In the kitchen, I fill a glass with water and then set it down, untouched.
The trial replays in my head. The objections I might have missed. The witness I could and probably should have pressed harder. The verdict.
A wave of nausea rides up my throat. I grip the edge of the counter and count backward from ten. It doesn’t work.
I check my phone and see a message from Nash.
Trouble
You did well.
It’s time-stamped forty minutes ago. I should text him back.
Instead, I put the phone back on the counter, face down.
There’s an ache in my legs, my lower back, my shoulders. My feet throb in the heels I’ve worn all week.
But nothing hurts worse than this relentless feeling like I’ve let everyone down.
I slide to the kitchen floor, knees pressed to my chest, and let the guilt wash over me. I see the faces of my clients, the teenage son’s sad eyes, the solemn look on Mrs. Wilkinson’s face.
I didn’t just fail my clients. I failed James, too. He gave me this case, trusted me with it, spent hours helping me prepare for it. He believed in me in ways I never managed to believe in myself.
And I failed him.
I failed Nash, and I’d venture to say I even failed Vanessa, no matter how little she contributed to this case. I failed everyone.
And for what? For all the hours I spent tangled up in Nash or dissecting every look James ever shot me across a glass wall? For all the nights I went to bed thinking about these two men instead of actually sleeping?
Was it worth it? Was any of it worth this sick, gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach?
I press my forehead to my knees, squeeze my eyes shut.
This is too fucking much.
I’m already dreading work on Monday.
I can’t face the tight, sympathetic smiles from the rest of the office, or the disappointment from James, or the inevitable round of commiserating from Nash, who will mean well but only make it worse.
I need a week where no one is allowed to look at me. I need a week where I am not a walking disappointment.
It takes me twenty minutes to build the courage to send the text. I type and retype it, fingers trembling with every draft. In the end, I go with the simplest possible version.
I need some time to regroup. I’d like to take next week off.
I hit send, then turn the phone face down again.
I peel off my suit, leaving a trail of clothing from the kitchen to the bedroom, shedding it like a skin.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror: hair unraveling, mascara running, eyes red-rimmed. For a second, I don’t even recognize myself.
I didn’t even look this disheveled when Pierce dumped me.
I slip under the covers without brushing my teeth, without washing my face. Salem jumps up, kneading the comforter and then curling against my ribs. I close my eyes and let the exhaustion drag me down, hoping that tomorrow it will hurt a little bit less.
***
It doesn’t.
