“Some things stick with you.” I touch my cheek absently, a phantom memory of blue ink that took days to fade.Blueface. “Besides, he’s aclient.” I’m not sure if I’m saying this for her sake or mine.
“A very famous, very attractive client who apparently takes you to amusement parks.” There. That eyebrow wiggle again.
“For his daughter,” I repeat. “She’s been through so much, and that day... you should have seen her, Isla. She’s usually soquiet, so careful, like she’s afraid of taking up space. But at the park, she was just a normal kid for a few hours.”
Isla’s expression softens, which is never a good sign. “And how does Matthew feel about your little adventures with the hockey star and his ridiculously adorable daughter?”
She says his name like he’s public enemy number one.
At this point, I don’t even react anymore.
There was a time we used to argue about it—really argue. We never do now. But back when she first started pointing things out—when she told me Matthew was a mistake—those were the little cracks. The things I kept brushing off because it was easier than admitting they were there. She saw it early. Sawhimclearly. For the red flag he was.
Not the fun, fictional kind people romanticize online. Not the kind you can laugh about later. The real kind. The kind that slowly takes pieces of you until there’s not much left. And I didn’t want to hear the truth.
I used to push back. Defend him. Defend us.
She stopped arguing after that.
Not because she changed her mind, but because I didn’t.
Now she just tells me, quietly and consistently, to leave him. Like she’s already accepted that I won’t. Like she’s decided I’m too soft to fight for myself, and I know she would fight for me—that’s why I keep things from her. I don’t tell her everything that Matthew does. I don’t share the things he says, the amount of porn he watches while I sit next to him, feeling like an old pair of sneakers he no longer wears. Don’t mention the hours he spends gaming instead of being with me. I don’t talk about the nights he goes out and disappears. I don’t, because I know what I should do. I should leave him. I fucking know. I just… can’t. I fight all day for others but never for myself. The minute I’d tell her how bad it really is, she would pack my things and get me out.
So… I don’t tell her.
“He wasn’t thrilled,” I admit, picking at my wrap. “But he’ll get over it.”
“Will he?”
I shrug. “It’s my job, Isla. He knows that.”
“Really… as if that guy knows anything…”
I smile. Yeah, not really.
“You know,” Isla ads. “His ass should be really jealous with that shit coming out of his mouth.”
“Isla,” I say but can’t hold back laughter. How does she always come up with those phrases?
“Anyway, the press is eating you both up. That’s a good sign,” Isla says, changing the topic.
Thank goodness, because discussing Matthew feels like poking at a festering wound I should really get checked out.
She lifts her phone again, her thumb scrolling through a fresh batch of Instagram comments. “The rebellious hockey star and his fierce lawyer? It’s practically catnip for the tabloids.”
“That’s exactly what I don’t need. This case is complicated enough without people spinning some romantic fantasy about me and Colton.”
“But girl, it makes for a good story. The bully and his victim, reunited years later when he needs her help to save his daughter.”
I wince. “Don’t call it that.”
“What? A good story?”
“Me being his victim. I wasn’t... that makes it sound so pathetic.”
Isla reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “You were sixteen, Jen. And he was mean to you.”
“And now I’m almost thirty, and I’m his attorney.” I pull my hand away. “The past doesn’t matter.”
