When I get home, I check my phone and find a text waiting for me.
Trouble
I’m sorry.
I stare at the words for a long time. I type out three or four versions of a reply, none of which feels sufficient for the situation. Each one is either too cold or sounds like I’m trying to make him feel better. Eventually, I put the phone face down and try to forget it, but the words burn through the wood of my nightstand, echoing in my chest.
I pick the phone back up.
You don’t owe me an apology.
My phone buzzes almost immediately.
Trouble
I do. I’m not sorry for being upset, but I shouldn’t have said that to you.
For a little while I lie in bed, Salem heavy on my shins, not quite asleep but not awake either. I want to reply to Nash. I want to text back that I deserve every word, that I’m the villain in this, but something stops me.
Instead, I let the silence build, let it breathe. I put the phone back on the nightstand and hope that sleep will have mercy on me.
Chapter 29
The silence at work worsens day by day.
For weeks, I don’t see Nash anywhere but in the periphery. When our eyes do meet, it’s brief. Just an exchanging of glances that neither of us are willing to hold for too long. All communication from him comes in the form of emails, which feels all too formal considering the way things used to be between us.
James, meanwhile, is a negative space I note in every meeting. He’s never unkind, never anything less than perfectly polite.
I work. I pile up hours, churn out briefs, review discovery until my eyes bleed. I reread the same pages of my notes, not because I’ve missed something, but because the monotony is its own kind of anesthesia.
I catch other people watching us, but no one says anything. The partners. Teresa. Even Vanessa, who never met a rumor she didn’t want to spritz with gasoline, has gone unusually quiet on the subject. I wonder if James’s father said something, or if theentire firm has just agreed to quarantine our mess for fear of contagion.
The weeks blur into one another, case after case, motion after motion. There’s a comfort in the repetition, in the way the work demands more than I have to give and leaves nothing behind for after-hours regret. Just nights filled with mindless TV shows I have no interest in.
Twice, Nash’s number shows up on my phone in the evening, but I can’t bring myself to answer. The last time he left a voicemail, but I deleted it before listening.
James is even more absent. I see his car in the lot, his watchful silhouette in meetings. But at five, he vanishes. The brief flickers of attention he used to give me are gone.
Nash and James stop appearing in my dreams, and for a while, I think that’s progress. I try to gaslight myself into believing I don’t care, but the reality is a quiet, persistent ache, like I can still feel the pain long after the bruise is gone.
It’s September before I realize I haven’t had a real conversation with anyone in weeks. Mina sends me funny videos, but I barely reply, and when she finally calls, I let it go to voicemail once before picking up.
She asks if I’m dead. I assure her I’m not, just buried beneath a million discovery requests. She doesn’t buy it, but lets me get away with the lie anyway.
On Wednesday, Mina sends me a text.
Mina
Celebrating your birthday = not optional. We’re doing something reckless. Free after work?
Ugh, fine. Yes.
She replies with a selfie, her middle finger in focus, eyes covered by oversized shades.
Mina
You’re not flaking on me, Ave. I know where you live.
