His tongue prods his cheek and his nostrils flare. He’s still my boss and this is his case. Of course he wants to be there.
But—astonishingly—he puts his phone away. “Okay,” he says. “We’ll celebrate when you get back.”
“I don’t even know if I’m going to get anything from her.”
He laughs. “Of course, you’re going to get something from her. You’re Gemma Charles. You always figure it out.”
I smile. He didn’t even remind me I haven’t made partner.
Later that evening a notification pops up on his phone while he’s in the bathroom. He’s made a reservation this coming Saturday at Ardor, an insanely expensive Michelin-starred restaurant. Romance Package for Two.
It’s too much. Too serious, too romantic, and the idea of eating dinner at a table strewn with rose petals while everyone stares at us makes me wince. Yet a little thing in me just…relents. He believes in me in a way no one else ever has. He supports me, and he has waited. If he still wants to go to HR, to sign the form and have the whole goddamned office gossiping about us, then so be it. I’m ready.
37
On Friday, I wake before he does to catch my flight to Seattle. In the shower, I plan out what I will wear to Ardor—maybe the dress I wore to the retreat, with the Louboutins he bought me for Christmas. Perhaps, for once, the night will end at his place rather than mine. And when it does, I’ll tell him we can go to HR. He’ll be pleased by that—I suspect he wants it more than he lets on.
I perch on the side of the bed when it’s time for me to head to the airport. “I left a key on the counter so you can lock up,” I tell him. I guess that’s a step, too, giving him a key. Doing it this way makes it feel like less of a big deal. “I’m not sure when I’m getting back, so maybe I’ll just plan to see you tomorrow? Hopefully there will be something to celebrate.”
“Oh.” He blinks up at me, still half asleep. “Let’s do it Sunday. I’ve got a family thing tomorrow night.”
I freeze. “You’re seeing your family Saturday night?”
“Yeah.” He isn’t quite meeting my eye. “The pains of being a local.”
Is he lying to me?
How could he not be? That reservation at Ardor was not for us, and the romance package for two sure as hell isn’t a family thing. The brunches he didn’t invite me to, the friends I didn’t meet, the house he never wanted me to see…were those lies too?
How could I have been so stupid? How could I have been so stupid again?
I rise, holding myself stiffly, as if my bones will crack with any sudden movement.
“Okay,” I tell him. I can’t help the iciness in my voice, and why the fuck should I help the iciness in my voice? “Don’t forget to lock up.”
He nods. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
“We’ll see,” I reply. Which is easier than telling him this is done, but it definitely is.
It hurts in ways I never expected it to.
I’m tempted to storm dramatically into Ardor tomorrow night, but what could I even complain about? We aren’t official, at my insistence.
I barely notice the ride to the airport. Keeley calls while I’m waiting for my flight. “Convince me a five-thousand-dollar purse is a good investment,” she says.
“Well, Birkin bags hold their value,” I reply listlessly.
It’s the best I can do. Keeley wastes too much money on garbage. She’s never going to be able to retire with the way she spends.
“Your heart really is not into helping me blow five grand on stupid shit the way it normally is.”
“My heart is never into that, Keels,” I say quietly, resting my face in my free hand. “I worry about you.”
“What’s wrong with you today?”
I hold a hand to my throat. It’s hard to get the words out. “That reservation I told you about?” I whisper. “It wasn’t for me. He told me he has a family thing tomorrow night.”
“For two? That fucking asshole,” she hisses.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to cry, because it isn’t what I’d hoped she’d say.
I wanted her to tell me things might be different than they appear. I wanted her to craft an entirely plausible explanation for that reservation, for the lie.
I’m as bad as my clients, the ones who believed their cheating husbands’ ridiculous excuses for not coming home, who rationalized a sudden desire to get in shape and the way he started walking outside to make phone calls.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I thought he was different.”
Yeah. I did too.
I arrive in Seattle and take the ferry out to Bainbridge Island where Lauren now lives. She has a pretty sweet gig, working from home for a tech firm. The sun comes out as we approach the harbor and I picture moving here too. Putting LA behind me, giving up on everything. I doubt working with Ben will even be possible after this—it’s gone too far for me to detach as if it never happened.
Except if I’m going to give up on everything, I should probably just work for my dad. I’m not going to be happy either way, but at least my mom would come out ahead.
I meet Lauren at a café in town, and we manage to get a table outside in the winter sun. She’s small and blond like Keeley but orders herself a green juice and a vegan quiche, which Keeley could not be paid to eat.
“I can’t believe you flew all the way up here,” she says. “No offense, but you look like you need some sleep.”
I try to force a smile and find, to my horror, that I’m on the cusp of tears. “Oh, God,” I whisper. “Sorry.”
I reach for the napkin that came with my lunch and press it to my eyes. I’ve never once, in my entire life, cried in front of a client or a potential witness.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, blinking in surprise. “You’re gorgeous, obviously. I just meant you look tired.”
I give a small, strangled laugh, which sounds like a sob too. As if I’d cry because someone said I look tired—I’ve probably looked tired for the past fifteen years straight. “It’s not that. My boyfriend is seeing someone else.”
I have no idea why I’ve told her this, or why I’m suddenly calling him my boyfriend. It’s the most unprofessional moment of my life.
She leans forward. There’s nothing like a cheating story to make women unite. “Fucking men,” she groans. “They’re all the same. I dated a guy who claimed he was picking up overtime because he was saving money for a house, and then I ran into him at a restaurant with his wife and kids.”
I sigh. “I guess it could have been worse then. Here, let me get out my notes so you can get back to your daughter.”
“Take your time,” she says. “I never get to eat lunch out anymore.”
I pull myself together enough to ask her the questions on my list. She tells me the same story Leona did about the strip clubs and names a slew of men who went to them, at least one of whom was a vice president at the time. I’d hoped I could push her into testifying, but I don’t have it in me today. When the meal concludes, I simply hand the waitress my credit card and thank Lauren for her time. Maybe it’s for the best the reservation at Ardor wasn’t for me, since there won’t be much to celebrate.