A lawyer without a pressed suit. Impossible.
Work is the only functional part of my life—the place where I’m different: less forgetful, more self-assured. I can’t mess this up too…like I did my relationship and my home. I don’t know how other people manage it all. Maybe I’m a faulty model, meant to be cast aside.
A couple of minutes later, I smell something burning.
Oh, fucking fuck, my porridge.
I rush to the kitchen and realize it’s slightly burnt.
How could I have forgotten that again? I just went to the closet to get dressed and ironed and…
I sigh and scrape the least offensive portion of the porridge into a Tupperware container, carefully avoiding the charred, tragic bits that are welded to the bottom. Whatever. It’s fine. This is fine. I’m fine.
I barely have time to eat at work anyway. This will probably just sit on my desk, slowly congealing while I make increasingly questionable life choices.
I wrestle my long, red hair into something resembling order and swipe on enough makeup to convince the world I’m awake and, more importantly, that I’m the kind of tough, unshakable family attorney men secretly fear. Not the one that getsscreamed at and flinches because her boyfriend isn’t happy with his not so good girl. A scornful laugh slips out. It’s ridiculous, really, how different I can be depending on which door I walk through.
At home, I’m reminded daily that I’m a disappointment.
At work, I rack up win after win.
They even call me the Iron Lady because I’ve never lost a case. Families hire me knowing I go into court without so much as a flicker of mercy.
And yet… I step into the bathroom and the chaos hits me.
Clothes strewn across the floor; toothpaste smeared like a toddler went rogue. And just like that, the sharp pang in my stomach is back. The way Matthew looked at me this morning is all that I can see.
“Great,”says Benjamin, my boss, leaning against the door to my office. It’s the kind with many glass doors and open spaces where everyone can see each other and nothing at the same time. My office has milk glass but my door’s open most of the time. Ready for everyone to step in.
“If you keep this up, you’ll be a partner soon, Davis.”
I was promoted to junior partner last year and worked my way up from a summer associate. Like I said, work is good for me.
“You’re really flattering me today,” I sing-song and look at my e-mail inbox. Hundreds of messages. Gawd. That is the most annoying part of my job, but otherwise I just love it. I feel free atwork. I’m appreciated there. And most importantly, I can make a difference.
“By the way, I’ve got another case for you,” Benjamin says, raising his eyebrows.
“I just wrapped up my last one a minute ago, Ben,” I reply, casually answering another e-mail.
“Yeah, but this onespecificallywants you, and it’s such a high-profile case that it would be great publicity for us if we win it for him. And with you, we know it’ll work out.”
Now I’m all ears.
“High-profile? A celebrity?”
“Hockey player.”
I risk a glance up and am immediately met with the full force of Ben, his bushy eyebrows are doing entirely too much. He has a sweet face, disarmingly so. The kind that makes it hard to take him seriously even when he’s right. He’s kind of like if Winnie-the-Pooh grew up, developed a caffeine dependency, and somehow got stuck channeling Mr. Bean-level (Mr. Ben?) chaos on a daily basis.
I love Ben. I wouldn’t be here without him. But that doesn’t mean I have to take whatever case he throws my way. Not anymore.
“Oh, okay, I don’t really know much about athletes.” And I don’t really care for them either. My entire knowledge of sports comes courtesy of my best friend Isla. A few years back, she launched a podcast called ‘The Dirty Jersey’ that skyrocketed in popularity, turning her into a minor celebrity in her own right. Now, she can’t even stroll through the mall without being stopped for a selfie or a quick chat. She’s not even a sports fan. Not really. Nevertheless, she’s become the go-to gossip maven for women who swoon over athletes, and that’s what keeps her audience coming back for more. So, I have zero interest in defending a professional.
“Well, he plays for the Falcons.”
Oh, that’stheNHL team here in New York, and I know one player really messed up—Riley Huntington, I think. He’s been all over the news and Isla’s podcast. Still, I don’t get what any of that has to do with me. I work with kids and families, not… whatever this is. And as far as I know this Huntington boy is happily married to his figure skater wife now.
“Just take a look at it, okay?” Benjamin says, carefully placing the documents on my desk.
