Page 93 of Gold Rush

“I tried to call you,” he adds.

“Oh,” I repeat. “My phone is off. I was in court, and even when the ringer is on silent, I’m paranoid it’s going to accidentally make noise, so I usually …” I pull my phone out and turn it back on, registering the missed calls on the screen that don’t really matter now.

I don’t have any messages from Philippa, I note, although she was the one who reached out to me to set this dinner up. I’m miffed about that, on my own behalf, but I’m mostly mad about the look on Flynn’s face.

“I’m sorry,” I say, apologizing for more than my lack of availability.

“I should have expected they’d …” Flynn shakes his head, drinking from a tumbler of amber liquid until only ice clinks against the glass. “This is typical.”

He didn’t expect it though. He showed up, thinking his parents would be here too. That makes me madder.

Flynn spins his glass so the ice inside follows the same swirling motion. Not meeting my gaze. “Sorry you came all this way.”

“It wasn’t that far,” I reply, even though he’s just aware as I am that the trip from Lower Manhattan takes forty minutes, including a train transfer.

“How was the sentencing?” He isn’t looking at me, eyes remaining on the ice in his glass.

“She got ten years.”

I was only observing the armed robbery case. Rachel was first chair, and Louis was her co-counsel. There was nothing I could have done to directly influence the jury’s verdict or the judge’s sentencing, but the outcome stings like a personal failure anyway. The defendant was only twenty, caught in a bad situation, where she happened to be carrying a knife used to jimmy a lock that the prosecution argued should be classified as a deadly weapon. The evidence against her was circumstantial, and the witnesses’ testimony offered conflicting accounts. She had no record. Yet the next decade of her life is gone, just like that.

“You’ll appeal?”

I nod. “Insufficient evidence. Unlikely it’ll overturn.”

“Can I get you a refill?” A waitress appears beside our table, eyeing Flynn’s empty glass. And more likely, Flynn.

“Just the check,” he replies. “We’re leaving.”

“Or we could stay,” I say.

Finally, Flynn focuses on me. “You want to?”

I nod. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to this evening with his parents. I’m drained and hungry and defeated, and I’d ordinarily recede into myself until I felt more ready to face the world. I’d rather eat dinner with him. We’re both here. Might as well make the most of it.

He glances at the waitress. “We’ll need a minute before we’re ready to order.”

“No problem,” she says brightly.

“Did you want a drink?” Flynn asks, passing me the wine menu once she’s gone.

I shake my head. “I have to head into work early to prep for a deposition.”

“You’re running it?”

I nod.

He grins. “Hell yeah. Congrats.”

My smile is shy. I wasn’t intending to make a big deal out of it, but it will be the first deposition I attend in a prominent role.

“Thanks.” I glance down at the dinner menu to hide my pink cheeks.

It sort of feels like my crush just acknowledged me being named valedictorian or some other academic accomplishment that guys have never been especially impressed by before. My bank account has always been valued over my brain because I’m in the rare position of having been born with enough money that I never have to work a single day of my life. Very few people have understood that my last name propels me to work harder, not to simply enjoy the freedom and perks my immense privilege allows.

“I’m going to get the clam linguine,” I decide.

“Sounds clam-azing.”