at my side. I make my excuses and get out of there.
Chapter 19
Maren
“Tell me about Caleb,” Doctor K says, comfortable in her chair with her clipboard resting on her belly, which serves as a portable table. A smile shows off perfect teeth that are complimentary against her skin, giving off a soothing contrast between white and light brown. There are thirty-two teeth in the adult mouth. Nature likes things in twos.
“Maren?”
“Sorry. I was thinking about your teeth.”
Her eyebrows raise. “That was nice Caleb walked you here. Do you want to tell me about your relationship with him?”
“Not really.” I squirm in my chair, knowing I’ll tell her anyway. “I mean, I do. We’ve kissed, a lot.”
“Is he the first man you’ve kissed?”
“No.” My stomach cringes at the string of men I’ve been with, most out of desperation. No one ever stuck around the next morning.
“Did you enjoy the intimacy?”
My fingers twist together. “With him, yes.”
“Intimacy can be difficult and scary. Opening yourself up to someone comes with risk. Your feelings may not always be returned.”
“My experiences with men have been short-lived. I haven’t been on a real date in years. I put myself out there and I’m still alone at the end of the night. Figuring out how to interact with men was easier with Libby around. The rejections hurt, but she would listen and tell me not to give up.”
“You can call or text her. She’s still in your life.”
“I don’t want her to think she made a mistake.”
“Isn’t that for Libby to decide? You’ve only been without her a short amount of time. Be patient with yourself.” Doctor K lets silence pass between us.