Page 50 of That's Not a Thing

While my computer powers up, I sip my coffee and try to control the barrage of images coursing through my mind. It’s as though I have a split screen in my brain, like two different movies are playing on simultaneous loops. The memories of Wesley’s lips against mine, the feel of his raspy breath against my face, assail me repeatedly. At the same time, I see Aaron’s body wrapped around me in bed, his brawn shielding me from everything except for myself.

Outlook opens with a flash on the screen and I see that I have a new email from Alexandra Pervez, the senior associate on the Kinderwohl tobacco case. She says that Malik Thompson, the partner on the case, wants me to participate in the upcoming depositions. I have a quick spark of excitement at being tapped for this task, like my superiors are finally recognizing my extreme genius. But then I stall, thinking of the enormity of hours and manpower generally required to prepare for depositions like these. I scroll through the email to see how many weeks we will have for prep, and then I notice that the depositions, which will take place in Wisconsin, are slated to occur during the span of one week in late July, a week that directly conflicts with the date of Moe’s court appearance.

Without hesitating, I tap out a quick reply to Alexandra, cc’ing Malik Thompson, telling her that I won’t be able to participate in the depositions because I am committed to representing an asylum candidate on that date.

Alexandra’s response is almost instantaneous:Not to worry. I staffed another first-year associate on the asylum matter. You’re off that case and free to devote your full schedule to Kinderwohl.

What the what? For a moment, the words on the screen blur before my eyes, and I have to read them again, twice, before I can process what they say.

I frantically type back a response that they can’t take me off the case, that I have a connection with the client, that I’ve devoted months of work to the matter, that I have to do the right thing and see it through. Again, I cc Malik Thompson, hoping he will put this presumptuous senior associate in her place.

Again, I get an immediate reply, this time from Malik:Done deal. Let it go.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER,I’m standing in bright morning sunshine on the corner of Fifty-first and Third, dialing Aaron with shaky hands.

“Hello?” I can hear from the heavy, syrupy word that he is only just waking up.

“I can’t believe it,” I pant into the phone. “I quit! I just quit!”

“Wait, what?” His tone is suddenly alert, and I imagine he’s just sat up in bed.

“I quit, as in my job,” I repeat, feeling a smile creep onto my lips, pride in my decision. I quickly recount what happened with Moe’s case. “I guess everything you’ve been saying, suddenly I could see it all, too. I hated that fucking job.” I turn in a circle on the busy street corner, unsure where I am heading.

“Yeah, you did!” he hoots into the phone like we’ve just won the lottery. “Where are you?”

“Right outside the office. I’m kind of at a loss.” I glance back up at the towering glass building I’ve just left, its dark windows opaque, foreign. “What do I do?” People rush around me on the pavement, hurrying toward their destinations, grazing past my stationary form as though I am a utility pole, as though I am not there.

“I know exactly what you do.” I can hear rustling and movement on his end of the phone. “Get your ass in a cab and meet me at the Four Seasons. We’re celebrating. First stop is a boozy brunch. Don’t think. Just do it.”

“For real?” I say with a smile, even as I pivot and move closer to the street corner, raising my arm to hail a cab that’s turning onto Third Avenue. “Okay. See you there.” I laugh and end the call. I can’t believe what I’ve done—the impulsiveness, the recklessness. I try to process that I am now unemployed. As I slide into the taxi and tell the driver where I’m going, I wonder whether I haven’t just torpedoed my life, if perhaps I’m making one asinine decision after another because I’m on emotional overload.

I push the thought away and lean my head back against the seat, trying to empty my mind. I force myself not to look at any emails on my phone, not to scroll through any social media sites where I might stumble upon acquaintances’ professional successes or other information that will make me regret my actions. Instead, I close my eyes and try to keep my thoughts from reeling. I take a deep breath and inhale the faint scent of cigarette smoke, which I assume is emanating off the driver. I wonder if his tobacco use is limited to smoking or whether he perhaps chews the stuff, too. I have another flash of glee that I am finished with the Kinderwohl drudgery, and I tell myself again that I made the right move, that Aaron and I will figure out where I should go from here.

It’s a short cab ride, and as I step onto the corner of Madison Avenue, I realize that I’d better start being more frugal, now that I’m unemployed and all. I really could have walked from my office. For the time being, I have to recategorize cab rides as a splurge. I determine that I will immediately begin a job hunt so I can continue to live in the manner to which I’ve become accustomed, and do so on my own paycheck.

I walk into the airy lobby of the Four Seasons and climb the half staircase up to the Garden restaurant, which I’ve been to only once before. Aaron and I came here last summer before seeing a magic show in one of the hotel rooms. It was a swanky, intimate affair for small groups of well-heeled adults. There was a speakeasy kind of a vibe to the clandestine nature of the show, the audience all in cocktail attire and the magician holding court. No, not magician—conjurerwas what he insisted on being called. I remember now how Aaron spent the entirety of the show running his fingers along my inner thigh as we sat in the audience in the darkened hotel room, the exquisite torture of his hand teasing me, making promises. I haven’t thought about that night in months, but I remember it now with nostalgia and a sharp stab of pain at what I’ve risked.

After the maître d’ leads me to a table, I settle into a wide beige chair to wait for Aaron, who appears only seconds later in jeans and a dark, fitted T-shirt. He’s bounding up the steps of the restaurant, his lips tight, like he’s trying to contain a grin, as he searches the room for me. Our eyes meet, and I’m struck by a sudden and intense love for this man. Ever since I discovered Wesley was back in New York, it’s like I’ve just been floundering, out of control, turning my life into a hot, sludgy mess. It’s the opposite of what Aaron brings out in me: order, comfort, peace. This extra time with him is just what I need in order to find my footing again.

He makes his way across the restaurant, past the many real trees that are sprouting up through the floor, their branches reaching toward the high ceilings, as if these topiaries do not realize they are inside a building. The closer he gets to me, the more I am able to recognize the feeling coursing through me as relief. He turns sideways to avoid bumping his broad shoulders into a waiter carrying a carafe of hot coffee, and then he’s upon me. I stand up to greet him, and he grabs me into a forceful bear hug, lifting me slightly off the ground as his solid arms squeeze extra tight.

“Oof,” I grunt just before he releases me.

“I’m so thrilled that you finally did this.” He pulls out the chair across from mine and signals a waiter, who hurries over to our table. “Can we please have two Ty Bar toddies?” Aaron asks.

“Right away.” The man nods without writing anything on the notepad in his hand and hurries off.

“Ty Bar toddy? What is that?”

“I have no idea. It’s some cocktail I saw on their brunch menu when I pulled it up in the cab. I think big news makes me hungry.” He smiles as he reaches across the table to take the menu I had been looking at.

“Everything makes you hungry,” I snort, basking in his wide-open presence, shoving away thoughts of how I have betrayed this beautiful man, mentally swatting at my already battered conscience.

The drinks appear, and I take a cautious sip. It’s some sort of bourbon and maybe apple cider concoction. It feels totally inappropriate to be drinking cocktails like this before the hour has even struck 11:00 a.m. When I say as much to Aaron, he protests.

“C’mon, get into the spirit here. I’m off for the rest of the day, and apparently you are, too.”

He holds out his glass, waiting for me to clink mine against his.