Pesky butterflies.
“You know it isn’t.” He sits across from me, folding his arms behind his head, causing his crisp white button-down to stretch over his broad chest, his legs sent out as far as they can go crossed at the ankles, making it abundantly clear he isn’t about to move.
“So talk.” I throw my pen down and lean back, threading my fingers in my lap.
“Were you aware your boss knew about our past?” Andy’s studying me closely. “You seemed genuinely surprised to see me, but you were always a good actress, so...”
“Seriously?” I hiss out, forcing myself to keep my calm though I can’t stop from leaning forward and placing both hands against my desk. “Not ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘I made a mistake’ or any of the other millions of things you should be saying? You have the audacity to walk in here and accuse me of being in on some twisted ruse to play you? You’ve been gone for five years, Andy, five years!”
I drop back down to my chair when I realize I’m standing and screaming, taking a brief moment to compose myself before going on.
“So, to answer your question—no, I had no idea they knew about our past when they offered me the case, and I never saw your name on any of the documents they gave me.”
“Then why are you not handing in your resignation as we speak?” He glowers at me as if everything I just said went right over his head. “Why would you want to work in a place that uses and manipulates you like that? It isn’t like you.”
“You don’t have the right to judge me for anything,” I seethe at him. “And you don’t know anything about me, not anymore.”
“The Phoebe I knew would never have tolerated being used as a pawn,” Andy calmly observes, causing my stomach to knot in anger.
“Are we done here?” The tears are threatening to burst out, and I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. Andy just shakes his head with that same judgmental expression, letting out a heavy sigh.
“Guess I’ll be seeing you in court, Miss Jenkins.” He nods my way and stands to leave, stopping with his hand on the doorknob. A few heartbeats pass before he speaks with his back to me, his harsh tone replaced by the voice of a man torn apart by life. “I’m sorry, Phoebe. I made a mistake, and not a day goes by that I don’t regret it.”
The door closes behind him before I manage to collect my thoughts and answer, so I wait, allowing enough time to pass that I’m sure he’s no longer in the vicinity of the building before packing my bag and reporting that I’m not feeling well, fleeing home as fast as I can.
“Please answer,” I plead at my phone screen, waiting to receive a reply to my emergency text. It’s noon on a Friday, which means Zoe is having her usual cuddle time with her husband, and Trista’s probably asleep, considering it’s 1 AM in China.
It takes a few minutes, but eventually, an incoming message flashes on my screen, and I run to my laptop, logging onto the video chat.
“What’s going on?” Trista whispers, seeming entirely awake despite the ungodly hour, the lump on the bed behind her snoring softly, the soft light from a reading lamp making her honey-blonde hair and vibrant blue eyes a bit ghost-like.
“Are you home?” Zoe drops into her office chair dressed in a robe as she attempts to smooth her disheveled purple-streaked brown hair.
“Andy’s back.” The tears I’ve been holding in all morning spring to my eyes, and my sight goes blurry. “He was at the office. Apparently, the partners know who he is—was, to me, and they’re playing some angle.”
“That’s terrible,” Zoe gasps and leans back in her chair, exchanging glances with Trista before directing worry-filled hazelnut eyes at me.
“He’s been out for almost a year!” I can’t stop the sob that escapes my lungs. “I always thought he’d come find me when he got out. I threw myself at him today like an idiot, thinking he’d tracked me down. I wasn’t even mad at him, I was just so happy that he was finally back.”
“Phoebe…” Trista trails off. I guess she knows there really isn’t anything to say that will make me feel better, and it’s what breaks me, that even my best friends are at a loss of comforting words. I bury my face in my hands as the tears stream down my face.
“Do you need us to come back?” a deep voice cuts through my crying, and I shake my head.
“No, finish your trip, B, I’ll be fine.” I look up at my brother and almost choke on my own saliva. “Holy shit, Brian. When did you get that tattoo?”
A Chinese dragon with startling bright blue eyes is coiled around his torso, a claw holding the tribal tattoo he’s had since grad-school as if it were a crystal ball. Brian stares at me, blankly for a few seconds.
“Don’t tell Mom,” he finally says. It makes me laugh through the tears, and Brian gives me a half-smile.
Mac pops on screen at the same moment he announces, “I got tickets; we’ll be on a plane to New York in three hours. Holy shit, B, is that a new tattoo?”
That sends us all into a fit of laughter, and I shake my head.
“I wish I could fix my own love life as easily as I fixed yours.” I sigh, and Trista snorts.
“This was easy?” She waggles a finger between herself and my brother.
“Easier than getting Zoe to show up at Mac’s in lingerie, yes.” I grin at them, and Mac chuckles.
“Once again, I wholeheartedly thank you for that.” Mac flashes one of his signature grins, and Zoe thwacks his chest with an amused smile.
“I threw up, and you thought I was pregnant!” Trista objects while waving her arms around as if the gesture makes her somehow right.
“Wait, what?” Brian turns to her. “You never told me that part.”
“Okay, we’re derailing.” Zoe claps her hands. “B, awesome tat! Phoebs, we’ll see you in a few, babe.”
“Love you, Phoebs.” Brian waves, and Trista blows me a kiss.
I sit back with a sigh, grabbing a tissue to blow my nose.
“Fuck it.” I get up and pull a bottle of white wine from the fridge, then upon further consideration, put it back and pull a bottle of bourbon and a lowball from the cupboard. After pouring a double, I open the hidden folder on my computer that I haven’t had the heart to erase until today.
“Goodbye, Surfer Boy.” I hesitate for a couple of minutes longer before steeling my resolve and pressing delete.
He’s not the same Andy, and I’m not the same Phoebe. It’s time to say goodbye to the fantasies we could afford as kids and leave the past where it belongs.
Chapter Three
Andy
“Gabe,” I bark into the phone the second I step out to the street. “What the fuck is wrong with you lawyers?”
“We’ll die of old age if I start listing all of the things wrong with us, so try to be more specific.” Gabe sounds amused at my tirade, but all I can see is Phoebe’s quivering jaw and the pain in her eyes.
“Phoebe is the junior associate assigned to the case,” I seethe, and Gabe falls silent.
“Phoebe?” he repeats dryly, but his tone is the last thing I can be bothered about right now. “Your Phoebe?”