Eli’s head drops back and he studies the sky for a second, as though it might supply an answer. Or a timely rainstorm. “No.”
“Were you with her on Sunday? Is that why you canceled?”
Another pause. “Yes.”
“You didn’t lose your phone, did you? You called the hotel room to avoid speaking to me.”
He presses a finger and thumb to his eyes, wincing. “Fuck.”
“Well.” It’s almost impossible to force the word past the burning lump in my throat. “I think that’s all I need to know.” I whirl to go back inside, jerked to a halt when Eli grips my arm.
“That’s not all you need to know,” he says, voice low. Pleading. And, if I’m not mistaken, angry.
I wrench my arm out of his grasp and put two steps between us. “Then spit it out,” I say coldly. “And try the truth this time. I have a date to get back to.”
His eyes flash, and bitter satisfaction courses through me. He doesn’t need to know I have zero interest in River, but it’s better than knowing he’s sitting next to the love of his life while I sit home alone. He takes a deep breath, most likely sorting through his vast library of lies, then says, “It’s not a date.”
“Fuck you, Eli.”
“It’s not.” He stops me again when I try to leave, frustration making it almost impossible to stand still. “I didn’t plan—”
“Have you been seeing her all along? Since we got together?”
“No. Just at the games. Just when you saw her.”
“Then?”
He sighs. “Then she called to see if I wanted to come to Navy Pier with her and Layla on Sunday. Kent was supposed to go but he had to work, and Stella doesn’t like most of the rides. I went. We spent the day together.”
“And you realized that even though she’d screwed your best friend behind your back, you were still in love with her?”
“Would you stop? I’m trying to explain. And your indignation would mean a hell of a lot more if you weren’t here with some fucking cover model.”
“You lied.” I snap furiously. “You said you had plans with Kent tonight—I didn’t lie to you. And don’t confuse hatred with indignation.” Shit. I didn’t mean to say that. I meant to say I didn’t care. Ambivalence. Disinterest. Apathy. All the things I wish I felt, but don’t.
Eli winces. It’s a split-second reaction that vanishes as quickly as it appears, but it’s a tiny uptick in a day that’s taken a serious turn for the worse. “I lied to you on Sunday because—Fuck. Fuck!” He runs a hand over his face and studies something over my head, as though it’ll provide answers. “She kissed me.”
Even though I’ve spent the past hour imagining them doing far worse, the words hit me like a sledgehammer. “What?”
“On Sunday. Layla was on a ride, and Stella kissed me. And I didn’t... I didn’t fucking know.”
I feel sick. “What’s to know?”
“Until you, I thought I was in love with her. I thought she was cute and funny and kind, a great mother. I thought I had a future with her, and that I’d never get over what happened. And then she kissed me and I didn’t feel anything. And I didn’t know what I felt instead. I couldn’t talk to you—I couldn’t do what we did on Saturday—knowing I’d kissed Stella a few hours earlier. I didn’t...” He breaks off with a rough laugh. “Fuck. I didn’t want to lie to you.”
“Well-done.”
He scratches his shoulder. “Look, I know it’s stupid, but I’d already agreed to come to the movie tonight, and... I don’t know. I just did. I told Stella I wasn’t going to help her cheat on Kent, and she accepted it. We’re just friends. It’s weird, but that’s all it is. I swear.”
“That’s not what it looked like.”
Another sigh. “I know. I just didn’t want to bail on her tonight. She’s got her issues, but she’s—”
“Don’t defend this to me.”
He scuffs his foot on the ground and studies his shoe, a sure sign he’s still agitated, despite the big confession. “Tell me about River.”
I shrug, deliberately casual. “He had an extra ticket and asked me to come. I was free, so I did. Tell me more about kissing Stella.”
“Jesus.” He advances on me so fast I stumble when I back up, hitting one of the poles holding the velvet ropes that line the entry. The shrill scrape of metal on concrete catches the attention of the smokers, and Eli stops, glowering down at me, his gaze an equal mix of anger and regret. “Just tell me if you’re fucking him.”
“It’s none of your business.”
“And before tonight? Before you saw me? Was it my business then?”
“Two hours ago, I’d have said yes. But now? No.”
“So you’re not.”
I lift a shoulder and refuse to confirm or deny. Let him hurt for a while. I recall River saying he knew what I did to people who crossed me. I don’t think I have it in me to eviscerate Eli the way I’d like, so this is the next best thing. Let him torture himself with the questions, the same ones running through my head, the cast of characters different.
Eli runs a hand through his hair, somehow managing to leave it sexily tousled. “I like you, Caitlin, okay? It doesn’t make any sense, but there you have it. But you’re leaving, and when Stella asked me to hang out I thought, Why the hell not? What am I going to do, mope around when you’re gone?”
I shake my head furiously. “You’re delusional, Eli. You think you two are going to get back together? That she’s picking you over Kent? She’s not. She sees you with me and she’s jealous. And as soon as she gets you back, she’ll lose interest—again—and you’ll have nothing—again. Which is exactly what you deserve.”
This time he doesn’t stop me when I walk away.
River takes me out for a drink after the show, but I’m terrible company and we both know it. He walks me home and says good-night in the lobby, telling me he’s free to talk anytime I want. I greet the concierge and pull out my phone as I wait for the elevator: no new messages. Not that there’s much to say right now, anyway. I step into the empty elevator and shut my eyes, letting the grief wash over me. Somehow, despite the stinging betrayal, I believe Eli, as lame as it is. And in the whirlwind of things I’d learned tonight, the only words I’m replaying in my head are, “I like you, Caitlin.” How many times have I heard that before? Once? Twice? It just makes it hurt worse.
The elevator stops and I exit, coming to a stop when I see Eli pacing in front of my door. My mouth opens, but no words emerge as I stare at him, fifteen feet away, looking too good in his suit.
“Hi,” he offers cautiously.
I shake my head to clear it. “What are you—How did you get up here?”
He holds up a crowded key ring. “We’ve got units in the building.”
Of course they do. I pull out my own keys, but make no move to open the door. “How’s Stella?”
“I left her at a bus stop and came to see you, so probably not great.”
“You—”
“I’m kidding. I dropped her at home, but she knows where I am.” He stares at me entreatingly. “Let me come in.”
My eyes flit to the locked door, the decision mine. Believe him or don’t. Trust him or don’t. Walk away or don’t. Be alone or don’t. “Why are you here, Eli?”
He rubs his palm over his jaw, his “I’m guilty” gesture. “Because. For all the bullshit I told you in front of the theater, I forgot to say the most important thing.”
I love you, Caitlin.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I blink, startled.
“From the bottom of my heart,” he adds, misinterpreting my silence as displeasure with the offering. “I’m really, really sorry. I never should have lied to you. I won’t. Again. Ever. I promise.”
I blink again,
but this time the damn eye stinging is back and there are no cigarettes to blame it on. I dip my head and watch as I insert the key in the lock, doing my best to retain my tentative grip on composure. I stride inside without shutting the door, leaving it up to Eli to follow me. Thankfully he does, lingering just inside when he closes the door behind him.
I drop my purse and keys on the kitchen island and turn to face him. “I believe you,” I say finally.
“I—You do?”
I hold up a hand when he advances. “But you have to know that being the guy she cheats with isn’t any better than being the guy she cheated on.”
“I don’t want to be either of those guys.”
“Good.”
“So...” He stops next to the island, a couple feet away, studying his feet. “If you want to see the magazine guy instead, let me know first. I don’t want to keep looking like an idiot.”
“I will.”
He looks up at me, hurt.
“I mean—” Surely normal people, used to caring about other people, have conversations like this, but I don’t. None of my previous relationships were serious enough to warrant a conversation about fidelity; Haines came closest, and he was married the whole time. “I mean, I won’t,” I amend. Eli looks confused so I add, “I won’t see River. And I’ll tell you if I do. But I’m not going to.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I think that’s a good thing.”
“I need a drink.” I round the island to the refrigerator, pulling a bottle of vodka from the freezer. I arch an inquiring brow and Eli nods, looking relieved. He comes to stand next to me, watching me fill two shot glasses, taking one as I take the other.
“What happens in The Lonely Goat,” he says, eyes on mine.
I touch my glass to his and we toss back the shots, wincing as the vodka burns.
“One more,” Eli says, refilling the glasses. “For luck.”
We down the second round and I stick the bottle back in the freezer. Eli steps into me, attention drifting from my eyes to my mouth, and then he kisses me. There’s nothing intentional about this kiss. It’s not leading anywhere. It’s reaffirming and reassuring, warm and comforting. My muscles go slack and I brace my arms on the counter behind me as Eli cups my head and touches his tongue to mine, the contact so sweet and sincere I can’t stop the tiny whimper that escapes.
“You okay?” he asks, the words muffled against my lips.
I nod.
“You know this is the first time I’ve ever been in your apartment?”
“Worth the wait?”
“Yeah.” He keeps his forehead pressed to mine, watching his fingers where they fiddle with the collar of my shirt. “Just to recap,” he says quietly, “I’m not seeing Stella. You’re not seeing River.”
“That’s right.”
“Neither of us is seeing anybody else.”
I swallow. “That’s right.”
“And that’s how it stays, until it’s over.”
This time when I blink, my eyelashes are wet. I try to wipe away the evidence of my overactive emotions but Eli catches me, snagging my hand and pressing a kiss to the corner of my eye, the feel of his soft breath on my temple making me tremble. “Say it,” he whispers.
“That’s how it stays,” I echo. “Until it’s—” My voice breaks, too many feelings converging in one damn moment, one silly, stupid word we both knew was coming. I try again. “Until it’s—” I clear my throat. “Until it’s—”
“Shh.” Eli covers my mouth with his. “I don’t want to hear it either.”
Chapter Eighteen
I know the partners are expecting me to return to work refreshed and ready, having discovered the undeniable rightness of my mandatory holiday, so that’s just what I tell them when they each drop by my office to welcome me back on Monday.
“Thank you,” I tell Haines, my third visitor, when he says I’m looking well. I don’t point out that I’ve always looked well, and he, more than anyone, should know this. No, today I am newly humble and grateful, ready to assist others when needed. I am the very paragon of selflessness and helpfulness.
Haines studies me for a second, perhaps waiting for me to say something more, but just I stare back, expression neutral, polite smile firmly in place. “Just a few more weeks,” he says. “Then you’re off.”
“Yes,” I reply, struggling with the word. Haines notes the change in tone and misinterprets it, thinking I’ll be sad to leave the firm, or perhaps him, behind. They are, of course, the last things I’m thinking about, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“You’ll be missed.”
My lips quirk. “I doubt it.” I’ve been here an hour and already I’ve heard of two pools: one debating who will take over my vacated office, the other deciding how long it will take me to have a falling-out with the people in LA and slink back to Chicago with my tail between my legs. Twenty-two days is the median bet.
Haines smiles and studies his shoes. “I trust you found a way to occupy your time?” He knows just how narrow my interests are; even when we were dating our conversations rarely veered from various legal or political issues.
“I took your advice and relaxed. I even read a few books.”
“Old law school texts?”
I laugh. “Fiction.”
He looks aghast. “Perhaps you got too much sun.”
A cluster of fourth-years passes behind Haines, not bothering to hide their interest in our prolonged discussion. There’s nothing to hide here, the glass walls making every conversation public knowledge, but still I see them snicker, muttering to one another as they walk. Haines silences them with a glare, then turns back to me. “I’ll let you get to work.”
I spend the next few hours arranging Skype meetings with potential LA clients for later that day, then the better part of the afternoon carrying them out. I smile foolishly at my monitor, tout my stellar track record and promise my undivided attention. By the time Arthur Wong knocks on my door at four o’clock, my face feels stretched and brittle. I’ve wrapped up the calls, polished off five bottles of water and am so drained by the monotonous small talk that I’m actually sort of happy to see him.
“Arthur! Come in. How are you?”
“Ah, fine, Caitlin. How are you? Welcome back.”
“Thank you. How’s the Teller case coming?” He’s got a thick file folder tucked under one arm and I’m not-so-secretly hoping it’s something to do with the upcoming trial. Though Teller is still technically my client, I’ve been expressly ordered not to “force” my help onto Arthur, and to wait until my assistance is requested.
“That’s why I’m here,” he says, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. He takes a seat across from me and places the file on the desk, one hand resting on top as though reconsidering his options.
Move your hand, I think. Move it, move it, move it.
He moves his hand.
Win.
I reach for the file very slowly, as though he’s a frightened animal that might bolt at any sudden movement. But Arthur sits still as a statue, eyes focused on the paperwork as I flip open the cover to scan the top page. It’s a transcript from the Herbert Schwartz deposition. Schwartz is the expert witness who will testify that Teller knew their appliance wiring was faulty and opted to cover it up instead of recalling the products and fixing the issue. The transcript is close to a hundred pages long, and I flip through it absently.
“How did the deposition go?” I prompt, when Arthur continues to stare nervously at the paper.
“Um...” he says.
I want to snap at him, tell him to straighten in his seat to give the impression he at least has a backbone, even if it is the consistency of a marshmallow, but instead I picture Dorrie, hesitating before telling me she broke a glass or used my lipst
ick or ate a piece of licorice given to her by a stranger, and I take a deep breath.
“Did you record it?” I ask.
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
“Was Morgan with you?”
“No. One of the third-years sat in.”
“Any issues?”
“Well...” His voice jumps an octave with the word. “Sort of.”
I try to wait him out, but he seems to be finished. “What does ‘sort of’ mean?” I ask with patience that is entirely false.
“Page twenty-four.” He strums his bony fingers across his knees as I flip through and stop at the highlighted section, reading quickly. My eyebrows inch up my forehead the more I read.
“Fuck,” I say.
“I know.”
I skim Arthur’s follow-up questions, but there’s really no escaping Schwartz’s testimony. He states, concisely and clearly, that during his nine-year tenure at Teller Manufacturing he was a senior engineer for many of their small home appliances. During his time he became aware of wiring issues that caused the devices to malfunction in various ways—refusing to turn on, refusing to turn off, starting without warning—and notified management of the problem. Shortly afterward he left to work at another company, and as such was not told whether or not the issue had been addressed. When he heard about Laurel Frances’s case against Teller, he bought the PrestoChop, dismantled it and found the same faulty wiring he’d warned them about years earlier. At this point we’d work to discredit Schwartz’s story, except he has proof of his claim: eight years ago he’d supplied his concern in both hard copy and email formats. And he has copies of both.
“Did you get—”
“Bottom of the pile.”
I dig out the papers and find copies of Schwartz’s original messages, spelling out the issues clearly, dated and signed where appropriate. And, perhaps most damning, a copy of the automatic receipt of message email from his supervisor, Hans Dwight.
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