“Fine! You wanna yell? Let’s both yell real loud, Stanton, ’cause that’ll solve everything!”
Sofia rushes to the desk and furiously scribbles on a legal pad.
Stop! Take a breath. You’re badgering—that will get you nowhere.
My nostrils flare and my face feels like stone. But I close my eyes and do as directed—swallowing down the arsenal of insults that were locked and loaded on my tongue.
“I’m sorry for yellin’. I’m just . . . this is a shitload to try and take in.” But I get a little louder with each word. “And the idea that some fucker, that I don’t know, has been around my daughter . . .”
“You do know him!” Jenn replies quickly, as if that makes it better. “He went to high school with us, a year younger. But back then he went by the name Jimmy. Jimmy Dean—he was the manager for the football team.”
Her words sink in, conjuring the image of a skinny, dark-haired little shit with Coke-bottle glasses.
And we’re back to the yelling.
“The water boy? You think you’re marryin’ the fuckin’ water boy?”
On the periphery of my rage, I hear Brent say, “He’s losing it.”
Jake watches me, fascinated. “Total meltdown.”
“Shh!” Sofia scolds.
But I’m on a roll.
“We used to call him Sausage Link cause his pecker was so small! He used to pick up the jock straps from the locker room floor! You were the homecomin’ queen, for Chrissakes! Homecomin’ queens do not grow up to marry the fuckin’ water boy!”
“I can’t talk to you when you’re like this! You’ve lost your mind!” Jenny fires back.
“You’ve made me like this! Packed up my balls in your purse and driven my mind right over the edge into Bat-Shit-Crazy Town!”
Sofia sticks another note in my face.
Get a grip!!! Make a plan!! State your points or you’ll lose her.
It’s the last words that slap me in the face—right on point. I scrub my hand over my face and breathe deeply, feeling like I’ve run a marathon.
Jenny’s voice is cold as ice. “I have to go to work. We’ll discuss this later.”
“I’m coming home, Jenn,” I tell her.
She turns panicky. And I can almost see her flailing her arms, the way she does when she’s upset. “No! No, Stanton—you stay in DC and just . . . cool off. I’m workin’ twelve on, twelve off for the next three days. I won’t have any time to see you . . .”
“I’ll be home tomorrow,” I insist. “That gives you twenty-four hours to tell James Dean you’ve made a terrible mistake.”
“Or what?” she challenges.
“Or I’ll kill him,” I tell her simply. “I swear on Jesus, either break it off or you’ll spend your weddin’ night with a goddamn corpse.”
“Necrophilia is so 1987,” Brent comments.
And Jenny hangs up on me.
I slam the phone down and fall into my chair.
“Shit.” I push a hand through my hair. “Motherfucking shit! My girl . . . my girl’s gettin’ married.”
It’s only then, when I say the words calmly and aloud, that they sting. But before the pain rises, Sofia makes a disgusted sound in the back of her throat.
“What in God’s name was that?” she asks with derision.
“That was the Iceman melting,” Jake answers.
She ignores him, stepping closer, arms folded, eyes hard. “You are a criminal defense attorney, Stanton. A professional arguer. And that was the most pathetic display of arguing I’ve ever seen.”
“This isn’t a case, Sofia! This is my fuckin’ life.”
She spreads her arms. “The whole world is a court case . . . and we’re all . . . defendants.”
Brent squints. “I don’t think you’re using that quote correctly.”
“Did you really think calling her up and yelling at her would score you any points? If anything, you just set yourself back. If you called me stupid, I’d tell you to go fuck yourself.”
“I don’t know what I was thinkin’, okay!” And with more scorn than I intend, I throw out, “And Jenny’s not like you.”
But Sofia’s not perturbed. “Obviously she’s a little like me, since she hung up on your sorry ass. But the question you have to ask yourself is—what are you going to do about it?”
She’s right. I have to get out in front of this—make my case, hold my claim, get my shit together. I have to talk to Jenny—better this time—and convince her not to get married. And I can’t do that from Washington, DC.
“I have to go home. I have to see her—face-to-face. Find out what the hell’s been going on. I have to fix this.”
Sofia puts her hand on my shoulder. “Take it one step at a time—build your case. Win her over to your side. Be charming. Be . . . you.”
I stand up. “I’m going to human resources, to get time off.” I look at the three of them. “You’ll cover for me?”
“Sure.”
“Of course.”
Jake nods.
Before I step out through the door, Sofia’s voice stops me. “Stanton.”
I turn back. Her eyes are encouraging, but her smile seems . . . forced. “Good luck.”
I nod. And without another second of hesitation, I get ready to go home.
8
Sofia
I haven’t lifted my head from my laptop since I walked through the door. My heels lie discarded beside the entrance, my damp beige trench coat is strewn across the floral armchair where I tossed it, my umbrella is propped in the corner, dripping. Sherman’s stretched out in front of the picture window, his big browns eyeing the raindrops that pour down the window pane. Elton’s Greatest Hits 1970–2002 has been playing as I draft one motion to suppress evidence, another asking for change of venue, and still a third—a response to the district attorney’s attempt to charge my seventeen-year-old client, the son of an esteemed lobbyist, as an adult for drug possession with intent to sell.
The back of my neck aches as I roll my head, trying to loosen the protesting muscles. I set the computer on the couch cushion beside me and rub my shoulders as Elton croons “I Want Love.”
And it’s then I finally let myself think about all the things I was using work to avoid.
Stanton is leaving. Going to Mississippi to fight for “his girl.” There was no uncertainty—letting Jenny Monroe marry someone else was never a consideration. He was adamant, bold, determined as I’ve ever seen him. And I have no doubt he’ll march down there and remind her of everything she’s obviously forgotten.
I imagine him bursting through her door, lifting her with those strong, sculpted arms—like Tarzan claiming his Jane—and convincing her, with his irresistible smile and shrewd charm, to give him another chance.
And when she does—and I’m sure she will—my arrangement with Stanton will be over.
I close my eyes. Because my stomach is tight and there’s a heaviness on my chest—like the feeling you get after swimming in a pool for too long.
This isn’t my first trip around the block. I’m a twenty-eight-year-old single woman. I’ve had several one-night stands. In law school they’re about all you have time for. They fill a need, leave you in a good mood, and help you focus.
One hand literally helping the other.
That’s why I said what I did this afternoon—snapped him out of his shocked funk. Got him on the right track. Because before anything else, Stanton is my friend. I wouldn’t say I’m self-sacrificing—but I’m loyal. And that’s what good friends do. They help each other.
What we have—what he and I do together—is fun. Physical and convenient. And above all else, it was supposed to be simple.
But the sick feeling in my stomach, the tinge of sour jealousy on my tongue—there’s nothing simple about that.
I shake my head at myself, determined to shake off this melancholy right along with it. I’m not one of those girls, the kind ruled by emotions. I’ll just put it aside, like last sea
son’s handbag. Maybe Stanton going away for awhile is the best thing. It’ll give me the space I need to clear my head. Because falling for your “friend with benefits” would be a dumb move, and I’m no dummy.
Sherman lifts his head a moment before there’s a brisk knock on the door. He gets to his feet, but stays silent like the good watchdog he is, as I cross the room. I open the door, and there—his saturated arms braced on the frame—stands a panting, dripping Stanton Shaw. Raindrops cling to his thick lashes as he looks up at me, bent at the waist. A translucent white T-shirt sticks to his torso, outlining ridges of solid muscle and the path of hair that leads lower beneath his drenched running shorts, leaving little to the imagination of what he’s packing beneath. His golden locks lay flat on his forehead, dark and wet.
There’s a Latin phrase—omne trium perfectum—that means everything that comes in threes is perfect. This stands in direct contrast to the commonly held belief that deaths and catastrophes also comes in threes.
It seems only fitting that Stanton utters three words. He’s said those same words to me before in a raspy plea, as a harsh order—each time with his hands grasping my slick body and the air between us heavy with desire.
And in this moment, just as all the ones before it, they’re my undoing.
“Come with me.”
• • •