Page 72 of The Devil You Know

I have no idea why I’ve told her this, or why I’m suddenly calling him my boyfriend. It’s the most unprofessional moment of my life.

She leans forward. There’s nothing like a cheating story to make women unite. “Fucking men,” she groans. “They’re all the same. I dated a guy who claimed he was picking up overtime because he was saving money for a house, and then I ran into him at a restaurant with his wife and kids.”

I sigh. “I guess it could have been worse then. Here, let me get out my notes so you can get back to your daughter.”

“Take your time,” she says. “I never get to eat lunch out anymore.”

I pull myself together enough to ask her the questions on my list. She tells me the same story Leona did about the strip clubs and names a slew of men who went to them, at least one of whom was a vice president at the time. I’d hoped I could push her into testifying, but I don’t have it in me today. When the meal concludes, I simply hand the waitress my credit card and thank Lauren for her time. Maybe it’s for the best the reservation at Ardor wasn’t for me, since there won’t be much to celebrate.

“So is Fiducia going to get away with this crap?” she asks as we stand to leave.

“I’m not sure,” I reply. I’m too disheartened for optimism today. “Men will call you weak if you’re soft, and they’ll call you abrasive if you’re not soft. They’ve set it up so there’s no way for us to succeed, and they get away with most of it.”

She bites her lip. “Will Fiducia have to apologize, if Margaret wins?”

“Yes,” I reply with grim certainty. “I’ll make sure of it.”

I walk down the hill to the ferry. I haven’t even climbed on board before Lauren texts to say she’ll testify.

I got exactly what I came here for. It doesn’t feel like much of a victory, though.

38

I get back to LA early Friday evening. I have no intention of seeing Ben, but he just shows up at my door, having gotten my flight info from Terri.

I want him to go away, but it feels like I’ll either scream or burst into tears if I try to address this in person, which means it’s better left to email or text—somewhere I can remain in control.

He kisses me, and if he notices how stiff I am as it happens, he doesn’t say so.

“I was just about to go to the store,” I lie. “And then I’m going to bed.” In truth I was planning to eat a handful of chocolate chips and reevaluate my life, but I need to get him out of my apartment first.

He says he’ll come with me and I immediately regret the lie. I don’t feel like going through the ruse of shopping in addition to the ruse of not being mad at him.

He asks how the trip to Seattle went and I answer, but I’m growing steadily angrier as we walk to the elevator. How can he be the guy who shows up at my apartment the second my flight lands, and also be the guy who lies to my face? How could he push so hard for me to let him in, to lean on him, when he never intended to stick around?

We walk into the store and he grabs us a cart. He’s talking about deposing Lauren quickly before she changes her mind, and I’m thinking about him holding me after I talked to my mom the other night. He should never have gone down this path with me in the first place, should never have pushed me to invite him over and take a trip out of town with him. It’s utter bullshit that he led me on the way he did.

“What should we make?” he asks.

I thought I could do this, but I can’t. I’m not letting him back into my apartment, making dinner by his side as if nothing’s gone wrong.

“Some marcona almonds and a little Manchego. I don’t feel like cooking.” I’ll claim to have a headache as we leave and send him on his way.

He raises a brow. “Don’t you think you ought to learn how to make a few meals for your widowed veterinarian?”

The widowed veterinarian. Yes. Someone who won’t cheat, who won’t trade up, who won’t claim he’s seeing his family when he’s taking another woman to a Michelin-starred restaurant.

“I kind of pictured him doing most of the cooking,” I reply, feeling vicious now, more myself. “Or I pictured becoming the kind of person who enjoys cooking.”

“Do you have a timeline for when this magnificent transformation will take place?” He smirks. “When you suddenly want to take time off work and cook?”

Rage is turning me into the woman I become in court sometimes—ruthless and without mercy—and I welcome it. The Castrator wouldn’t weep like a child over some cheating asshole. She’d just remind him she has all those extra teeth. “It won’t happen overnight,” I reply. “The widowed veterinarian has to teach me how to slow down and smell the roses first.”

“Right,” he says a little dourly. “I want to see how many shoes you throw the first time a man tries to provide you with advice on how to live.”

“It will be different with him. Because he’ll be wise. Like Dumbledore.”

“I guess that explains why you’re taking those walks in the country,” he mutters, “because I don’t see you begging Dumbledore to fuck you harder.”