Testing Kate

by Whitney Gaskell

“What about you, Jen?” I asked gently.

  “Sean and I separated,” she said flatly.

  From the shocked expression on Lexi’s face, I guessed this was news to her too.

  “What? When?” Lexi asked.

  “Because of Addison?” I asked.

  Jen laughed humorlessly. “No. Addison and I broke up—is it breaking up? I don’t even know if that’s the right thing to call it, since technically we weren’t ever really a couple—anyway, we ended it over the summer. I thought I told you.”

  “No,” I said. “I think I would have remembered that.”

  “Yeah. Well.” Jen sighed. “The night before I was supposed to leave to visit him in Los Angeles, he called to tell me that he was seeing someone.”

  “Ouch,” I said. I reached across the table and rested my hand on her arm. “I’m so sorry.”

  Jen shrugged. “I couldn’t care less about Addison. I’m more concerned about my husband. And the internist at the hospital I think he’s screwing,” she said bitterly.

  “Sean’s having an affair?” I asked, careful to drop the “too” from the end of the sentence.

  “He says no. But then last week he came home from work and said he wasn’t happy and was going to move out for a little while.” Tears flooded Jen’s eyes. She picked up the toothpick that had been holding her sandwich together and began stabbing at the croissant with it, leaving a pattern of tiny holes in the flaky crust.

  “Why do you think he’s having an affair?” Lexi asked.

  “I sort of followed him one day after work. He went to the Bulldog with some coworkers, and I saw this doctor he works with. Her name is Indigo—Indigo!—and she was at our Thanksgiving party last year. They were flirting.” Jen looked like she felt sick to her stomach. “You know, I really don’t want to talk about this right now.”

  “Okay. We don’t have to talk about it,” Lexi said.

  We sat for a few minutes. Lexi and I ate our sandwiches; Jen continued to poke holes in hers.

  “I just wish I knew that everything was going to work out,” Jen said suddenly. “Do you know what I mean? I just want to know that it will all be okay in the end.”

  I nodded. “I know. We all want that.”

  I knocked softly on Armstrong’s open office door. He looked up and brightened when he saw me.

  “How about if we blow off working for the rest of the afternoon and go shopping?” he said. “I need new china.”

  I happened to know that he did not need new china. There were five different sets of tableware downstairs, from his mother’s good wedding china still housed in an ornate, gilded cabinet to the plain white Crate & Barrel plates he used every day.

  “Do you remember a while back you told me about Hunter?” I asked.

  Armstrong sighed and put down his pen. “It’s going to be one of those conversations, hmmm?”

  “We don’t have to talk about him if you don’t want to,” I said.

  “No, I don’t mind talking. There’s just not much to say. He was on the faculty with me at UVA. We had some good years and some bad years, and when we split we were both sure it was time. I’m over him now. I have been for a long time.”

  “But the night that you mentioned him, you told me…well, you told me I should be careful with love,” I said.

  Armstrong looked surprised. “I did? When did I say that? Had I been drinking?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, that explains that.” Armstrong grinned. “You should never hold anything a man says while under the influence against him. It’s unseemly.”

  “It’s just…I’m worried that I wasn’t. Careful with love,” I said. “I’m worried that I made a mistake.”

  “Not the academic?”

  “No, not him.”

  “Thank God.”

  “It’s just that for so long, I was always trying to do the safe thing. I stayed in relationships that I should have left because I didn’t want to give up the security. But now I’m worried that I’ve gone and done the opposite,” I said.

  “Well, I’ll tell you this. Once you meet the right person, it’s harder to be apart than it is to be together. Someday you’ll meet someone you feel that way about. And you’ll just know,” Armstrong said. He looked distant for a minute, and I wondered if he was thinking about Hunter or some other long-ago love.

  “I think I may already have,” I said softly.

  As soon as I walked in the back door of the law school, the all-too-familiar smell of the place hit me: a combination of institutional floor cleanser and freshly printed newspaper. It was a Saturday afternoon, and the hallways were mostly deserted, save for a few students who had ventured downstairs on a study break. I didn’t recognize any of them.

  One-Ls, I thought. I could tell by their expressions of fear mingled with exhaustion.

  I climbed the stairs and, once I reached the second floor, turned right. I walked past the administration offices and my old locker, down to the end of the deserted hallway. I veered left and then stopped at the first door on my right.

  There was a brass plaque mounted on the door:

  TULANE LAW REVIEW

  I drew in a deep breath and then pushed the door open.

  The Law Review office was humming with activity. Two rows of cubicles—most of them occupied with former classmates that I recognized, including Scott Brown and Jasmine West—were lined down the center of the room, and a cluster of tables littered with case reports and stacks of papers were set up at the front. Doors on the right and left led to tiny private offices for the editors. There was a laser printer and copier and fax machine, along with a water cooler and a coffeepot set up in the back.

  I stood at the door, hoping that no one would notice me, while I scanned the room. And then I saw him.

  Nick.

  We’d only spoken a few times since the end of our One-L year. Those conversations had been pleasant, congenial even, as we’d chatted about his summer job and my decision to leave school. We were careful to stay on safe ground, both of us pretending to ignore the undercurrent of everything that had happened between us.

  Nick was now at the back of the office, standing with a petite woman with thick dark hair and a big toothy grin. They were laughing as they talked, and the woman kept finding reasons to touch Nick’s arm or hand. She was pretty, I thought, with a stab of jealousy.

  Nick looked so familiar…and yet somehow different. Maybe it was his hair, which was shorter than it had been the previous year, the waves cropped close to his head. His face and arms were a golden brown, the last traces of a fading summer tan.

  He looked up, smiling at something the brunette had said, and saw me. When our eyes met, I felt a jolt of excitement, quickly followed by a small tremor of fear. How was he going to react to my coming here? I had no idea what to expect. For all I knew, the woman he was talking to could be his girlfriend. Or, if he was back to his old tricks, yet another of his conquests.

  Nick broke off his conversation and started across the room toward me.

  “Kate,” he said. “Hi. What are you doing here?”

  I smiled nervously. “I wanted to see if the rumor that you’d made Law Review was true. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. It’s a mixed blessing. It takes up a lot of time. I feel like I never leave this office,” Nick said. He rolled his eyes comically.

  “Uh-huh. So you love it?”

  “Maybe ‘love’ is too strong a word, but…yeah, I like it. And they keep telling us that it’s the key to getting a judicial clerkship, so it’s worth it.”

  “Is that what you want to do after graduation? Clerk for a judge?”

  He nodded. “But the positions are competitive, so who knows if I’ll get one.”

  “Still, that’s great. I’m really happy for you.”

  “Hey, you too. I heard that you’re still working for Armstrong McKenna.”

  I nodded. “Full-time. And I’m doing some research of my own. I’m thinking of writing a bo
ok…and maybe going back to school for my master’s degree.”

  “Wow. That’s amazing,” Nick said approvingly.

  The silence was awkward and heavy with expectation.

  “Is that why you stopped by? To say congratulations?” Nick asked. He was still smiling, but his face was guarded.

  “Do you feel like taking a break? Maybe we could go for a walk,” I suggested.

  “Sure. Let me just tell Josie that I’m taking off,” Nick said.

  Josie. The brunette, I presumed, with a sinking dread. I waited by the door while Nick disappeared into one of the offices. When he came back out, he had his messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

  “All set,” he said.

  “Hey, Kate,” a voice called out.

  I looked over Nick’s shoulder and saw Scott grinning and waving at me. A few of my other former classmates were also watching me curiously. I waved at Scott but hung back, feeling suddenly shy. I was an outsider here now.

  “Everyone’s been asking about you,” Nick said as we walked out of the office together.

  “Have they? I honestly didn’t think anyone would notice I’d left.”

  “Are you kidding? The One-L who took on Hoffman? You’re a legend.”

  We took the stairs down a flight and then went out the back door. As usual, a few smokers were out there, hunched over on the uncomfortable benches. The entire courtyard smelled of smoke, and cigarette butts littered the ground.

  “Where are we going?” Nick asked.

  My heart started to skitter around. I hadn’t planned this out—what I would say, how I would say it. I’d thought—mistakenly, I now realized—that it would be better to just wing it. But I had no idea how to begin. And I had no idea what Nick was thinking. His expression was mildly curious but at the same time shuttered.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted.

  “Well. There’s always P.J.’s. Or we could take a long walk over to Audubon Park. Or, if you’re feeling really wild, we could mosey over to the Boot and grab a beer.”

  “The Quarter. Let’s go down to the Quarter,” I said impulsively.

  A half hour later we were sitting on a bench in the center of Jackson Square in the French Quarter, next to the statue of Andrew Jackson.

  “This is where you wanted to have a personal conversation?” Nick asked. He gestured around. Unsurprisingly, considering the glorious weather, the Quarter was teeming with tourists. They passed by in loud clusters, wearing New Orleans T-shirts and fanny packs and, of course, the ever-present Mardi Gras beads. Zydeco music blared from the souvenir shops that sold alligator heads and overpriced sunscreen.

  “I know this doesn’t seem like the most obvious place,” I admitted. “But bear with me.”

  Nick nodded.

  “So, um, who was that woman you were talking to back at the Law Review office?” I asked, trying to sound casual. I had to know what I was up against.

  “Who? Josie? She’s the editor-in-chief of the Law Review,” Nick said. “My boss, basically.”

  “Are the two of you dating?” I asked, not looking at him. Instead, I stared at a couple strolling by, their fingers entwined. She had big, blonde, feathered Farrah Fawcett hair, and she was wearing a midriff tank top and the shortest denim cutoffs I’d ever seen. The man leaned over and kissed the woman’s bare shoulder, and she tilted her head toward him, smiling happily.

  “Dating Josie? God, no,” Nick said, and he laughed, as though it were a ridiculous idea.

  Relief flooded through me. Maybe I still had a chance.

  “Oh, hey—guess what?” I said.

  “I give up. What?”

  “I found out why New Orleans smells like burned toast,” I said. “Armstrong told me. It’s the Mississippi River. On humid days especially, it wafts up and carries over the whole city.”

  “Mystery solved,” Nick said. “Excellent. Now why are we here again?”

  “This is where we were the first time we kissed,” I explained.

  “I remember. I kissed you, you blew me off, and I ended up getting drunk and singing Captain and Tennille songs at a karaoke bar on Bourbon Street.”

  “‘Love Will Keep Us Together’?”

  “No. Even more embarrassing: ‘Muskrat Love.’”

  “Oh. Well. That’s why I wanted to come back here. I…I made a mistake that night,” I said.

  Nick went very still next to me. Goose bumps rose up on my skin from where his shirt brushed against me. Somewhere off in the distance, a jazz band started playing “When the Saints Go Marching In.” The more-drunken tourists whooped and began to dance.

  “What are you saying, Kate?” Nick’s voice was so soft that at first I wasn’t even sure he’d spoken.

  “I’m sorry. For everything,” I said, studying his face in profile. His nose slanted down a little just at the end, and there was a faint white line on his forehead, probably a scar left over from a childhood accident.

  “You’re sorry,” Nick repeated. He still didn’t look at me. “You brought me here to tell me that you’re sorry.”

  My heart felt like it was stalling in my chest. What was he thinking? Was he happy? Annoyed? Embarrassed?

  “And that I’d like a second chance,” I said. The words wanted to stick in my throat, but I forced them out.

  “Excuse me, would you mind taking our picture?”

  I looked up. A chunky blonde woman in a cherry-red cardigan sweater was standing there waving a disposable camera at us. Behind her was a man with an impressive beer gut, wearing a Steelers baseball cap. Off to the side, trying hard to look like they weren’t really vacationing with their parents, were two sullen teenagers.

  “Sure,” Nick said.

  He stood up, and the family grouped together in front of the Andrew Jackson statue.

  “Say cheese,” Nick said.

  “Cheese!” they called out.

  Nick snapped a few photos. The teenagers even smiled for one of the pictures, baring mouths full of metal braces. The mom thanked him effusively when he handed the camera back.

  And then Nick turned toward me.

  I looked at him, and he gazed back at me with those vivid blue eyes. And in that moment, just as Armstrong had predicted, I knew. I stood up, and we moved toward each other. I wrapped my arms around his waist. His hands caught in my hair, and then he bent down to kiss me.

  “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to come find you. But I didn’t think you’d want to see me,” Nick murmured, his lips so close to mine, I could feel his breath against my skin.

  “I just had to know that I could be alone. That I really don’t need to have a boyfriend to feel safe.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t need a boyfriend. I just want to be with you,” I said simply.

  I kissed him again, pressing my hands against his back, breathing in the scent of his sun-warmed skin, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest. Nick held me right back, his arms encircled around me like a promise. I had a feeling my bad-luck streak had finally come to an end.

  Don’t miss

  Whitney Gaskell’s

  other novels

  SHE, MYSELF & I

  TRUE LOVE

  (AND OTHER LIES)

  and

  PUSHING 30

  Available from

  Delta Trade Paperbacks

  SHE, MYSELF & I

  “A warm, funny, charming, and engrossing story that will hook anyone who has a sister—and any lover of quality fiction who doesn’t.”

  —Valerie Frankel, author of The Girlfriend Curse

  The Cassel sisters have little in common besides a pair of wacky parents and a maddening knack for eluding happily-ever-after endings. But when their lives require damage control, only a dose of sisterhood will do.

  Paige, the oldest, is a go-getter divorce attorney who’s reeling from her own disastrously failed marriage. Middle sister Sophie is having trouble adjusting to life as a wife and expectant mom. With her doubts on the
rise along with her weight, she’s ogling every available baked good—and every available man—that crosses her path. And up-and-coming medical student Mickey has a racy new plan for her future that’s sure to shock her entire family. It includes a dangerously handsome, decidedly married chef…private cooking lessons…and spicy lingerie.

  To top it all off, the parents who dragged them through the Divorce from Hell years ago are acting like teenagers in love…with each other! One by one, Paige, Sophie, and Mickey are about to learn just how good it is to have a sisterly shoulder—or two—to lean on.

  “A fresh, clever story about cold feet, morning sickness, and the one who got away.”

  —Beth Kendrick, author of My Favorite Mistake

  TRUE LOVE (AND OTHER LIES)

  A sharp, witty novel about destiny, friendship, and soul-sucking jobs.

  “I’ve learned enough about the world to have developed a well-established personal rule: The whole concept of a one true love who completes your soul is total bullshit.”

  Travel writer Claire Spencer doesn’t believe in fate, much less any part of that fairy-tale Prince Charming love-at-first-sight crap. Between the boyfriend who first dumped her, then fled the country to get away from her, and her parents’ vicious divorce, Claire doesn’t exactly have any successful relationship role models.

  So when she ends up sitting next to a sexy American expatriate on a flight from New York to London and he asks her out, she figures there has to be a catch. After all, full-figured Claire hardly falls into the current stick-thin beauty deal, and men haven’t exactly been beating down her door.

  But after years of disappointing dates, nightmare setups, and a bastard of an ex-boyfriend, Claire may have finally met the man of her dreams. It’s almost enough to make a girl start believing in destiny. The only catch? Someone else got to him first, and Claire can’t believe who it is.

  “Funny, romantic…an entertaining read with all the right stuff.”—RomanticReviewsToday.com