by Fenton, Liz
Is Sam looking? It’s been at least twelve hours but likely a lot more, so my not showing up for work would have alerted him that there could be a problem. I haven’t missed a day, save for vacation, in over two years.
Chase will be trying to reach me. Wondering where I am. Of all the men in my life, I seem to count on him the most. He has the best grasp on my life—my schedule, my habits, the intricacies of my every day. In reality, he’s my best hope to ring the alarm that something’s really wrong. I try not to realize how sad that is. That although I have an intimate relationship with not one but two men, it is my assistant who I know will miss me right away.
I hear the now familiar sound of the door being unlocked. Slowly it slides open, and Q walks in. He shuts it behind him and locks it again, this time from the inside. It’s a combination lock, and he blocks it so I can’t see. Smart, I think. If I were to somehow take him over, knock him out, I couldn’t escape because I don’t know the combination.
The first thing I notice is that he’s changed his clothes. He’s wearing black joggers and a quarter-zip long-sleeve Adidas shirt. Different running shoes this time: Nike. A black Apple Watch is now strapped to his wrist. A backpack is slung over one shoulder. He sets it down by the wall and looks at me. He hasn’t pulled the mask all the way down, and I can see a bit of dark hair sticking out from the back.
“Hello, Lila Bennett,” he says in a mock southern accent, his eyes glowing through the slits in the mask.
My body involuntarily shakes in response. There’s something different about Q since the last time he was here.
“Not going to say hi?” He crouches down in front of me. “I can tighten these if I have to,” he says as he touches the bindings around my ankles, and I flinch. I can’t imagine them any tighter.
“Hi,” I manage.
“That’s better,” he says, then presses his lips together. He looks me up and down, his eyes resting on the bottom of my skirt. I can’t cross my legs because of the bindings around my ankles. I wonder what he can see. I look away from him, not wanting to know.
“You look uncomfortable,” he says.
No shit, Sherlock.
But I just nod, not wanting to upend whatever nervous energy is going on right now.
“Well, it’s time to get comfortable.” He pauses and gives me a long look that makes me shudder. When I think I can’t take him staring at me for one more second, his grimace turns into a lazy smile. “Darn, I should’ve brought popcorn. Because I’ve got something you’re going to want to see.” He pulls an iPad from his backpack and taps the screen several times. Then he studies me as if he’s trying to gauge how I’m going to react.
My heart starts to bang. What’s on that iPad? His green eyes are boring into mine with such an intensity I finally have to look away. I take a deep breath to steady myself.
“Are you ready, Lila?” he asks, a sneer forming on his lips as he lowers himself to the floor and sits cross-legged in front of me, the iPad perched on his lap.
I squeeze my eyes shut before opening them again in an attempt to build strength for whatever it is he has in store for me.
CHAPTER TEN
TUESDAY
FREE
As I often do, I wake exactly two minutes before the buzzing of my alarm. It has always amazed me how our minds know things like that, like the way I can almost hear Chase open the door to my office before he actually does or how my skin crawls slightly sometimes when I meet a client, causing me to doubt his innocence before he utters one word.
My wrists ache, and I rub them softly. Did I sleep on them wrong? I search for evidence of the pain—redness, a scratch, wrinkled skin—but they are pale and clear. Odd.
Ethan breathes in and out deeply next to me, curled up in a ball with a pillow over his head. In the past he wouldn’t be rising for at least another two hours, not until eight at the earliest. But now that he has his rented writing space, I wonder if he’ll wake sooner, if those three thousand words will snowball into three thousand more, and then he’ll finally be freed from the prison of his own mind. But a big part of me worries that he’ll get stuck again and revert back to his black hole. I know I shouldn’t think that way—but this isn’t the first time he’s had a renewed passion for his writing. Although it is the only time he’s found a space other than home to write.
I’ve never understood the whole writer’s block thing. I’ve often told Ethan that writing a book isn’t all that different from arguing a case in court. We are both telling stories.
But I can’t afford to freeze up—it could literally mean life or death for my clients. I can’t understand how someone could willingly walk away from the pinnacle of his career, to go from an accomplished bestselling author being interviewed by Oprah-fucking-Winfrey to the guy currently twisted into the fetal position in his faded striped boxers.
Hold on, Lila, I admonish myself. Aren’t you supposed to be turning over a new leaf with your husband? Believing that he’s really ready to get his career off the ground? I deliberately avoid the mirror as I pull off my tank top and pajama bottoms and step into the shower, letting the scalding water cascade over my concerns about Ethan’s ability to pull himself out of the deep hole he’s been in for so long, about my ability to truly put my marriage first. It’s easy to say, hard to do. I’ve had my relationship with Sam playing in the background in every interaction and conversation with Ethan for the past six months, numbing me. Do I know how to jump back in? Do I have the capability of putting aside the resentment that’s built inside me like the pressure in that damn Instant Pot Carrie is always going on and on about? Can we move past the way Ethan’s moods swing from ecstatic and talkative to brooding silence and then back to neutral?
I guess I’m about to find out.
I’m leaning over the counter delicately applying my mascara when Ethan walks into the bathroom, rubbing his eyes.
“I’m so sorry. Was I too loud?” I’ve perfected the art of tiptoeing in the morning. I told myself it was because I was being kind, but I’ve often wondered if part of me was avoiding Ethan by sneaking out before he woke. Not wanting to deal with whatever direction his mood was swinging.
“No, not at all,” he says as he squirts toothpaste on his toothbrush. “I’m anxious to get to my work space and back to my manuscript.”
“Oh, that’s great,” I say, trying to conceal my surprise. The last time Ethan was up at six o’clock was when the battery in our smoke detector started chirping, his pillow not enough to drown out the sound.
There you go again, Lila. Being a bitch. Give him a chance to show you he’s capable of change.
He finishes brushing his teeth, wipes his mouth, and comes up behind me, pulling my hips to his and placing his lips on my neck. I feel him getting hard. “Got a few minutes to spare?” he whispers.
This also surprises me, because I can’t remember the last time we had sex. Wait . . . yes, I can. It was three months ago. We walked to Umami Burger and sat at the counter and shared a truffle burger, onion rings, and several IPAs. We stumbled home, Ethan grasping my arm with one hand and my ass in the other. I was intoxicated, yes, but I was also drunk on his good mood—he’d been dark and dreary for the six weeks prior, some days not getting off the couch. But that night he was the Ethan I adored. He was confident and funny, and oh so in love with me, leaning in close to tell a story like we were the only two people in the place, running his hand over my knee and then slightly farther up my thigh, almost as an invitation for later. Once home, we’d pushed through the front door, not bothering to close it all the way, Ethan holding me up with ease as we moved in sync for what felt like the first time in a long while. After, we lay on the cold hardwood floor intertwined with each other. “We should do this more often,” he said, and we both laughed, me silently hoping it was a sign that the old Ethan would finally return to me.
Now I find myself wanting to say no. I need to get to work. Need to find out how my breakup with Sam is going to play out. I need
to be strategic. Make sure it doesn’t spiral into something bad. Make sure his ego stays intact. But this Ethan, the one poking me with his erection, is a rare thing, like an endangered animal that is only spotted in the wild every so often. If you move wrong, you could scare it away. And the truth is, I wouldn’t mind if this Ethan stuck around. Catching a glimpse of him makes me contemplate that we might not be as far off from happy as I’d thought.
I turn and kiss him hard, his mouth tasting like toothpaste. “I always have time for you,” I say and lead him back into the bedroom.
I strategically strut into the partners’ meeting four minutes late, forcing myself not to glance at the seat at the head of the table, which I’m quite sure is occupied by Sam. I’ve been hiding in my office since I snuck in around eight o’clock, Chase sitting guard at his desk. I left Ethan smiling and pouring his favorite Colombian coffee into his travel mug, his laptop in his messenger bag next to the door. He said he was right behind me, wanted to get to his new desk by seven thirty. I found myself smiling too as I opened the garage and pulled out onto the busy street. Maybe this is a new beginning for us. For me.
I take my seat next to Adam, another junior partner. As always, his jet-black hair is parted on the side and stuck against his head with what I’ve always assumed must be some Krazy Glue–like man gel. He’s also wearing what I refer to as his uniform, a pair of khakis so stiff they could walk to court without him, a blue blazer, a white shirt, and one of his many bow ties. “It’s where I show my personality,” he said when I’d once made fun of his Santa Claus–patterned tie.
“You’ll offend people who don’t celebrate Christmas,” I pointed out.
“Stop thinking like a lawyer, Lila. It’s what always gets you into trouble.” He laughed.
That was ten years ago, and since then we’d developed a rivalry—not always a healthy one—both of us fighting to bill the most hours, to get the best cases, to get anointed partner first. For the record, I had bested him on all three counts, a stat I enjoy rubbing in his face via text often. I reach over and grab a handful of grapes from the plate in front of him.
“Hey!” he hisses. “You’d better have washed your hands.”
I lick my fingers in response. “Like this?”
“God, you are so disgusting, Lila.” He pushes the bowl toward me. “You can have them. Congrats on the case, by the way.”
“Thanks,” I say with my mouth full.
“Let’s get started,” Sam says stiffly and clears his throat. Adam and I shuffle our files and sit up straight in response. “What’s on the docket for today?”
Several partners weigh in on current cases. Sam peppers questions here and there but mostly listens and takes a few notes.
“We’re moving forward with the Steve Greenwood divorce case,” David Croft pipes up a few minutes later. He nods toward me. “Lila has insisted on taking the lead, so I’ll oversee. Keep an eye on it here and there.”
I snap my head up. That’s not what we agreed upon at all. After Steve left, I told David I really didn’t feel comfortable as first chair, and we came to the consensus that I would take the meetings with Greenwood and stay up to date to satisfy him but that David would be doing the heavy lifting.
Sam nods his head at me. “Sounds good. Keep me posted on this one.”
A sound escapes my throat.
“Lila? You have something to add?” Sam asks, a hint of a smirk dancing on his lips.
I start to protest but notice a quick glance pass between David and Sam. Did Sam convince him to change the lineup, hoping I’d throw a fit in front of the other partners? Or worse, does Sam want me to sabotage my career by botching the divorce of one of our wealthiest clients? His eyes betrayed nothing last night. But now his actions unveil what’s behind them: anger.
“Just that I’m really excited to take the case and to get some new experience. Thanks for trusting me with it,” I blurt, catching Sam’s eye, who winks at me in response before dismissing everyone.
Shit.
I stand up in a daze. Adam touches my arm. “What did you do to piss off Sam?”
“Nothing!” I reply. “Why do you think that?”
“The wink,” he says simply. We’ve both worked here a long time. We know what that wink means. Sam wants to destroy me. “You’d better kill it on that case,” Adam adds. “Otherwise . . .”
“I know,” I interject. “I’ll be toast.”
“Speaking of cases, I need to ask you a favor.”
“Okay,” I say uneasily. Adam never asks me for a favor unless he has an agenda.
“I know that face,” he says, flashing me an attempt at a smile, but it looks more like a cross between a smirk and a frown. “But I promise you this request is well meaning.”
“Uh-huh,” I say as I pick up my folder off the conference room table.
“I’ve recently been assigned a case, and I need some help on it. I immediately thought of you,” Adam says.
I search his face for evidence he is lying, but he actually seems sincere. “Okay, I’m listening.”
“It’s a drunk driv—”
“Nope,” I cut him off and start toward the door.
“Lila, wait . . .”
“Listen, Adam, you could never know this, but I have my reasons for not so much as consulting on a case that involves alcohol and a car and a person.”
“But I do know about your past. That’s why I asked you,” Adam says. “We could use your insight.”
“You what? How?” I can feel my cheeks getting hot.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know it would make you so upset.”
“What do you know? Tell me.” I step toward him.
Adam inches backward. “Listen, I’ve obviously touched a nerve here. I was told you had a personal experience. Your dad . . .”
“A nerve? You think my dead dad is a nerve?” I can feel the veins in my neck protruding.
Adam holds up his hands, his palms facing me. “Sam mentioned . . .”
That bastard. How dare he! the bad girl voice shouts.
I told you he’d use your secrets against you, the good girl voice says.
I storm out of the conference room before I can hear the rest of Adam’s sentence.
I allow myself a few hours to calm down before heading to Sam’s office. I know he has a thirty-minute break between clients because I forced Chase to barter a Green Nutty Buddy smoothie and Bianco Verde pizza from the Whole Foods down the street with Kylie, Sam’s leggy assistant, in return for his schedule. “Is he in?” I ask innocently, and Kylie nods as if she had no idea I’d be showing up.
“Go on in,” she says.
“Knock, knock,” I say as I enter his office, with its beautiful dark hardwood floors and strong leather chairs. A signed Alex Rodriguez baseball sits on the third shelf of a large oak bookcase—Sam is a huge Yankees fan, having lived in New York City as a child. A sterling silver frame on his desk showcases his love for Carrie. My friend. She’s wearing a coral strapless dress that shows off her chiseled arms and heart-shaped face. He’s dashing in a charcoal-gray slim-fitting suit and skinny black tie. They’re at a wedding of one of our colleagues, midlaugh at a joke I had told. I know this because I was behind the camera, trying to get Sam to smile, knowing it bothered Carrie when he didn’t. Later, Sam and I snuck out to the dark alley behind the hotel, and he pulled up my black silk dress and slipped inside me, biting my neck so hard I was terrified it would leave a mark. We were being sloppy, possibly brazen, and in that moment I didn’t care, part of me wondering what it would be like to destroy the seemingly perfect life I’d built from scratch. But my tryst with Sam was like an addiction. There was a high associated with taking this risk, like a gambler in Vegas. The question circling as you double down: “Am I going to lose everything right now?” But later that night the guilt seeped in as we sped home in our Uber, Ethan’s arm draped over my knee effortlessly. He pulled me into him and took a deep breath, the enormity of my bad decisions hitting
me, making me wonder, as I had more than once, what it would take for me to stop gambling with his loyalty.
“Yes?” Sam looks up from the brief he was working on, his dark eyes cold.
I shut the door behind me and lean against it. “Come on, Sam. Don’t be like this.”
“Like what?” he asks. “Aren’t you the one who ended things?”
“I did what was best for both of us. For our careers. For our families.” I emphasize that last part. Has Carrie told him she’s pregnant? She texted me first thing this morning with a picture of her flat belly and the caption, Can’t wait to fill this thing up! with a baby face and bottle emoji next to it.
“You did what was best for you, Lila. Which is pretty much par for the course.”
I take a step toward him. “What does that mean? Is that why you told Adam about my dad?”
Sam looks up, his eyes soft. “No, I told him about that last week. I honestly thought . . .”
I turn away from him so he can’t see the tears brimming in my eyes. I didn’t realize how much rage I’m still holding inside me about what happened.
“Lila, I thought with your past, you’d be able to lend Adam the help he needed in defending our driver. Give us some perspective on what it’s like to be on the other side of . . .”
I swivel around, my face reddening again. “You what?” I blurt and realize my voice is louder than it should be. I glance at the door.
“Don’t worry about Kylie—she gets paid not to listen,” Sam says plainly, and I’m not sure what he’s referring to. Us having sex in this office?
“You actually want me to help Adam prepare against the state? To give him expertise on what it feels like to lose someone to a drunk driver?”
“This is work, Benn—”
“Don’t call me that. Not anymore.” I realize I sound like I’m pouting. I look at Sam, who seems pleased. He knows I’m still emotional about the breakup. I’m losing ground.