by Fenton, Liz
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I finally say and immediately regret it. Ethan will have a field day with this when I tell him—You said what to her?
“You’re sorry for my loss? That’s the best you can do?” Stephanie scoffs as if reading my mind, and the tears she’s been trying to hold back finally escape.
“Yes, I am,” I repeat. Because it’s true. Vivian was young—only thirty-three. No kids, but according to her sister she had wanted them. I pause and consider my next words. “He was entitled to a defense.”
“You didn’t have to take the case. You didn’t have to be the one to defend him.”
She was right. I could have said no. But as I’d listened to him paint a picture of Vivian, a loving wife, but one who struggled with depression, he had no idea I understood that scenario better than anyone could have known. He claimed she’d taken Lexapro and Zoloft and had an affinity for Vicodin. A marriage that wasn’t perfect but that was solid. He said he had spent his life trying to make her happy. He told me he wouldn’t have hurt a hair on her head. And he’d explained away the domestic dispute. Said she had been loaded. And later, when I’d looked at the police report, it was true that she’d been acting drugged. Jeremiah had been completely sober. He cried as he talked about finding her bludgeoned to death. And there were things missing—valuable things. It could have been a break-in. I decided to take the case because maybe this was an innocent man. Maybe he didn’t do it. There was enough doubt for me to say yes. And if I’m being completely honest, the money swayed me too. I knew a case like this would be several months of work. Jeremiah runs a hedge fund and would pay for any legal necessities to make sure he wasn’t convicted.
“I’m sorry, but I have to go.” I turn to look for my Uber that will take me back to the office—only a couple of miles away—when I feel her hand on my arm. I pull away from her grip and turn to face her. I decide to swallow the comment I want to make, Get your hands off me, and let her take one more dig. Then I really am leaving.
“Karma’s a bitch, and I have no doubt you’ll get yours.”
Stephanie’s eyes are steely, and I feel a chill. I try to shake it off, pull my shoulder blades down my back, and walk away with as much dignity as I can muster. It’s not the first time I’ve been threatened, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. As we make our way toward the waiting Uber, Chase is reeling off the messages I’ve received while in court as if I weren’t just basically told I was going to hell. A high-profile lawyer has been arrested for manslaughter, and he wants to meet with me. On to the next case, it seems. But as we’re rounding the corner, I feel the urge to look back. Stephanie hasn’t moved. She’s still glaring at me with her arms folded across her chest.
The cold spike shoots through me again, and this time I have a harder time shaking it away.
My phone rings, breaking the moment. I exhale when I see Ethan’s name on the screen. “I’m going to take this,” I say to Chase, who nods and taps his phone, indicating he’ll call the Uber for us.
“Congrats,” Ethan says when I answer.
I’m trying to decide how to respond when he adds, “I know this was a tough one for you.”
“It was,” I agree as we pass a homeless man with a red scarf, rooting around in a trash bin. I pause and take in the shopping cart that most likely holds his every possession, and it shifts my perspective, albeit momentarily. There are people with much bigger problems than me.
A black Lexus pulls up to the curb, and Chase motions for us to get in.
“You okay?” Ethan asks, his voice warm and soothing, and I find myself leaning into the phone, wanting to be closer.
“Yes,” I say reflexively. I always do that. Say I’m fine when I’m not. Ethan once joked that if I’d had a limb chopped off and you asked me how I was, I’d answer that I was okay. Would he know this was one of those times? When I wasn’t fine at all?
“That’s good,” he says, and I exhale. “You got a second? I need to talk to you about something.”
I straighten my back against the seat, unable to recall the last time Ethan called me in the middle of the day to tell me something. I rub the base of my neck with my free hand.
“What is it?” I ask as the Uber pulls up to a stoplight. I can see the tip of my office building peeking out several blocks up, the sun reflecting off the windows.
“I did something. Something big!”
“What?” I ask, and sit up straighter in my seat. Chase glances at me, and I mouth, Ethan.
“You know those community work spaces where you can rent a cubicle? Remember, I showed you one on my friend’s Instagram page?”
I nod even though he can’t see me.
“I rented one. I’m getting out of this house, out of my joggers.” He laughs nervously. “And I’m finally going to write that second goddamn book that I know I have in me.”
My body tingles at the news. I hear my husband’s voice for the first time in a long while. The man I married. The novelist. With motivation. Confidence. And I realize how much I’ve missed him. The man I fell in love with. Stephanie’s accusations blare in my mind again, and I push them away. Ethan calling me to tell me this right after I won a case I don’t feel good about, right after the victim’s sister screamed at me and said so many of the things I was already thinking, feels like a sign. I need to redirect. I need to give my marriage the attention it so desperately needs and my husband the love he deserves.
“Lila?”
“Sorry,” I say, realizing I drifted off. “I’m so happy for you, Ethan. This is the best news.”
“I feel really good about it,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “And I’m sorry I’ve been so down for so long. I know I’ve also pulled you down with me.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him. Because I’ve made worse mistakes. The only difference? He doesn’t know about mine.
“There she is—the woman of the hour!” my boss, Sam, a managing partner at the firm, says when I walk into the conference room a few minutes later. He hands me a glass of champagne and toasts me, looking around at a small group of my coworkers who have gathered. “To another victory!”
I take a long sip as my colleagues mutter their congratulations, and I grab a slice of the red velvet cake that had been cut and set on small plates next to the plastic champagne glasses. After everyone has filed out of the room, I sit down and close my eyes.
“There you are—Sam said I’d find you in here.” Sam’s wife and my best friend, Carrie, bustles into the room.
“Hey,” I say, smiling, taking in her white-blonde hair, which is swept into a loose ponytail, her makeup-free face that always shines as if it’s been freshly washed. “What are you doing here?”
She heaves a two-inch-thick manila folder out of her tote bag. “Sam left this at home and called me, freaking out. I guess he needs it for a meeting later today.”
“Has he heard of this thing called the cloud?” I laugh. Sam pushed back on storing files digitally; he said the weight of the paper in his hands helped him think.
“Tell me about it.” Carrie rolls her sky-blue eyes as she sits in the chair next to me. I envy her choice of a mint-green apron dress. She’s always wearing bright clothing—skirts or rompers—a near-perfect reflection of her personality and warm disposition. Meanwhile, if I take a risk and wear something other than black—a perfect reflection of my own disposition—like olive green, Chase taps the back of his hand to my forehead to check my temperature. And my dark hair and blunt bangs accentuate this even more. Carrie catches me looking her over and smooths the green cotton. “You like? I went on a bit of an Anthropologie binge.” She blushes slightly. “Sam says I need to watch my spending.” She shakes her head.
“It looks great on you.” Sam had mentioned the same thing to me on more than one occasion, but I always defended Carrie. I wish I had the desire to buy myself things just because. I strained to remember the last clothing purchase I’d made—a pair of charcoal-gray pants.
&
nbsp; “Sam told me the sister of your client’s wife really handed your ass to you after the verdict today, so I wanted to check on you. You okay?” She eyes me curiously. “I know you. You keep it all bottled up in here.” She points a finger toward my chest.
“I’m fine,” I say unconvincingly and catch her knowing look. The truth is, I feel rattled, like a piece of me has come loose, but I can’t bring myself to say it. Maybe it’s because Stephanie’s accusations still ring in my ears. Or because I don’t want to admit that cases like that make me question if I’m still cut out for this career. “Just part of the job.” I purse my lips. “Right?” I add, because she understands from a peripheral point of view that Sam’s work comes home with him whether he believes it does or not.
“I suppose, but it doesn’t mean you can’t talk about it,” she says and waits, but I don’t bite. She tries again. “She was surprised by the verdict, I’m assuming?”
I nod, remembering the fire in her dark-green eyes, the way her fists balled at her sides. “But the state had no evidence. They were rolling the dice taking this to trial.”
“Especially against you,” Carrie says with a small smile.
I tilt my head in thought. “But still, I understand her shock. Her sister was her best friend, and now she’s gone. It’s natural she’s looking for someone to blame.” I think about the broken look in Stephanie’s eyes earlier. That part never got easier—getting a not-guilty verdict for my clients left the victim’s family at square one, with no answers.
“True. I can’t imagine. Being her.” She looks down at her french manicure. “Are you sure you’re okay? You seemed unsettled.”
“What are you talking about?” I protest weakly.
“You’re usually fist-pumping after winning a case. But despite your mediocre attempt at masking it, I can see you’re upset. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you wished you lost.”
I move my chair closer to Carrie, closing the small gap between us more. “I don’t feel good about this one,” I confess quietly and instantly feel relief, wondering what would happen if I talked about all the cases that left me feeling this way. How much lighter would my steps be?
“Why not?” Carrie asks.
“I can’t put my finger on it. Even though it was a slam dunk, it doesn’t feel like a victory.”
“Is there anything you can do about it?”
“Wine.” I laugh. “I can drink lots of wine.”
“I’m being serious.”
“I’m not joking!”
Carrie folds her arms over her chest. “I swear you are going to implode if you don’t start opening up to someone.”
“I need to move on with my life. To the next case. What’s done is done.” I push away the thought that the next case will leave me feeling as empty as this one.
“You sound like Sam,” she admonishes. “But I know that’s your campaign trail speech. You care more than you want to admit.”
“Maybe I do.” I glance around the room, still empty save for two clerks who’ve come in to snag a piece of cake. “Don’t tell anyone. That can get you in big trouble around here.”
She purses her glossy lips. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“And hey, thank you,” I add.
“For what?”
“Everyone else is patting me on the back, assuming I’m thrilled,” I say, thinking she’s had this skill since the night I met her at our company holiday party four years ago. Seconds before, I’d been chewed out by a senior partner over a loss I’d had in court. He’d had one too many bourbons, the alcohol thick on his breath as he cornered me and told me how much money I’d cost the firm after the family pulled their company from our client roster. I’d looked around for Ethan but had lost track of him in the crowded room. Once the partner finally finished humiliating me and stormed off, Carrie came rushing over, asking me if I was okay, telling me she’d witnessed the last few moments. As I always do, I said I was fine. But I choked slightly on the words as I said them—my embarrassment and indignation sitting in a tight knot at the base of my throat. She ignored my platitude and grabbed my elbow, leading me to a deserted corner of the rooftop balcony that was partially hidden by the bar, where she pulled a cigarette and lighter from her purse. “I keep this for emergencies only,” she said. “I’m Carrie, Sam’s wife, by the way.”
“I’m Lila.”
“I know. Sam pointed you out earlier. Said you’re a rising star at the firm.” She cupped her hand and awkwardly lit the cigarette, then held it out to me.
“Oh, I don’t smoke,” I said, shaking my head.
Carrie stared at me and took a deep drag, tilting her head to blow the smoke away from me a second later. “Neither do I,” she said with a smile.
She held it out to me again, and this time I grabbed it from her dainty fingers and took a small puff, grateful for the first time in my life that someone had been able to see right through me.
“You’re pretty transparent to me—and it isn’t always pretty!” Carrie jokes now. She squeezes my arm gently. She knows this is hard. That I’m not fine. She looks like she wants to say something else when a few partners walk into the room. We exchange greetings as they pour themselves some champagne.
“You’re glowing, by the way. Did you work out?” I ask after they leave, wanting to change the subject.
Carrie pauses before answering. “Yes. Probably the Blast Zone class I went to this morning. We were running at an eight percent incline on the treadmill. My heart rate was through the roof!” She laughs at herself. “I’ve got to get you in there—there’s one over on Figueroa. Did you know that?”
I shake my head. Maybe I should try it? I’d refused when she attempted to push me into Pilates, even when she sent me videos of her hot spin instructor with the caption, Come ride this! And now that this trial is over, I will have a break between cases. Maybe I’ll try this Blast Zone thing. Or walk up my stairs more. Or drink less wine.
“It was a high-impact day today. I swear. I almost didn’t make it through the floor work at the end.” She pauses again, as if she’s going to change the subject, but then blurts, “I got thirty boom points!”
I frown at her. Something seems a little off with Carrie.
She waves her hand. “After you go, you’ll get the lingo. Anyway, the short answer is yes, I worked out. But enough about me. Your day was much more important.”
“Is everything okay?” I ask, leaning forward.
“Well . . .” Carrie’s eyes widen, and she half smiles like she’s ready to spill a secret. “I wasn’t going to say anything yet because it’s still early, but I’ve been dying to tell you . . .”
“About what?” I ask. But instinctively, I already know the answer.
“I think I might be”—she looks down at her flat stomach—“you know.”
“Pregnant?” I whisper.
She nods, and her cheeks seem to glow brighter. “I mean if three tests don’t prove it, I don’t know what does!”
I feel like the wind has been knocked out of me, my stomach twisting so tightly I have to exhale hard.
“Are you okay?” Carrie leans in.
“Yes. Sorry. It’s such a shock!” I say, because it is. And that part of me, that voice that scolds me when I’m making bad choices, chimes in, telling me this is a sign. First Ethan calls, reminding me of the man I fell in love with, and now Carrie tells me she’s having a baby.
“I know. It is for me too!” Carrie smiles.
Ethan and I don’t have kids and have agreed we probably won’t. Never say never, Ethan always says. I can’t recall exactly when he started saying that, but when he does, I can feel that tightening in my chest. Because though I nod, deep down my vote is never. Not because I don’t like kids—I do. I mean, I’m not the first to goo-goo and gaga over a baby, but my niece, Ethan’s sister’s daughter, seems to like me just fine. She was the one who broke the news that the emoji of the woman dancing in the red dress had become obsolete without my pe
rmission. But as much as I enjoy hanging out with her for the afternoon or holding the occasional toddler, I’ve never pictured myself with children. I’m not exactly sure when I started feeling that way.
My mom thinks it ties back to my dad’s death when I was twelve. And maybe she’s right. His accident rammed me hard in the gut, and I felt like I couldn’t catch my breath for years. Sometimes I still can’t. I often think of him taking me for walks outside, me perched high up on his shoulders, him telling me to duck when we were coming toward hanging branches on the trees; watching Chargers games with him, his face bright as he explained the nuances of the game; him sitting on my bed and fluffing my pillows each night, right up until the night before he died. It’s true that when he passed away, a piece of me went with him. But is that why I don’t want kids? I would need a lot of therapy to get to that conclusion.
“Congratulations,” I force myself to say and hug her.
“Wow, a hug from Lila.” Carrie laughs into my shoulder. “This is big news!”
“I know; I looked out the window and saw a pig flying.” I laugh as I pull back from her and try to ignore the ache in my heart.
The door to the conference room opens, and Chase walks through. I’m grateful for his interruption.
“I came to get a piece of that.” He points at the sheet cake on the table. “You know how I feel about thick white frosting full of high-fructose corn syrup.” He licks his lips and theatrically cuts himself a piece. Carrie and I laugh. “And this arrived. It looks fancy!” He hands me an envelope as he leaves the room.
I stare at the calligraphy of the return name and address and tear it open. A friend from law school is getting married.
“What is it?” Carrie asks.
“A wedding invitation,” I say flatly.
“I love weddings.” Carrie claps her hands. She glances at the invite. “And it’s at Shutters on the Beach! If Ethan doesn’t want to go, I’ll be your plus-one!”