She blinked up at me, swallowing a sob.
“I didn’t think I could do it.”
I smiled. Not the pretty, polite kind I saved for courtrooms. The real kind. The one that said, ‘I see you, and you’re not alone’.
“You did it anyway,” I told her. “That’s what counts.”
Melissa threw her arms around me without warning, and I hugged her back, careful not to wince as her oversized purse jabbed into my ribs. She pulled away quickly, embarrassed, but her expression was lighter than it had been in weeks.
“Thank you, Ms. Jones. I mean it. I hope you have a wonderful holiday.”
“You too,” I said, even though the thought of going to my parents’ house for Christmas made my stomach clench. “You’ve earned a peaceful one.”
She walked off down the corridor, heels clicking with a new kind of strength. I waited until she disappeared around the corner before exhaling and reaching for the wall to steady myself. My head hurt, my spine ached, and my cheeks still held the tension of keeping calm while her ex-husband spat venom across the table at us both.
I wasn’t going home. Not yet.
First, I needed to see the only person in my life who didn’t make me feel like I was never enough: Granny Irene.
The second I said her name in my head, I felt the sting of tears behind my eyes, but I blinked it back. I didn’t have time for tears. Not when I still had three more hearings to deal with tomorrow and a mound of paperwork waiting on my desk. Not when I had to make sure that the nursing home didn’t think I was falling behind… again. Not when I was wearing heels and a blazer and the kind of face that told people I had it together.
I smoothed my hair, fixed my posture, and set off down the hallway like nothing was wrong, like I wasn’t unraveling beneath the weight of everything I carried.
The Baldwin County courthouse was its usual late-December mess: overheated, overcrowded, and strung with sad garlands that didn’t fool anybody. Someone in Records had put a plastic Santa on their desk, but the poor little guy was already buried up to his eyeballs in case files. I passed the desk with nothing more than a sideways glance, heels echoing sharply across the tiled floors as I nodded at a bailiff I didn’t know well enough to smile at.
“Happy holidays, Ms. Jones,” one of the clerks called out.
“You too, sweetheart,” I said automatically, even though I meant it about as much as I’d meant my last faked orgasm with a guy who’d focused way too hard on getting himself off, then randomly decided to move halfway across the country before we could see each other again.
The elevator smelled like coffee, dust, and something chemical I didn’t want to think about. I rode it in silence, staring at my reflection in the metal doors, dark brown hair pulled back, a flush creeping over my collarbone from holding in too much for far too long. My brown eyes looked tired. Not the kind you could fix with a good night’s sleep, either.
By the time the elevator doors opened, I could already feel a migraine building tight behind my temples, like my skull was suddenly two sizes too small. I needed air, I needed space, and I needed to see the one person who wouldn’t ask me to explain anything.
I sucked in a deep breath as I opened my door and slid into my car, a nondescript, unremarkable little sedan that looked exactly like what it was: reliable, practical, and paid off. The inside still smelled faintly like a mixture of lemon air freshenerand the travel-size hairspray I kept in the glove box for court emergencies.
I shut the door behind me, tossed my bag onto the passenger seat, and turned the key in the ignition. The engine kicked on with a low, mechanical hum, steady and smooth, unlike the erratic pulse banging in my ears.
For a second, I just sat there with my hands on the steering wheel, staring out at Bay Minette’s courthouse square, watching people prep for the town’s annual Christmas festival while the vents sputtered out lukewarm air that did nothing to beat back the chill that had settled in my car while I was in that mediation session. I should’ve backed out, should’ve gotten on the road, headed to the office back in Stonewood, checked my notes, and returned three missed calls from clients.
Instead, I reached over and dragged the stack of mail off the seat.
I hadn’t planned on opening it here… hadn’t really planned on opening it today, period, but putting it off wouldn’t make the numbers go down.
I started with the envelope that felt thickest.
CHRISTINA JONES. DUE UPON RECEIPT.
The nursing home logo in the top corner made my throat tighten. I peeled it open and skimmed the total. Then skimmed it again. My chest went tight. The bill was three weeks overdue.
The next one was from my landlord. Then Alabama Power, and my internet provider after that. Finally, there was a nondescript envelope with handwriting I didn’t recognize, and didn’t open.One thing piled up on top of another until I felt like I was suffocating under the weight of it all.
The hospice bill slipped from my fingers and landed in my lap.
I gripped the steering wheel again, my knuckles going white. I could keep doing this. No, I had to keep doing this, but God, it was getting hard.
My phone buzzed against the console like it was offended by the silence in the car. I didn’t want to look, didn’t want to know who was calling me. I let it go to voicemail before I forced myself to look and see who it was.
One new voicemail from my sister, Alice.
