“I don’t terrify them.” My mouth drops open.
“You do.” He grins. “Under the guise of mentorship.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “It’s not my fault they think I was born a partner.”
“You’ve been one for five years.” He slices off a chunk of steak. “No small feat.”
There’s no teasing in his voice now.
I glance up. “Yeah, dog years.”
“Earned.” He eases back, fingers resting loosely around his glass. “I watched you suffer through year three when everyone else started lateraling out. I also remember year seven when things were so competitive you almost walked.”
I freeze for half a second. “I wasn’t serious.”
“You were.” He flicks his eyes to mine. “You called me from outside the building and said you were done with firm politics.”
I look down at the tablecloth, tracing the weave with my fingertip. “I was exhausted. Billable hours are no joke.”
“My recollection was your fury at the misogyny,” he corrects, watching me steadily. “There’s a difference.”
I swallow.
He furrows his brow. “You stayed. Built your book. Gained credibility and won over the men who underestimated you. When the equity vote came up, no one was surprised when you made partner on your first try.”
“Well,” I let out a breath, “I sure was. Flabbergasted.”
“You shouldn’t have been.” He shakes his head.
The earnestness in his voice stirs something in my chest. “You make it sound simple.”
“It wasn’t.” His thumb moves absently along the rim of his glass. “You’re not the kind of person who quits things you decide to win.”
The restaurant noise fades at the edges. “I don’t like to toot my own horn.”
“I know.” There’s no performance in him now. No banter.
“Besides, you were in London that year.” I try to lighten the mood. “You didn’t exactly witness my day-to-day.”
He inclines forward a touch, forearms resting on the table. “No, but we talked all the time and were on the phone when you found out. You read me the email as if you didn’t believe it. Then you went quiet.”
I remember it clearly. Sitting in my car in the garage. The fluorescent lights buzzing. My name on the memo.
“You didn’t have much to say.”
He nods once. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
His jaw flexes before he answers. “I was so proud of you.”
The words land without flourish./
“I still am,” he adds, holding my gaze.
Something constricts low in my throat.
Fifteen years. Hundreds of Monday dinners. Promotions. Losses. Parents divorcing. Multi-billion-dollar deals. Clients suing. Cities transitioning.
