“Fuck that,” I mutter.
“Hallelujah!” Iris is thrilled.
I hang up and walk into work, lighter than I’ve felt in weeks.
Every time I try to go out with my friends, something blocks me. This weekend, the hospital is throwing some big to-do, and I’m expected to spend my Friday night schmoozing withhispeople. I don’t want that. I want mine.
He gets to have fun—so why the hell can’t I? The thought burns as I march into the office.
It’s barely eight in the morning, and the place is quiet. I’m usually the first one in. As the office manager, I supervise all the secretaries and legal aides, and technically, I could have someone else open up. But I like doing it. I like being the one to flip on the lights, to start up Cole & Associates.
I grab a coffee from the machine in the break room—this time it’s coffee for pleasure, not survival—and enter my office. It’s small but bright, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of downtown Baltimore waking up.
I power up my computer, check the day’s calendar, and scan the firm-wide schedule.
Three client meetings, two court appearances, a dozen filing deadlines, and the Fairmont Pharma case, which is still eating everyone alive.
Before long, my inbox starts filling.
Overnight updates from associates, client inquiries, andhalf a dozen “quick questions” from paralegals that aren’t quick at all.
Within the next half hour, I’ve already answered several emails, reviewed the supply order, fixed the printer’s settings someonehelpfullychanged, and scheduled a repair for the backup copier.
Soon, the elevator dings, and people start filtering in, shedding coats, clutching lattes, juggling phones.
“Morning, Jayne,” someone calls.
“Morning,” I reply, already halfway through approving a court filing.
Cole & Associates may have a dozen high-powered attorneys with corner offices, but I keep the place running, and I’m damn good at it. I know which judge prefers paper filings, which client needs hand-holding before a deposition, and which attorney’s going to forget to submit their time sheets until the last possible second.
By the time Daniel Cole walks in, his tie askew, phone pressed to his ear, the office is animated. Phones ringing, printers whirring, the low murmur of voices building like a pulse.
This is the part I love most. The rhythm, the purpose, the quiet satisfaction of knowing that I helped make it happen.
Here, I’m respected for my abilities, for juggling schedules, managing chaos, and staying calm under pressure. At home, I’m expected to do all that, too, only without acknowledgment.
At home, no one notices when I keep everything from falling apart.
Here, they do.
“Morning, boss lady,” calls out Tamika, our junior paralegal, as she passes by with a stack of case files teetering in her arms.
“Morning, Tam. You working out with those files?”
She grins. “Building muscles.” Then she leans against my doorway. “I need your help.”
“Shoot.”
She does, and it’s satisfying as hell to be able to solve her problem. Her appreciation is oxygen!
Daniel’s office door is open when I walk by, and he waves me in.
“I think I messed up that filing last evening.” He’s always in motion, brain five steps ahead of the room. But he relies on me to save him from himself.
“I fixed it,” I tell him.
He looks at me and smiles. “What would I do without you?”
