Confessions of a Litigation God

“Matt?” she said hesitantly as she knocked on the door casing.

“What’s up?” I said as I looked up from my computer.

She stepped just inside the door and said, “I just wanted to let you know that Mac has taken a few sick days. . . just thought I’d let you know so you could redistribute anything you may have had her working on. ”

Immediate concern for Mac flushed through me. “What’s wrong with her?”

Karen shrugged her shoulders. “I’m not sure. ”

“You’re not sure?” I asked in disbelief.

“No. She just said she wasn’t feeling well and probably wouldn’t be in until next Monday. ”

She stood there and waited for me to say something.

“Is there anything else?” I asked, my eyebrows raised.

“Well… perhaps you should call her to see what’s wrong?” she said encouragingly.

I blinked at her, trying to comprehend what she was saying. That made me sit back in my chair, because never, in the ten years Karen has been working for me, has she known me to personally call an employee that was sick. The fact that she would suggest I do so now meant that she was probably very much aware of my feelings for Mac, and apparently was sanctioning said feelings. I kind of figured as much when she never questioned the fact I flew to Nashville.

I also found it ironic that my head of human resources, the person that is tasked to make sure everyone in this firm stays on the straight and narrow to abide by all labor laws and ensure we don’t commit any civil violations, was essentially condoning an affair I’m having with an employee.

I’m thinking she was due for a raise, but I didn’t let her know that. I just said, “I’m sure she’s fine,” then went over some other issues in the firm we needed to talk about.

About mid-morning, I got an email from Mac. I was in the middle of dictating a settlement demand letter, leaning way back in my chair, feet kicked up on my desk, when I heard the chime and saw the tiny pop-up box on my computer alerting me to the incoming message. When I saw From: McKayla Dawson, I pushed forward in my chair so fast I almost catapulted myself across the desk. I hit the mouse and opened the email, momentarily envisioning she was apologizing and begging me to come over and f**k her.

Instead, it was a brief email on the Jackson case. She had apparently made all the stupid changes I had requested and her message was short and impersonal.

Attached are the changes you requested.

Guilt crashed over me for making her do that, because her work was quite good. It was true what she said… most of my changes had to do with semantics and while it was also true what I said, that a poorly chosen word could cause major legal ramifications, she had not done that here.

Pushing the guilt aside, I fired back a quick email.

Are you okay? Miss Anders said you were taking a few sick days.

She never responded and after staring at my computer for fifteen minutes waiting for another email from her, I finally gave up and went back to work.

That evening, I cracked open a new bottle of twelve-year-old Macallan. I was again struck with the urge to call Mac, because f**k… I missed her and I was still floundering over my feelings of remorse for what I’ve done to her. I struggled, clutching tightly to my phone, reminding myself over and over again that I didn’t want to get involved with this shit. That I had made a pact with myself when my divorce was finalized that I was through with relationships.

I ended up drinking almost half the bottle while the war inside me raged, and even though I was hungover as shit the next morning, I was proud of myself that I didn’t break down and call her.

There was a correlation, I quickly figured.

Stay drunk, and defeat the urge to reach out to Mac. Eventually, my desire for her would wane, and I would be able to move on.

On Friday, I left work early. It’s something I never do, because I take my job seriously. I take my duties to my clients seriously. But I was restless, my thoughts constantly racing and my stomach constantly churning with the myriad of emotions I was suffering. I was working on some legal research when my mind wandered and I started thinking of Mac.

Shocker, right?

Except this time… I pushed past the guilt of my past actions, and started thinking about “what ifs”.

What if Marissa wasn’t the one I was supposed to be with, and it was supposed to be Mac? Maybe my marriage crumbled for a specific reason that Fate had planned out for me.

What if I would be insanely happy with Mac?

What if I’m missing out on the best thing that has happened to me outside of Gabe?

I was driving myself crazy with these suppositions and decided that the best way to numb the crazy was to get drunk.

I took a walk, wandering aimlessly, until I stumbled upon a tiny bar that looked pretty cool. It was simply called The Bar. The door was open, and I could hear laughter coming from inside. Seemed like a nice place, so I went in.

By seven PM, I found myself good and drunk again. I played a game of darts with some regular customers that hung out there. They were on first-name basis with all the bartenders, who supplied a steady flow of liquor. They were nice enough guys and I couldn’t remember what their names were, even though they kept reminding me. But they asked me if I wanted to join them, and I did, so we shot darts and drank. We actually made a rule, if your dart didn’t hit the board at all, you had to take a shot. The drunker we got, the more the darts went astray, which caused us to drink more, which made us drunker.

It was a vicious cycle and I know that I’m at the point now I need to get home and sleep this off.

I haven’t quite reached the point in my inebriation where I’m able to forget about Mac, but I’m coming out of my “woe is me” pity party. When I stop feeling a little sorry for myself, I start to remember that Mac is the one that I’ve aggrieved. Yes, I’m hurt… but f**k, I’ll admit—at least to myself right now—that was mostly my own doing.

But she’s hurt, and that is all on me.

I’ve caused every bit of her pain.

Pulling out my cell phone, I text Mac a message without much thought.

I’m sorry.

Within seconds, she responds, For what?

Good question. What exactly am I apologizing for? I’m not drunk enough that my brain is fried, and a variety of items for which I’m sorry flash before me.