Drift (Lengths)

by Steph Campbell

  When you’re home, you start to inadvertently humanize your space. I began reading the books on my shelves and buying more to feed the growing need to consume stories and information. And, this time, I didn’t buy them because of their gorgeous covers or spine heights—because, yes, I did buy books so they’d fall into neat patterns on my shelves. Instead of worrying about what the covers looked like, I bought stories that captivated me, and left them, face down, open to pages I wanted to reread just one more time.

  My iPod wound up out on my nightstand because I wanted to listen to it more often than just when I was on my daily run. Clothes began to collect here and there because I found I often needed to grab my favorite striped cardigan to ward off the morning chill and then the evening breezes, so it made sense to leave it out and easily accessible in the in-between time.

  My place feels less like a museum and more like a home. And I feel less like some fancy vase, perfectly made and too precious to touch. I feel, instead, like something homey and available, something that speaks of a life lived fully…like a favorite copper kettle or a hand-stitched quilt.

  I reach into my closet, push past the comfy camis and tees I’ve been wearing at home and the flirty, gorgeously printed dresses when I go out, and reach for a crisp suit. My fingers fumble over the buttons and zippers. The suit feels tight on my shoulders and arms, bigger now because of my daily morning laps in the complex pool I never bothered to use before. My skin is sun-kissed in a way that used to make me whisper to my colleagues about “too much vacation.” My hair is overlong and not easy to work with. Instead of putting it in my usual tight bun, I curl the ends and worry if it’s not too risqué, too sexy.

  “What the hell, Lydia,” I hiss at my perfectly put-together reflection. “Self-doubt is the last damn thing you need. Go and show them you’re still Pitbull Rodriguez.”

  Of course, softly curled hair doesn’t exactly communicate ‘pitbull’ tendencies, but whatever. I make my way to my car, taking a second to caress the hood.

  I’m keeping this car.

  It’s a thought that comes to me from a clear, sure place.

  I’m keeping my apartment. I’m keeping my job. I know, for sure, that these things are all within my grasp. All I have to do is reach out and take what’s mine.

  I glance back at Cumberland’s card and promise—promise—I’ll come back and make it happen. All of it. For me and for Isaac.

  I drive over quickly, pull into my old space and ignore the gloomy melancholy that always seems to define the lot, shadowed by the gray rectangle of the law offices. I go through the huge set of doors, my heels clicking against the marble floor tiles. At Sandberg’s door, I don’t knock or announce myself to his secretary, scrambling to choke down her pita and almonds so she can demand I sit and wait until she says otherwise.

  “Mr. Sandberg.” I march into his office and stick my hand out. We shake like it’s the first time we’re meeting, and I realize how stupidly formal I’m being. Navigating this isn’t as easy as I hoped. “I’m pleased to have the chance to talk to you again. I’ve been in contact with the office and hope you found all my paperwork in order.”

  He clears his throat, sinking the tip of one finger into the collar of his too-tight shirt. He rings it around his neck, and I want to suggest he undo one more button, but he looks miserable enough as it is.

  “Come on in, Lydia. Could you close the door behind you?” He gestures to the glass doors set in the glass walls. Sandberg likes to play things safe, and this way his secretary can watch and vouch for the fact that things are on the up and up.

  He’s a smart man. That’s one of the many reasons I chose to work at his law offices. I had my pick of more than a dozen firms. But Sandberg hadn’t settled into complacency. He still had hunger. His competitive edge was still razor sharp, and I was ready to learn how to keep mine that way too.

  “It feels good to be back,” I lie. It’s a fit that’s not getting any more comfortable the longer I’m here, but what do I expect? It’s not novels and yoga pants and long, passionate dates with the man I love. This is work. This is life. No one promised me it would be easy.

  Actually, I’m very sure many people told me it would be soul-crushingly difficult.

  “It’s good to have you back.” He rubs a hand over his thinning hair. “We’ve been lost without you, Lydia. If Mrs. Gutzman hadn’t been adamant about not having you on the case, I would have been able to arrange something for you earlier. As it is, I hope you enjoyed your time off.” He takes off his glasses and pinches his nose, his mind on so many things at once, I know for sure his sentiments about my “time off” are completely insincere. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t want to know, and I don’t really want to talk about it.

  So I don’t.

  “The thirty days are up. I need a verdict, Mr. Sandberg. I need to know what the conclusion is.” I look at his face, lined from stress, gray from a lack of exposure to sun.

  When I first started, I looked into this man’s face and saw what I hoped would be my future. Now? Now I see a tired, broken man running on the last fumes of adrenaline.

  “The conclusion is…complicated.” He gives me a brief smile that reads more like a grimace. “Mrs. Gutzman’s case is taking some unexpected turns. Frankly, we need your expertise. After what you did on the Michaels case, I think you’ll be able to hack through some of the more intricate fine print in the contracts her husband is presenting as evidence that she’s not able to access their accounts from before they were engaged. I think we’re close to a break, but no one can seem to nail down the last piece of the puzzle.” This time when he smiles, it’s a little more real. “You were always good at that. Figuring out what no one else could pin down.”

  “Yes,” I say, my throat thick and dry. This is it. This is my redemption. “I always was.”

  I should be flying off that adrenaline I know is probably pinging through every other attorney here. We’re on the cusp of a break in a huge case, and I may be the key that will unlock everything. This is the very definition of ‘living the dream.’

  So why do I want to wake up and forget all of this?

  “I want you back, Lydia.” Mr. Sandberg spreads his hands flat on the desk. “I know there was, ahem, a more personal aspect to your relationship with Richard. The kind of personal aspect you know I don’t approve of.”

  “‘Was’ is the operative word in that scenario,” I assure my boss. The thought of what it’s going to be like working day and night with Richard pings through my head, and, no matter how much distance we could possibly manage to keep, I hate the idea that I’ll even have to be around his negative energy. “You were right. I’m extremely regretful Richard and I had that, um, lapse. Please be assured, there is absolutely no chance of that happening again.” I wince over how I have to vow my credibility back into existence.

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Lydia. These things happen to all of us at some point. Sometimes the chemistry is just too strong. We are, after all, only human.” There’s something about his words that makes me think uptight Sandberg had a brushin with an office romance at some point. I guess that’s why he’s always been so stringent about it. I always just assumed that was one more angle of his multifaceted control-freak personality.

  “Well, I intend to be a little less human and a little more lawyer from now on.” It’s just a riff on an old joke about our blood-thirsty nature in this business. But it feels shallow and fake.

  Sandberg laughs. “I’m glad to have you back, Lydia. I can honestly say I’ve never worked with a finer lawyer before you. I didn’t say that enough before, but I would like the chance to mentor you. I can see you on the fast track to full partner if this case goes the way I think it will.”

  I make a definite effort to swallow, but there is no moisture in my throat at all. “Full partner?”

  Of course that was a goal, an eventuality I wanted to work for. Sandberg rubs a hand over his face and his smile is warm and tired. “There w
ould be hoops to jump through before that could happen, of course. But you’ve never been the kind of person who wanted a handout anyway.”

  My head is spinning. I grab onto my portfolio folder, my fingernails sinking into the leather. “Right. Of course.” A few weeks ago, I’d put those hoops into the back of my mind and determine to jump through them whenever they got thrown in my way. But I’ve been burned by the man sitting in front of me, and I’m suddenly not so willing to do his blind bidding. “Let’s get those hoops outlined so I know what I’m up against.”

  If I’m going to be a full partner, I need to start demanding that I get treated with respect.

  Sandberg doesn’t seem particularly thrilled by my insistence to know all the details. “Well, it’s complicated, you understand. And it would be contingent on this case and how well it goes, of course—”

  “But I thought Mrs. Gutzman was adamant I not be included in the case,” I interrupt.

  Mr. Sandberg’s patient expression morphs before my eyes. He pulls his lips tight and the muscle high in his jaw twitched, like the friendly mask he was wearing has fallen away and revealed his true frustrations.

  I’m on high alert.

  “Mrs. Gutzman caught her husband cheating at the same hotel she saw you and Richard leaving. You know better than anyone that the human element of cases is unpredictable at best. It’s one of the things I hope to exploit when you take a look at the husband’s contracts.

  “You hope to exploit ‘the human element’?” I’m no babe in the woods. This is how law works, at least in this office. You find a tiny tear and you dig your claws in and shred it wide open.

  “Mr. Gutzman was very much in love with his wife early on. He had changes made to some standard contracts when he was more…hopeful…about their relationship, and it may allow us for some loopholes. If you can find them…” He trails off and holds his hands wide at his sides as if to say, ‘Then the world might just be your oyster.’

  “Let’s say I find these ‘loopholes,’” I grit out. “What then?”

  “The credit for your work on this case couldn’t be given to you outside my office, but I’d be able to begin that fast track process. Of course, it would have to at least begin covertly. Mrs. Gutzman’s case has attracted headlines for months, and it’s only gotten worse since her husband was linked to that American Idol winner. We’ll need to have you stay pretty much in-office, locking down work other partners will present—”

  “So, I’d be doing all the work, but it would be credited to the other partners publicly? And no would know but you and me?” I ask, my words sounding muffled in my own ears.

  “Lydia, lower your voice,” Sandberg hisses, looking out the glass-plated doors. “Look, you made this mess. Many bosses wouldn’t put up with that kind of unprofessional nonsense,” he preaches, obviously forgetting the ‘only human’ talk he gave me five minutes before. The one he apparently never believed in the first place.

  Law can be duplicitous by nature, but this is just getting extreme.

  “About that mess,” I say, loud and clear. “Richard was just as culpable. I understand he had the good luck of not being recognized. But is it fair that he’s not accepting any of the blame in or out of the office? I mean, you must know those papers weren’t my mistake.” I finally admit what I’ve held in for weeks, and I hold my breath, nervous for the fallout.

  What I get is Sandberg’s completely non-surprised sigh.

  What. The. Hell?

  “Look, I know this is hard, Lydia. I do. And Richard has had his own…struggles…”

  “Obviously! His work ethic sucks and his fact-checking sucks harder!” I say, standing up, shaky and furious. Sandberg knew all along and let me hang like that? “You knew?”

  “You never make mistakes like that,” Sandberg admits.

  “But you let me swing anyway,” I accuse, eyes narrowed.

  “The case comes first, Lydia!” He stands up, smoothes his tie, and sits back down. “Let’s get this back on track—”

  “Oh, hell no.” I tilt my head back and laugh. “Your firm, this job, and all the bullshit that comes with it can take a long walk off a fucking short dock. I’m done!”

  Sandberg pinches the bridge of his nose. “Lydia, I didn’t go about this the right way. Don’t leave. The truth is, this case has been falling apart since you left. We need you back. I wanted to bring you in a few weeks ago, but things were complicated. Like I said, the human element in this can be the worst aspect.” He sighs. “If you can work out of the limelight, I’m willing to offer you several incentives. On your terms.”

  I rear back to get a better look at him. Why this? Why now? Why did he bring me in to benevolently give me my job back only to get on his knees and beg me when I said no? Because he’s in way too deep. I think back to Richard’s comment about Sandberg reeling in a catch he couldn’t handle.

  Things with the case must be in the tank. The case that was supposed to make this law firm could just as easily break it if we lose.

  But why wait so long to bring be back in?

  I stalk across the room and look out the huge, plate glass windows, staring at the LA skyline and wondering what piece of this puzzle I’m missing.

  The door opens and a familiar voice coos, “Sal, honey, are you ready for—”

  “Tanya, I’m in a meeting,” Mr. Sandberg hisses.

  Tanya, wearing a short trench coat, fishnets, and heels, clutches her coat tight as she whirls around and looks at me.

  “You’re still here?” She turns to Mr. Sandberg and asks, lowly, “How long does it take to fire someone anyway?”

  “Tanya, please leave now,” Sandberg says, getting up and hustling Tanya to the door.

  He shuts it behind her and swallows. Hard.

  I walk across the room and sit down in his big leather desk chair, folding my hands, and smiling so wide, it hurts my face. “The human element, huh? So she did move on up from Richard. Funny. I thought you’d have more sense than that.” I whirl around in the chair, tilt my head back, and laugh. “It must feel pretty incestuous around here lately. And you must be pretty damn desperate to risk your new lover’s fury by bringing me back.”

  Sandberg blanches. “Look, Lydia, I know this seems messy right now—”

  “Incredibly so,” I say cheerfully. I lean back, loving how tall I feel sitting down. Damn, I need one of these chairs.

  “But we can smooth it all out. Time will pass, old wounds will heal, and we’ll get back on track.” His voice is flat and he sweats. Visible sweat, all over his forehead.

  I chuckle again. “Wow. You are in deeper shit than I thought. You know what, Sal? I think you’d better take a seat.” I gesture to the chair in front of his desk, where I sat just praying he’d take me back ten minutes ago.

  “Lydia, this is very—” he begins curtly.

  “Here’s the thing, Sal. I have a hunch you need me way more than I need you. I have a hunch you know I might be the one to make or break this case. This case that means everything right now. I think I may be your last and only hope.” I raise one eyebrow at him. “If I’m wrong, you can stand up and walk out of here, call security on me. If I’m right? Well, I guess you should take seat and grab a notepad. Because I’m about to make you an offer you’re in no damn position to refuse.”

  I feel the pump of adrenaline, the old, sweet rush, as I wait to see what Sandberg will do. I watch his nostrils flare and his skin turn beet red before he grips the back of the chair, turns it so he can sit, and snatches a legal pad and pen from his desk.

  I lean back and breathe deep. “Let’s get a move on. We have a lot of work to do, and I need to be done with this place as soon as humanly possible.”

  I start to lay out my plan, scribbling sketchy notes on a manila folder as I dictate to Sandberg. And I don’t even try to hide the little hearts I doodle on the edges of my brilliant master plan. The hearts that have the initials IO and LR in them.

  Because Lydia “Pitbull” Rodrig
uez is in love, and she doesn’t care who knows it.

  24 ISAAC

  They’re gone.

  I tear through the apartment, searching like a maniac, even though there is no logical reason to do so. I’m not going to find a set of huge canvases under my couch or in my sock drawer. It doesn’t stop me from turning the furniture over and ripping the drawer out.

  “Fuck,” I whisper, looking around my trashed room. I sink to the floor, holding my head in my hands.

  What the fuck happened? This makes no sense. The door was locked when I came home. The windows are all still closed, and the only ones big enough to fit a single canvas through were locked too. There’s no note, no sign of foul play, but the paintings of Lydia are gone.

  I run my hands through my hair and groan in the warm quiet of my place. Lydia went to meet with her boss this morning. It’s now late evening. She never came to class. She never called or texted. And now the fucking paintings are gone.

  I glare at the statue of St. Ignatius my grandmother gave me after my first Communion, the one I’ve always considered a good luck charm. “I’m fucked, aren’t I?” I ask. He smiles his saintly smile.

  I think of myself as an almost stupidly optimistic person, but this is bad. This is all the bad I ever feared crashing over my head at the same time in a single night. And the worst—the piece I’ll never recover from—is losing Lydia before I told her exactly what she meant to me.

  Losing her in every way—to her old life, because of this betrayal of trust I had nothing to do with, because I pushed too hard for more than she was ready to deal with—feels disgusting. I stalk across on the apartment, on a mission. I find the whiskey my father sent me as a belated birthday gift buried in the back of my freezer. I open it up and drink right from the bottle. The warmth of the room makes the frost on the glass melt. It slides in my hands, and I almost drop it.

  The buzz of my phone makes me put it down.