Time Served Page 31

  “You’re right,” I say, lips curving in an unconvincing facsimile of a smile. “I should be happy.” I let go of his hand and curl my fingers over the back of the chair. Sterling’s astute enough that he knows what I’m going to say even before I utter the words, but I do it anyway, if only because I have to. “I’m sorry, sir,” I hear myself say. “I quit.”

  * * *

  I’m home by nine. No drama, no tears, no blaze of glory. Just trembling fingers as I gathered my surprisingly meager collection of personal items in a box Sterling himself provided, walked to the elevator and proceeded down to ground level.

  I’m sitting on the Italian leather sofa the interior designer picked out, staring at the art on the walls she also selected, declaring it my taste. Sure, I had agreed. I love it. And it’s...nice. I suppose we’d have to call it abstract, just a bunch of colorful swirls on a series of large canvasses. It brightens up the room. Distracts from the fact that there are no pictures on the side tables, no books, no coffee cups. Nothing to suggest that anyone lives here, or that that person has any likes or interests outside of work. And herself.

  I take off my suit jacket, my pants, my stockings, my earrings, my necklace and unpin my hair. I’m not so far gone as to drop any of this stuff on the floor, instead putting it away in my closet and jewelry box before turning on the air-conditioning as high as it will go, digging out a pair of threadbare sweatpants and pulling them on, along with an old T-shirt I’d saved from my first year of college.

  I tell myself I’m going to do something productive or interesting, but I don’t stand a chance. I crawl into bed, sobbing before my head hits the pillow, hot, fat tears that pool in my ears and make my nose run and soak the sheets. I cry like I refused to allow myself to cry yesterday, and the day before, and most of the days before that.

  * * *

  The pounding wakes me up. At first I think it’s in my head, then maybe a neighbor playing music too loudly, and then I realize it’s the door. Someone’s pounding on my door at...twelve-oh-three. In the afternoon. On a Saturday.

  I sit up, eyes bleary, and try to figure out where I am and why I’m here. And then it all comes back to me. I flop back onto the pillows only to spring right back up when the pounding resumes. It’s an erratic, determined sound, like an angry child. Except when I finally trudge down the hall and peek through the peephole, it’s Parker standing on the other side, wringing out his sore hand.

  “Parker?” I mumble stupidly, pulling open the door and gaping at him. In the four years we’ve known each other, I don’t think I’ve ever invited him to my apartment. I wasn’t even sure he knew where I lived.

  His eyebrows rise as he looks me up and down, dumbfounded. Parker’s interest in fashion shows in every one of his outfits, and today’s fitted suit and turquoise tie highlight the fact that I’m wearing sweats instead of Stella McCartney. And that my hair is a tangled mess. And half my makeup is on my pillowcase.

  “Can I come in?” he asks pointedly.

  “Of course.” I step back and gesture him in.

  “So this is it.” He looks around the bright space, taking in the gleaming kitchen countertops, the stylish living room, that wonderful view. “It’s nice.”

  “Thanks.”

  He kicks off his shoes and ambles around, stopping next to my box of personal effects. “You really did it.” It’s both a statement and a question. I figured he already knew—I imagine the whole world knows—but the proof of my departure from Sterling, Morgan & Haines is now at his feet.

  “Don’t remind me.”

  He sits on the chaise lounge, and I sit beside him. It’s a while before either of us speaks.

  “It’s freezing in here,” he says.

  “I turned up the air-conditioning so I could wear my sweatpants.”

  “Ah.” When I make no move to confess further, he prods me. “So...tell me about it.”

  I glance at him out the corner of my eye. “What’d you hear?”

  “That Rachel Moser is no longer employed with the fine firm of Sterling, Morgan & Haines.”

  “All true.”

  “Everyone is really disappointed. All those glass walls, and not a crack in any of them. Did I teach you nothing?”

  My smile is fleeting. “It wasn’t dramatic. All morning and all last night I’d been dreading today, expecting to get fired. And then when Sterling didn’t fire me, I just felt...sad. Like he hadn’t pulled the trigger, and I really wanted him to. I just wanted him to put me out of my misery, not prolong it.”

  “That’s incredibly morbid.”

  “So I quit.”

  Parker lets out his breath. “Wow. And now you’re...?” He gestures to my disheveled state.

  “That’s not the worst part.”

  His brow cocks. “Then what is?”

  My face crumples and I inhale sharply, barely managing to hold in the sob that desperately wants to escape. “Dean,” I mumble, voice cracking.

  “What about him?”

  I shoot him a tearful, guilty glance, unable to keep the words in any longer. “We broke up.”

  “Because of the...champagne?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And telling Caitlin everyone knew she’d slept her way to the top?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I didn’t realize you two were so serious.”

  “We weren’t—”

  “Or maybe I did,” he continues blithely. “I mean, I’ve known you for four years, and I think it’s the first time I’ve ever seen you happy.”

  “I’m happy!”

  “Happy for reasons that didn’t have to do with work. Happy that lit you up from the inside.”

  “You’re being corny.”

  “So what happened?”

  I swipe a hand across my eyes. “He defended me, when no one else would.” The words are nearly impossible to understand, coming out as they are through a mouthful of sobs and lost breath. “And I was so embarrassed. By him. And he knew it. And he told me my whole life was a sham and I told him we were over and he left. Because he knew I didn’t know how to appreciate him because I never did.”

  “Why would he think that? You brought him to the party. Everyone told me how happy you two looked together. That he couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

  “I danced with Todd,” I confess. I’m a sloppy mess. Broken-down and regretful.

  “I thought he had a thing for Jackson’s secretary. What’s her name?”

  “I can’t even remember!” I moan. “Why are you here, Parker? I’m a terrible person. I left everyone who loved me and never looked back. I wanted a good life and I thought I had it, but I didn’t. I’m awful.”

  “Well...”

  It’s almost impossible to draw a full breath. I feel like I did when I was nine years old and woke up after a nightmare to find myself alone in the trailer. I’d cried so hard I’d passed out. The only difference is that there was no one there to comfort me then, and now Parker removes his suit jacket and puts an arm around my shoulder, pulling me close. He’s my best friend in the world, and this is the most we have ever touched.

  “You’re not awful, Rach,” he whispers. “You’re a good lawyer, with a good heart. You care more than anyone I know.”

  “I only care about myself.”

  “That’s not true. You buy almonds from that kid who ignores our No Soliciting sign and comes by every couple of months.”

  I laugh painfully.

  “And you treated those Fowler interviews like they were real people. You think I let you take the lead on those because I’m lazy? Because I thought they’d respond better to a woman? They responded to you.”

  I wipe my nose with the hem of my T-shirt. “I hurt Dean’s feelings. Over and over again.”

  “So apologize.”

  “I’ve apologized a million times. It’s not ever going to be enough.”

  “I wish I’d met him,” Parker says, pulling his fingers through my snarled hair. “I could have told him to
overlook all your awfulness to see the good things.”

  “He just wanted to fuck me out of his head.”

  A pause. “He said that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And did he?”

  I think about last night. How it was anything but fucking. How gentle he’d been, how careful. Like putting the final pieces in a fragile puzzle, knowing that if he did it wrong, he’d have to start all over again. And he didn’t want to start again. He wanted to be done. And he was. And I wasn’t. I still wanted him. We’d been out of love longer than we’d ever been in it, and to my horror I’m realizing that even though I didn’t still love the boy he’d been, I was starting to love the man he’d become. The man who hated everything I’d become.

  “Yes,” I whisper finally.

  “Then he’s an idiot.”

  “I need a minute,” I mumble, pulling away and standing. Parker lets me go, and I head down the hall to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my splotchy face, blowing my nose and running a comb through my hair. I’m a mess and it’ll take a lot more than this to put me back together, but it’s a start.

  I’m relatively composed when I return to the living room to find Parker still on the chaise lounge.

  “You okay?”

  I nod and take a seat next to him. “Thanks for listening.”

  “Anytime.”

  I nudge him with my foot. “That’s enough about me. What brings you here in the middle of the day? I thought you had a meeting.”

  “Wrapped up early. Adrian met me at the elevator and told me the news. Then I just went back to my desk and...couldn’t.”

  “Couldn’t?”

  “Couldn’t think. Couldn’t work. I just stared out the window and tried to imagine working without you, and I couldn’t.”

  I’m surprised I have any tears left, and blink back the ones that spring up at the painfully kind confession. “That’s nice of you to say.”

  “So I quit.”

  My mouth falls open and my eyes bulge out of my head. I’m sure I look hideously unattractive, but I can’t control myself.

  “I had to gather my belongings and leave the premises,” he adds as an afterthought.

  “Did you break anything?”

  He laughs sheepishly. “No.”

  “Parker. Oh my God.”

  He looks at me and we both snort with laughter. “So here we are,” he says. “Do you have any alcohol?”

  We head into the kitchen and I pour us both a glass of white wine, clinking our cups together over the counter. “To unemployment,” I say.

  We drink in silence, and when the glasses are empty I fill them again. “Do you really think there’s a law firm in town that will hire us both?”

  “Oh, definitely not.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I think we should go into business for ourselves,” he says seriously. “Open our own practice and choose our own cases and not work on weekends.”

  “We don’t know the first thing about starting a business!”

  Parker mulls this over. “Maybe Moira knows. She’s smart.”

  “What does she think about all this?”

  He avoids my eyes. “Ah...”

  I slap the countertop. “You didn’t tell her?”

  “It’s not like I planned this! It was spontaneous.”

  “She’ll kill you.”

  “Nah. She loves me.”

  “I don’t see it, if we’re being honest. The two of you. You’re as mismatched as Dean and I. Were.”

  Parker twists his wedding ring on his finger. “She just couldn’t help herself,” he tells me. “No one else could understand why that woman would want me, but she did. And she didn’t care what they said.”

  “What did they say?”

  “You’re not going to believe this, Rachel, but some people said they thought I was—quote—super gay.”

  I try my very best to look aghast. “No.”

  “But Moira just said, ‘Parker, it doesn’t make any sense whatsoever, but I love you, and if you love me, let’s just do this thing.’ And here we are, fifteen years later. She’s a successful surgeon, and I’m jobless. Things just have a way of working out.”

  “You can move in with me if she evicts you.”

  “Thanks. My point is, this—” He gestures between us with his glass, wine sloshing over the edge. “This may not make sense, but let’s do it. Let’s be partners.”

  “You and me. Partners.”

  “I’ve got some loyal clients, and you’ve got...a great smile.”

  “That’s very kind.”

  “What do you say?”

  * * *

  We agree to take the rest of the week to think things through. I have my doubts. My dream has always been to work for a big, high-powered firm. The prospect of working for myself, opening a small office that could fail completely and utterly, is terrifying. I’ve spent the better part of each day vacillating between a confident “can do” attitude and meek thoughts of “Maybe if I apologize, they’ll take me back.”

  I’ve been so self-absorbed that I’ve completely forgotten about Ruthie Block and Reginald when he calls on Friday morning.

  “So,” is his greeting when I answer.

  “Hi, Reginald.”

  “You’re not a lawyer anymore. I called your office. They said you were no longer with them. I thought that meant you’d died.”

  “I’m not that lucky.”

  “So where are you working?”

  I wince. “Um...”

  “You need a job? I could use a ring girl.”

  “Let me polish up my resume.”

  “Well, at least your sense of humor is still intact.”

  “I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch,” I say, meaning it. “I’ve been preoccupied, and your case completely slipped my mind.”

  “What are you talking about? I’ve got the paperwork right here. A giant stack of it. That’s why I’m calling. I need you to come down and tell me where to sign.”

  I close my eyes and smile faintly. Adrian must have done it. “There should be red stickers marking the pages you need to sign. It’s very straightforward.”

  “You have to come here and help me.”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry, Rachel, are you busy with a job I don’t know about?”

  I shake my head stubbornly, even though he can’t see me. “No,” I say again, meaning it. “No. Don’t do this.”

  “Don’t do what?”

  “You’re meddling, Reginald.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re trying to get me to come to the gym so I’ll bump into Dean. Well, I’m not doing it. We’re done, and you can sign paperwork without my assistance.”

  “But I need to pay you.”

  “Consider it a gift.”

  There’s a long pause. “Dean’s not coming in anymore.”

  Despite my better judgment, I ask, “What? Why?”

  Reginald sighs. “I don’t know. No, that’s not true. I do know. He came in late last Saturday—” After our fight, of course. “And wanted to get in the ring. I told him no, work out his issues with you once and for all and stop taking it out on Oscar Hall. More like letting Oscar kick his ass. Anyway, we argued and he left. Hasn’t been back since.”

  “It’s good you didn’t let him fight.”

  “I care about that kid,” he says. The words ring true. “It’s stupid, and I should know better, but I do. So maybe I am a ‘meddler,’ but my intentions are pure.”

  “You had me until ‘pure.’”

  “I shoulda quit while I was ahead.”

  I blow out a huff of air. I feel guilty for forgetting about Reginald and then accusing him of meddling when I know his intentions regarding Dean are far less selfish than mine have ever been.

  “You going to come down?” he asks eventually.

  “Yeah,” I reply. “I’ll be there.”

  “Thanks, R
achel.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” I warn him. “If this is some kind of trick, you’ll be sorry.”

  “It’s not. I promise.”

  “All right. I’ll see you later today.”

  We hang up and I realize my heart is racing. A wise combination of fear and adrenaline course through my veins, jarring me out of the funk I’ve been in all week. For the first time in seven days I have a goal, even if it is as simple as pointing out the already-marked places for Reginald to sign his divorce papers. It’s a nice feeling. I climb into the shower to try to tame my hair, then leave it to air-dry in loose curls.

  I may no longer be employed, but because I’m going to Camden for work I cover my white tank top with a light gray blazer, and finish the look with dark wash jeans and heels. Casual but professional, and still completely inappropriate for a boxing gym in the middle of a Friday afternoon.

  The ten seconds after stepping inside the dark, smelly gym are nerve-racking. I blink frantically, willing my eyes to adjust faster, fearing that Dean will be there, waiting to continue our fight now that we’re on his turf. But when my vision sharpens and I look around, all I see are strangers, and all I feel is a sharp pang of regret and loss. The same one I’ve felt a million times this week, each time I remembered that Dean and I are done. That I ended it. That he’d walked out on me and finally gotten the closure he’d needed, leaving all my doors and windows blown off the hinges in his wake.

  I ignore the curious stares and weave my way over to Reginald’s tiny office, rapping on the slightly ajar door and pushing it open when he calls out for me to enter. “‘Bout time,” he says, standing up from his spot behind the desk.

  “Good to see you too,” I say. “Have a seat.”

  “You in a rush?”

  “Yes.”

  “Liar.”

  “You’re one to talk.”

  “I missed you,” Reginald says, sitting back down.

  “I’ll bet. Where’s the paperwork?”

  He shoves across a manila envelope containing a large sheaf of papers, a dozen of which are clearly marked with red stickers.

  “Do you have questions about any of this?” I ask, glancing around the desk for a pen so he can start signing.