by Mia Caldwell
A lull causes me to look up from the papers I’m pretending to read and I see Tyler Riordan taking the stand. Tyler Fucking Riordan. My heart stops and not just from surprise. He was cute in Aruba. Really good looking. But in a suit? All cleaned up for the stand? He is fine.
His suit is cut perfectly, in that way that only the very rich can afford. It tapers beautifully, somehow seeming to fit as closely as a wet rash guard. The hemp bracelet is gone, replaced by a watch that probably costs as much as a Mercedes. His hair, no longer salt-water-and-wind tousled, still has those summery blonde streaks. He was probably out on the boat until yesterday.
After taking his oath, he catches my eye and winks. I can’t help but smile before I drop my eyes back to the papers. Papers I cannot hope to actually read now. I can barely breathe, for petesake. My knees feel weak and I’m glad I’m already sitting down.
“I took my first surfing trip to Cormorant Bay,” he begins, his voice filling the room. He’s let that folksy accent crop up, he sounds like an airline pilot assuring you that the flight will be just fine. “Until then, I’d only surfed near my home, in San Francisco. Before moving to the Bay Area, I grew up in Arkansas. It’s pretty there, and of course everyone knows San Francisco is beautiful, but I’d never seen anything to compare with Cormorant Bay. If you saw it in a movie, you’d say it couldn’t be real. Dolphins ride the waves with the surfers. The sea turtles actually get in the way. Fishing is so abundant that it has supported the local villages for centuries. But that will all be gone if Donmesco is able to proceed with this mining project.”
The jury, still bright eyed at the beginning of the trial, were watching Tyler intently. The women, in particular. Can’t say I blame them, but I feel that flame of jealousy, nonetheless. I’ve never been particularly possessive, but damn he stirs it up in me.
“If I had a son born in the next year and he wanted to go to Cormorant, at age 25, as I did?” Unbidden, my hand goes to my abdomen. “It would be gone. Sure, there might be water and a beach, it might even look pretty if they’ve finished their work and taken the equipment away, but it will not be Cormorant Bay. There will be no dolphins, no sea turtles…”
I pull my hand from my stomach and look at it accusingly. Don’t get too attached, there, buddy.
I’m reeling. I hadn’t even really considered telling Tyler. I mean, if I decided to continue the pregnancy, I would, but I’m not planning to do that. I don’t think.
I give my head a little shake. I’ve known that I’m pregnant for only a few hours. Of course I’m a mess. I need to just focus on the trial, do my job. Live with this a little. I’ll see the doctor tomorrow morning and that will clear everything up. Heck, maybe the home test was wrong!
But I know it wasn’t.
Tyler is talking about how the noise pollution from the dredging will disturb whale mating areas.
I look down at my lap. What would I look like pregnant? Would I be one of those cute pregnant ladies with the perfect, round belly? Or would I be one of those that gets pregnant all over? Maya just looked like she was smuggling a beach ball under her shirt, of course, otherwise looked the same. But I’ve always gained weight more easily than she does.
Mark elbows me and I look up. The prosecutor is looking smug as Tyler shows photos of the five different species of sea turtle that rely on Cormorant Bay. I’m not sure the nausea I feel is entirely caused by hormones.
When, at last, he steps down, he raises an eyebrow at me as he passes. It would be seriously bad news if anyone knew we knew each other. Or, you know, that his baby was growing inside me. Talk about conflict of interest. I feel a flutter of hope when, for a moment, I think I could just tell Brad and get taken off this case entirely. But then what? Languish in the office, doing paperwork for some other evil company? Only this time without advancing at all? The funny thing about being a lawyer is no one cares if the work you did was for a terrible company. They just want to know that you won. A high profile case like this could make it that much easier for me to leave Gensler & Sharpe.
An earnest looking young woman with white girl dreadlocks is on the stand when Mark hands me a folded up piece of paper. “From back there,” he whispers, jerking his head toward the back of the room.
Looks like Fate has brought you back to me. How about we have dinner tonight and you can explain what happened that last night in Aruba? I wasn’t done with you yet. I’ve missed you. When we adjourn for lunch, meet me on the 4th floor by the water fountain.
My heart is pounding.
“What is it?” whispers Mark.
I shove the note into the pocket of my jacket. “Oh, nothing. Just some guy wants my number.”
“Ooo, nice, who knew court was such a meat market?”
Brad whirls around and shoots daggers at us, so we shut up. I put my hand back in my pocket to feel the note. How much longer will this chick drone on?
Tyler
I have no idea if there’s a water fountain on the fourth floor. Or if there are five of them. I did at least notice that there was a fourth floor. I don’t even know if she’ll meet me. But I see Kiera slip her hand into the pocket where she shoved my note. That seems like a good sign.
I slip out of the courtroom and look for the stairs. I don’t know a lot about law, but if nothing else, television taught me that a witness for the prosecution probably shouldn’t be seen chatting up the defense.
I want to text her and tell her where to meet me, but I’m pretty sure that would freak her out. No sense copping to the fact that I was able to find her number with a just a few calls. Or that I know where she lives. Or that I got the opening testimony just so I could see her. “Stalker” is a term thrown around so liberally these days.
Look, if the letter she left had said, “It’s been real, but I’m done” or if she hadn’t left one at all, I’d have let it go. Even though I really felt a connection to Keira–seriously, from the moment I saw her on that beach–I’d have let her go on and live her own life if she was clear that she wanted nothing to do with me. I have that much self respect, at least. But “I’m no good at good-bye” and “you were the highlight of my vacation” suggest she’d be open to further contact. Even if she didn’t leave a number.
When I get to the fourth floor, I see that it’s just a long hallway with doors. Two water fountains, both visible from the end of the hall. I’ll just hang out and go to whichever one she does. I can’t decide if it’s reassuring or disheartening to find that even as a very successful 35 year old, I still feel like a high school dork afraid the pretty girl is going to laugh at him.
I’ll admit that the old “Money can’t buy happiness” is bullshit. If it can’t, it isn’t money that’s the problem. But the song was right, it can’t “buy me love.” Okay, “love” is strong. I didn’t even spend 24 hours with Kiera. But there’s something. I’ve been thinking about her for a month.
Through the stairwell, I can hear noise welling up. They must be adjourning. I lean against the wall, totally casual, thumbing through my Twitter feed, not reading a word of it.
I’ve just about decided she’s not coming when the elevator dings and Kiera steps out. There’s no one else in the hall, but when I start toward her, she immediately puts her phone to her ear.
“Just stay there,” she says, as if to someone on the other end of the line. “Uh-huh, yeah, I think more people were coming up in the other elevator. Sure. Yes, really bad if they see me with you.” And she looks right at me, an almost desperate look, just as the other door dings open.
Kiera tilts her head toward the wall and I lean back against it, phone in hand, while keeping an eye on her. She’s writing on a yellow pad.
The people that got out of the elevator have disappeared into the bathrooms, but still Kiera rips off the paper and thrusts it at me before stabbing the down button on the other elevator. As the door opens, she looks over her shoulder at me and smiles, but the smile is really strange. Not at all the one I’d seen in Aruba. My stomach clench
es a little and I look at the note. It just says “Text me. Cannot be seen near you” and then her number.
Okay, it wasn’t the happy reunion I’d hoped for, but it wasn’t “go away” either. I pull up her number which was, of course, already on my phone and type:
Dinner? We can go out of town.
Then, as an afterthought, I add:
Damn you look good dressed like a grown-up.
And then I just wait. I hate waiting. It’s a part of laid back surfer dude culture that I’m just not very good at.
Finally the phone buzzes in my hand as her reply comes:
:) You too.
Come to my place for dinner. I’ll text when I’m there, then you can turn up 20 min later. I know I’m paranoid, but this case is going to get nasty.
The combination of “my place” and “get nasty” is enough to give me a semi. I haven’t had sex since Kiera. A month is a long time.
I’m not needed in the courtroom anymore, so I decide to find her place ahead of time. She sent me the address but, like I said, I already had it.
I’ve never been to DC, so I figure I can ride around and see the sights while I’m finding her place. Get the lay of the land while it’s daylight. The road layout is baffling, at best, and I’m glad the motorcycle I’ve rented has a GPS built in. I keep vintage BMW bikes at my houses, but for once I’m not going to complain about a modern bike. I’ll sacrifice looks and feel for knowing where the hell I am. Which is good, because I probably look pretty bizarre in my suit and fancy shoes on this sport bike. I could go change, but I don’t want to be at the hotel on the other side of the city when Kiera gets out.
I find it pretty easily. Kiera’s place is a little two story rowhouse. Her street is the boundary line for where the neighborhood starts to look a little rough. There are bars on the first floor windows and the little garden in front is full of scraggly, dying weeds. It’s not the house of someone who spends a lot of time puttering, that’s for sure. I know it’s not my business and it’s paternalistic and macho and all that crap, but I feel that stab of protectiveness. The one I felt when I saw her go under the waves.
It’s probably a little much to buy her a new house in a safer neighborhood before she gets home, though.
Instead, I get my assistant to find me a Caribbean restaurant that has take out. There’s no Aruban, Fredo was right about that, but Elizabeth finds me a place close to Capitol Hill. And then, once again, I have to wait. But at least now I can ride around the city until I get that text.
I’ve just passed this weird sculpture of a hand reaching out of the ground when Kiera’s text appears on the screen. She’s leaving the courthouse. Like I’m planning a bank heist, I swing into action. Pull over, call the restaurant, place the order. Text Kiera, tell her I’ll bring dinner. Ask Elizabeth to find a good wine shop in the area. Plot the restaurant, wine shop, and Kiera’s house into the GPS for maximum efficiency. Yeah, I’m a beach bum, but when I’m on a mission I’m all business.
When I get the message Home. Give me 20 min. I’m picking up the food. Time enough to select the wine and get to Kiera. I feel weirdly nervous, like I’m going to a job interview or a pitch meeting.
God knows I love a rush of adrenaline–you know, tech start-ups, surfing, motorcycles–but I could use a glass of the wine already. I select a Chenin Blanc, since that’s what Fredo brought us that night in Aruba. She seemed to like it well enough to drink half the bottle. Mid-range. Don’t want to look cheap, but don’t want to come on too “I can just buy you,” either. I swear, I’m not usually like this. I’m not some macho asshole, but I tend to just take it easy on dates. If she likes me, cool. If not, I’ll find one that does. But not now. I consider getting flowers and realize I have no where left to put them, they’d never survive the trip.
I park the bike a block away, just in case. Plus, I’m still a little early. The walk will kill the last couple of minutes. When I ring the bell, I feel as nervous as my first date ever. Honestly, I want to kick my own ass.
Kiera opens the door and ushers me in, closing it quickly behind me. Only then, once it’s barred and curtain drawn across it, does she smile. Oh man, I have missed that smile. But even so, there’s something guarded that wasn’t there before.
“Here, come in and set those things down. Thanks for picking up dinner, it smells great!”
She leads me into the kitchen. When I set down the bags, I open my arms to her. She hesitates, I see that, but she steps in. When I wrap my arms around her, she’s stiff at first, but–as if coming to a decision–she melts against me. It feels good and right.
“Oh man, Kiera, I have missed you,” I say into her hair, still pulled up into a twist from court.
She doesn’t answer, but I feel her shudder against me. She’s crying. I hold her closer and say, “I was worried that you wouldn’t come to me, that you wouldn’t want to see me. But I had to try.”
She nods against my chest, but still doesn’t speak. I just hold her, feeling my shirt grow damp with her tears, until she pulls back.
“I’m glad you came,” she says, wiping her eyes. “If only because it really pissed Brad off.” She smiles at me.
"I hope that’s not the only reason. To bring the tears you must really hate him a lot."
“Oh, I do. But no. I’m just…I’m…so glad you found me. You clearly knew I was going to be in that courtroom. You weren’t nearly as surprised as I was.”
“Oh, I knew. It might even be that I pulled some strings to get the first testimony when I saw you were on the case.” I’ll leave off the fact that I didn’t even know about the case until I was trying to find her. In truth, the mining project is not far from my home in Peru. Not far enough, anyway, so it’s the sort of thing I should have know about. Oceanica was only too happy to take my contribution and hear what I had to say.
She smiles at me. “Well, I’m glad. And I’m hungry. What did you bring?”
“Caribbean! As close to Aruban as I could get. I swear, it’s not as heavy. I remember the cheese wheel cut our last evening short. I don’t want that to happen again. This is Jamaican–a curry goat and mango shrimp.”
“Ooo, I love curry goat. Perfect. I’ll get the plates.”
I see the wine opener on the counter and open the bottle. I pour into two glasses and take them into the dining area where Kiera is setting down the plates. There’s no candlelight and no soft tropical air, but it’s where I want to be.
I lift my wine glass. “To reunion!”
Kiera lifts hers to her lips and sets it down with a strange look. I sniff my glass, it seems fine. I taste it, it’s fine. “Do you not like the wine?”
Kiera looks at her hands in her lap and up at me. Her eyes are filling with tears again.
“Tyler, I’m pregnant.”
I set my glass back down and force myself to breathe. “Oh. Okay. Um, wow. So…”
“It’s yours.”
Kiera
The change in the expression on Tyler’s face between when I said I was pregnant and when I said it was his might have been worth this whole ordeal. It went from “Just found out his puppy got hit by a car” to “April Fool! You really have TWO puppies!” in a second.
“What? Really? But we…”
“Yep. Once is all it takes and condoms sometimes fail. I’m not on birth control,” I snort without meaning to, “obviously, because the hormones make me crazy. So now there’s this.”
He’s looking at me so intensely. I can tell he’s trying not to let his face reveal his actual feelings when he asks, “Um, so what…um, do you have a plan?”
“Only a really short term one. I’m going to see a doctor in the morning to be sure this is real, although I’m pretty certain. I was puking my guts out this morning, my moods have been insane–witness the crying a moment ago–and I’m just exhausted no matter how much sleep I get. But I’ll talk over my options with her.”
He nods. “Can I come with you tomorrow?”
“No.” I tak
e a breath. "Look, this morning, I really thought I’d just get this taken care of as soon as I can work it in and no one ever has to know about it, but then you just came into the courtroom and I felt like I had to tell you. I’m sorry if you’d have rather not known–I know you want kids and I know you’re ready. But I need to keep a clear head and think about what I need. I can’t do that if I see your big puppy eyes all hopeful."
He takes my hand across the table. “I’m glad you told me. No matter what. There’s no reason you should have to go through it alone. Whatever ‘it’ turns out to be.”
“Thanks. I feel better having told you. I told Andrea, but it’s not the same as having the…other concerned party share the load. It’s bad timing with this case.”
“You think it’ll drag on for a while?”
“Crap. Um, I really can’t talk about it. It’s totally unethical for you to even be here, but since I couldn’t resist that, at least I can keep my stupid mouth shut.” I open one of the styrofoam containers. "Except to eat. I was nauseated until about 6 pm. And now I’m starving."
Since I’ve done nothing but work on the case for the last month–and, you know, grow a baby–I make Tyler tell me about his travels. While I’ve been holed up in the basement of the law library, he’s been sailing to Peru, surfing, checking in on the surf resort he’s invested in in Indonesia.
“I only got in from Jakarta two days ago, so my jet lag is still pretty bad,” he says, clearing our plates to the kitchen. When I hear the dishwasher door open, I nearly swoon. Buy me dinner, great. Do the dishes? Oh, baby.
“You travel more in a week than I’ve done in my life,” I say when he comes back in.
“I’m a lucky guy,” he says with a smile. “Should I pour the wine out?”