The last message is from Nash.
Trouble
Happy Birthday. I miss you.
It sits there, radiating pain and longing in equal measure.
I miss him, too. But I won’t say that.
Instead, I turn off the phone and stare at the ceiling, tracing the line between shadow and wall.
Sleep doesn’t come, but eventually the room gets softer, the city outside falling away until it’s just me, and the quiet, and the memory of what I once had.
In the morning, the first thing I do is check for new messages. There’s nothing. Not from James, or Nash, or anyone else.
I make coffee, try to ignore the leftover cake in the fridge, and watch the sun crawl across the floor.
Salem curls up in my lap, purring against my legs. I scratch behind his ears and try to remember how to feel good again.
I stare out the window, wondering what comes next, and wait for the day to begin.
Chapter 31
By Thanksgiving week, my new tattoo has healed. I catch myself tracing it with my thumb whenever I’m lost in thoughts of court filings, traffic, or the drag of Monday morning meetings.
The weeks since my birthday bleed together, just one workday into the next. I spend my days buried in research and document drafting, and my nights watching reruns. I haven’t seen Nash outside of work, and even there, we’ve still been keeping our distance like either one of us could detonate if we get too close.
James is even more of a ghost. Some days, I wonder if I imagined the whole thing with both of them.
But this week, we are all back in each other’s orbit. At least briefly.
The annual Thanksgiving potluck at Bishop, Hollis, & Sterling is a mandatory show of “firm culture” with a spread that would put most wedding caterers to shame. The fifteenth floorconference room hosts a combination of smells, some savory and some sweet.
Teresa oversees the place settings. The partners at the head, then the senior associates, then the rest of us, down to the interns. Nash and I are on opposite sides of the table, two names apart, and I’m grateful for the buffer.
He’s wearing a plaid button-down, open at the throat. His hair is longer, curls falling into his eyes as he forks stuffing onto his plate. I watch him for a while, pretending to listen to the conversation on my left, and he doesn’t look up. Not once.
James is even further, at the far end of the table, next to his father. Both men in nearly identical suits.
He looks flawless, and I hate him for it.
I try to lose myself in small talk: Teresa’s kids, the merits of canned cranberry versus fresh, whether anyone’s flying out for the holiday. Kevin shows me pictures of his kids in matching turkey hats, and I laugh, though it feels forced.
I am exactly where I wanted to be this time last year, but the feeling is not what I expected. Instead of pride, all I feel is isolation.
Halfway through the meal, Nash excuses himself and disappears toward the back hallway. I don’t follow, but when I stand to refill my water, I find him at the end of the hall, leaning against the window. His arms are crossed, head bowed.
He doesn’t look up until I’m almost beside him. The sunlight paints his face in a hard, angled line, and I realize how much I miss his smile.
“Hey,” I say so quietly I almost doubt I said it.
He glances over, mouth quirking. “Hey, doll.”
My breath hitches at the use of the nickname he gave me. We stand there for a moment, the air too thin to breathe.
“Potluck’s a real party, huh?” I manage, hating myself for not being able to come up with anything better to talk about.
Nash snorts. “Always is.”
