“Let’s get started. First: the regional litigation conference in Nashville. Attendance is mandatory for all attorneys.”
There’s a murmur up and down the table, some amused, some exasperated.
James’s gaze pins me for a fraction longer than it should before he continues.
“This is an opportunity to sharpen skills, network, and make our firm look good in the eyes of our competitors. The conference starts a week from next Monday. Flights are already booked.”
“Dress code?” asks a junior associate, voice thin with hope.
“Business casual,” James says, without missing a beat. “For all sessions and events. I know these things are usually an excuse for attorneys to get drunk together, but this isn’t spring break.”
There’s a deflated noise from somewhere near the middle of the table.
I twist the coffee cup, watching the swirl of cinnamon.
The week in Nashville is nonnegotiable, and I’m already mapping out my own logistics: the suitcase, the shoes, the parade of neutral blouses, how much dry shampoo is legal to carry on a plane.
James is wrapping up, unveiling the new digital case management system, when his phone buzzes on the table. He glances at the screen, then slides it facedown, a tiny muscle twitching in his jaw.
“If there are no other questions, you’re all dismissed.”
I file out with the rest of the herd.
Back at my desk, I watch as the office climate returns to its baseline: the hum of printers, the muffled thud of file drawers, Vanessa’s voice drifting through the open door as she berates a court clerk.
At lunch, I eat at my desk, half a sandwich and a bag of chips that taste like nothing at all. I’m scrolling through Westlaw, searching for case law that refuses to exist in the real world, when a shadow falls across my keyboard.
James stands in my doorway. “A word?”
I stand, heart thudding. “Sure.”
He leads me across to his office, closing the door behind us with a soft click. I perch on the edge of a leather chair, folding my hands in my lap the way my mother taught me years ago. James doesn’t sit. He circles behind his desk, eyes on the window.
He waits until I exhale, then says, “You okay? Missed you in the office last week.”
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
A flicker of smile, then it’s gone.
“I’ll be presenting at the conference. ‘Emerging Litigators: Trends and Tactics.’ I want your help in preparing my presentation. You’ll know better than I do what the younger attorneys want to learn.”
The faintest sense of reward hums in my chest.
“Happy to help,” I say, voice even. “Just let me know what you need.”
“I’ll send you the outline,” James says, drumming his knuckles once on the desk. “We can meet later this week to go over it.”
I stand, smoothing my skirt, and reach for the door.
Before I open it, James says, “Avery, no matter what you’re thinking, you did well in that trial. I mean it.”
I don’t know what to do with the compliment, so I nod and make my exit, closing the door softly behind me.
For the next three days, I keep my head down. I prep for the conference, churn through my caseload, and try not to think about the Nashville trip except in the most professional terms and definitely not how much time I’ll be spending with James,which is hard to do since we’re meeting to go over some ideas for the presentation.
We meet in his office in the late afternoon. James sits behind his desk. He’s got a yellow legal pad out, covered in his chicken scratch handwriting. He gestures for me to sit in a chair across from him.
I settle in, smoothing my skirt, which is too tight to sit in comfortably but makes my legs look good.
