“I honestly thought I was gonna break something out there,” he admits after a sip of wine. “Preferably just my pride, but possibly an actual bone.”
“You were pretty good on the ice,” I tell him.
“Pure survival instincts. I just didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of you.”
Something in his tone makes me look up sharply, but his expression gives nothing away as he studies the menu.
After we order—fettuccine for me, lasagna for him—the conversation drifts easily, and before I realize it, I’m telling him about a case I’ve been working on. A complicated property dispute with a lot of moving pieces.
“That sounds intense,” he says.
“It can be,” I admit. “But I kind of like that part.”
Weston studies me for a moment. “So, what made you want to become a lawyer?”
The question catches me off guard. I roll my wine glass between my palms, thinking. “My parents split up when I was young. And after that, everything felt … unsettled. A lot of change. A lot of tension.”
He stays quiet, giving me space.
“Parker and I were in and out of courtrooms for a while,” I continue. “Custody stuff. Meetings. Waiting rooms. We spent a weird amount of time there as kids.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“I remember watching the lawyers more than anything,” I add. “Especially the women. They were confident. Calm. They walked into emotional situations and didn’t flinch. They asked the right questions and controlled the room.”
I lift my glass, turning it slightly. “Law felt like a way to take chaos and sort it out. Or at least try to.”
“And now?” he asks.
“And now I get paid to untangle problems.” I smile. “Which, turns out, I’m pretty good at.”
He grins. “Sure sounds like it.”
“And what about you?” I ask. “How did you get into programming?”
His face lights up as he tells me about his first computer—a hand-me-down his uncle gave him when he was nine. “It was already outdated by then, but I thought it was magic. I took it apart within a week, trying to understand how it worked.”
“Were your parents mad?”
“Furious.” He laughs. “But then I put it back together, and it ran faster than before. That’s when they realized I might actually have a thing for computers.”
I lean forward, charmed by his enthusiasm. “So, what you’re saying is … you were always a genius?”
“Hardly.” He snorts. “I once tried to ‘fix’ our microwave and nearly burned the house down. My mom still hides the screwdrivers when I visit.”
Our food arrives—steaming plates of pasta that smell divine. As we eat, our conversation flows from workplace stories to favorite books to the weirdest things we’ve seen on the New York subway. It’s so natural that I almost forget this is the first time Weston and I have really talked.
“So,” he says eventually, his tone careful, “I hope this isn’t overstepping, but … are you doing okay? With everything?”
I know what he’s asking about. The breakup. The sudden homelessness. The complete derailment of the future I thought I had.
“I’m…” I start to say “fine” automatically, but something about his genuine concern makes me pause. “I’m getting there. Some days are better than others.”
Weston nods, twirling his fork thoughtfully.
“Cal and I were together for three years,” I find myself saying. “He proposed on Christmas. I broke my apartment lease to move in with him, and three weeks later, he decided we ‘weren’t working.’” The bitterness creeps into my voice, despite my best efforts.
“That’s rough,” Weston says softly. “I’m sorry.”
