Do You Want Me Part One (This Love Hurts 0.5)

“It’s really,” I say then clear my throat and clasp my hands together in my lap before continuing. “It’s fine, I promise you. I can take her criticism when I know I did everything I could.”

The first thing I learned in this field is the truest statement: everyone wants someone to blame. If Cody doesn’t catch the bad guy or if I don’t get him convicted … well, then it’s one of the two of us who gets blamed.

Cody’s gaze drifts to my lips for just a moment; I know it’s brought on because I snag my bottom lip between my teeth and maybe he notices the lipstick.

He clears his throat like I did and sits up straighter, the empty glass in his hand staying where it is since the place is busier now and Sandy is nowhere to be seen. With his broad shoulders squared, he looks straight ahead rather than at me when he speaks. “It’s not your fault we didn’t catch the bastard,” he murmurs and for a moment I question if he meant those words for me or himself.

“You want another?” I offer him, not liking this conversation and wanting the easy air between us again.

Tapping the base of the glass on the bar, Cody pauses and then glances up at me, a boyish smirk crossing his face. “Only if you have it with me.”

Just like that, all the tension is gone and the smile I had for him when he first sat down comes back.

I tell myself that I’m not like my mother. I don’t forget. I don’t pretend. I’m aware of my reality.

I’m simply making the best with what I’ve got.

Right now, that’s a tall glass of chardonnay and a handsome man to keep me company. Even if I go home alone to an empty apartment and a too-hard mattress that makes the tight muscles in my back even tighter, I’m doing all right for what I’ve been through.

Delilah

Some days you’re the dog. Some days you’re the hydrant. My auntie Lindie told me that one when I was young. A student in my freshman high school class pulled my hair. So I pulled hers back. I was the one that the teacher saw and the only one who got in trouble. Both my mother and auntie had things to say about that, but when it came down to what my punishment would be back home, my mom told me to keep my hands to myself unless detention was worth it. My auntie said detention was always worth it and then she gave me that wise line about dogs and hydrants. That day I got in trouble I was the dog.

Today, I’m in that bitch of a position again.

“One thing after the other,” I whisper into my coffee. The steam flows around my cheeks. The sinful smell of caffeine addiction is the only thing that’s been comforting so far today.

My desk chair groans as I lean back in it, staring at the plaque to the left of my door then the framed news article beside it. My JD and a story about the first case I ever won, which was published in the town’s paper. Six years ago I had so much more energy than I do now.

My laptop is closed and I just simply can’t find the stamina to open it again. Instead, I find myself wishing I’d just stayed in bed all day and never answered my phone.

As a sigh leaves me, I chance a sip of coffee. It’s still too hot, but not scalding like it was when Aaron first brought it in. The shade of brown matches my walnut desk and I find myself smiling over the color of the coffee. I suppose in rough days it helps to be grateful for the little things. And then I catch sight of the bruise on my hand. The same shade as the grain in the desk. So long, gratitude. See you whenever I find that thing called patience.

Ignoring the bruise, I turn my attention to the case file laying open on my desk and read the first bit for what’s now the fourth time since I first sat in here. The constant ticking of the clock seems so loud today that I stare at it rather than the black and white words and inwardly curse myself.

I never should have gotten out of bed. I never should have answered my phone to deal with my mother. I sure as hell would have made it to the curb on time to move my car so I wouldn’t have gotten that ticket. If I hadn’t seen the ticket as I was getting into the car, I wouldn’t have slammed my hand in the door. And, most importantly, if I wasn’t pissed off and in pain, I wouldn’t have said what I said to the press when I was walking into the building.