by Emily Duvall
I notice she doesn’t use past tense. I break away with painstaking slowness. I’m an asshole. I know myself when I’m being one and I can’t stop now. Holding Maren, touching her, feeling things I haven’t felt since my heart broke in half and crumbled into bits that still sit in a pile in the middle of my chest. “Every interaction from here on out is business. I need you to tell me what you saw.”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“So that’s it? You’re going to say nothing?”
“You need to go, Caleb.” She folds her arms over her chest. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.” I don’t hang around to see the hurt in her eyes.
I feel my remorse every step of the way home. But there’s nothing I can change.
Julie and I meet in the morning in her office. Swiveling around in her big expensive chair, her slender hands stretch on the armrests and she drums her fingers. “What do you think Maren knows?”
My mind runs away with the possibilities. “I have no idea. I haven’t asked.”
“Are you suddenly shy?” Julie says. She’s beyond interested. “The Caleb I know would have all the answers by now.”
“I will.”
“No surprises, Caleb. It’s what I told you when I hired you. Have you spoken to Libby?”
“She hasn’t returned my calls.”
“Get your ass to New York if you must. I want to hear what she has to say. I want to hear what she saw that night. Don’t you dare go to court with Rosenthal having the upper hand. Are we clear?”
“Yes.”
“Get out of my office. Go do your job.”
The meeting with Julie leaves me irritated and impatient. I want everything on this case to come together and Maren, this woman I didn’t know of six months ago, is smack in the center and I might have ruined my chance getting the truth. Which begs the question, what does she know? Maren’s brutally honest about so much else. What’s she hiding? Why is she so tight-mouthed about this subject? I swipe my phone off the desk and call Libby.
“Caleb,” she says swiftly.
“How’s New York?” I answer, trying not to sound like a desperate prick.
“Busy and challenging, but I’ve never been happier.”
I’m jealous as the day she got the promotion and my voice is unconvincing. “Good to hear.”
“Listen, I apologize for not returning your call. I’ve been home three times this week and I have nothing in my fridge except for a pack of expired yogurt. What can I do for you?”
My jaw tightens at the sound of the keyboard on her end. “I’m working a case. Paul Pierce. He owns Pierce’s on 19th St. NW near Dupont Circle.”
The typing stops. “Oh, right.”
She’s not at all surprised by my statement. “So, you know the night in question.”
“I do,” she says cautiously.
I turn to walk over to the window. The city stretches out in front of me with the high-rises and steeple of a church downtown. Dark gray storm clouds fill the sky syncing with my restless thoughts. I need something more from this life and Libby’s casual tone grates on my nerves.
“Caleb? You there?” she says impatiently.
“Maren was with you.”
“If you’ve seen the video and read the transcripts you know she was. Sorry, I’m—busy, Caleb. I already spoke to the police. I also met with the other lawyer Pierce had hired before he switched to our firm. There was a lot of disorganization. I don’t even think he was going to use us as witnesses. I’m not surprised he fired the other lawyer.”
“I need you tell me if you recognize a few young women from that night.”
“Whatever this is, I don’t want to get involved.”
“I can have a judge subpoena you if you prefer.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I will, and I’ll do the same for your sister.”
She sighs heavily and pounds her keyboard. “Where’s this going?”
“To trial. And soon.”
“Fine, Caleb. I’ll cooperate, but don’t send me the photos over email. I’m coming home this weekend to see Maren. I’ll meet you for coffee Saturday morning. I’ll text the time and place later.”
At least it’s something. “Good. I’ll see you then.”
There’s a knock on my door and Sara enters. “How did the meeting with Julie go?”
A complete waste of time. “Informative.”
“Did you and Libby talk?”
“We’re meeting this weekend.”
“I don’t think we could have dreamed up a more solid witness list. What was that other lawyer doing anyway? Rosenthal won’t have a chance.” Softly, she closes the door and comes further into the office. “Can we talk about the festival?”
Not this again. “You think now’s the time?”
“You haven’t heard what I’m about to say.” She sticks up two of her fingers. “I want to clarify a few things and I need a selfish favor. Saturday night I’m attending a fundraiser for children with diabetes. I need a date.”
“Can’t do it. Find someone else.”
“What if I promise a blow job?”
Maren comes to mind. I block that thought immediately. “Are you trying to get removed from the case?”
“I was kidding. A month ago, you would have found me funny. You would have locked the door and taken me up on the offer. We used to be friends, before we were together. I wish we could back to that.”
I want to pound my head on the desk. “I’m busy, Sara. Can this wait?”
“No, it can’t. I know what a blow to your career plans Libby’s promotion caused. If you can resist the urge to cut me off, I think you’ll find I have something to offer. Like I said, I need a date Saturday night for the fundraiser. It’s at the Kennedy Center and I’ll introduce you to the partners at Lowell and Street. They’re going to attend, and the rumor is they haven’t been able to find anyone to take over a big case they landed.”
Those names embody one of the top firms in the area. I tilt my head and look at her with sincerity. If I must give up Maren, I might as well go all the way. Reclaim some part of the man I used to be. A man in control of his life. “I’m listening.”
“How you want to be at the event is your choice. Friends, lovers, two coworkers going out for an evening. Get a tuxedo. Socialize. Drink. Stay over at my place or don’t. You need a night out.” Sara leans seductively into my desk. “You know it and so do I.”
I should say no, but I don’t. This is what I need. A night out that has the potential to remind me that relationships don’t have to be all work. I’ve been trying with Maren, or maybe I haven’t, but I’m craving easy. The fact is I can’t be with Maren. There’s no future. But why not? There’s an invisible punch to my gut as if to say I’m making up excuses about the answer to this question.
But why not a future?
A diversion will reset me. The fundraiser, being out in the city, is the opportunity to make career connections, drink expensive liquor, and have a good time like I used to do. What the hell have I been doing? Drowning in grief and jogging with a woman who barely notices me? No, that’s not true, Maren does notice me, but still, what have I been thinking? When did everything start to change?
Sara’s assertive smile and intense gaze is all the convincing I need. “I’ll go,” I quip, laying down the golden rule, “as friends.”
The corner of her lip tugs. “There’s the Caleb Allan I’ve been missing. We’ll have fun—as friends,” she adds.
***
Saturday morning, I avoid running. I don’t risk bumping into Maren. I hang around my house trying to stay ahead of this case. Libby calls a few minutes before we’re supposed to meet at a coffee shop. “I can’t meet this morning,” she starts off the call with a distracted voice.
I run my hand over my forehead. “Why not?”
“My parents scheduled a tour for this adult living community for Maren. They have to
go back to Florida earlier than expected so we have to do this now. I can still meet you, just later this evening.”
“A group home? Really? She’s far from all that. If I didn’t know her, I would think she’s just like any other adult.” This is asinine.
“It’s not what you think. It’s for young professionals. These places are popping up all over. It’s for people who don’t want the stress of maintaining a property. Group home isn’t he right word. My parents need peace of mind. The stress is killing them.”
I roll my eyes and bump my fist on the table. “Are you sure your parents have Maren’s best interest here?”
A pause. A breath. “I know they can be over-worried.”
“Your sister doesn’t need to go anywhere,” I say flatly, unable to contain my defensiveness. “Maren is doing great.”
“I know, and I agree, but once my parents get an idea in their head, they go after it. They’ll be intent about this for a couple of weeks and then it’ll pass. They’ll come up with excuses about why it won’t work. This place is different. Maren will say no and eventually they’ll move on. My mother needs to feel out all the options. She’s worried Maren will be attacked or get herself in a bad situation. Or that some guy will use her, and she’ll get pregnant and have her finances stolen.”
“Isn’t that every parent who has a daughter?”
“She’s my mother. What do you expect me to say?”
I remember this isn’t my family. Libby’s close to her parents in a way I have never been to mine. “Maren has her issues, but she’s better functioning than half the adults I know.”
“Now you’re the expert on my sister?” Libby’s voice is unrepentant.
“Do your parents actually know Maren?”
Stark silence meets my ears.
“Anyway,” I brush past the argument, “I have a thing tonight. Five o’clock is the latest I can meet you.”
Libby finally breaks. “I’ll be at Maren’s apartment then. Guess I’ll see you then.”
“I’ll be there,” I say icily, ending the call by tossing my phone across my couch.
My breath is crazy, and I look around my television room at the O’s game on the screen. I’m pissed off and I have no right to be. The group home idea is so wrong. They’re being lazy and selfish. I can’t imagine Maren bunking with strangers and playing cards or chess at a sad looking table. I’m sick at the thought of her making her bed every morning and coloring in the evenings. If they put her there, she’ll waste away until she’s dead. All that beauty and life and intelligence will be lost and sold to something more convenient for her family.
What do I care?
I don’t, I tell myself. I don’t.
I slam my laptop shut and get up. I have a fundraiser to be at tonight. An important, name-dropping event with expensive champagne and gorgeous women.
I shower and change into the tuxedo. I look good in the black suit with the dark shirt. Blacks and blues compliment my features. Tonight will be easy. This will be good. With any luck, I’ll make a few work connections. I’ll find some woman and invite her back to my place or I’ll just have sex with Sara like old times. As I’m running my hand over my fresh-shaved faced, I stop. I see myself. My eyes remind me of Darcy’s. It happens out of nowhere. A bullet of grief to the heart. Consuming, raw, and strong. Like a part of me is breaking away from the other.
I get out of my house before I suffocate. I find it follows me out to the warm evening. The feeling is there in my car as I drive over to Maren’s apartment. My hands clench the steering wheel and my teeth grind. My stomach is curled and tight and I’m nervous as going in front of a judge for the first time.
I knock on her door. I curl and uncurl my fingers. I fidget with my bow tie.
The door opens, and Maren is standing in front of me. She brings her gaze right to mine. All the well-intended things I had planned to say evaporate and I have nothing. Nothing witty or perfect or right to say. My feet are frozen by the sight of her lovely face. Soft, loose curls hang around her ears. Makeup brings out the intensity of her eyes and the pink shade of her lips that reminds me of the word kissable. Maren is very kissable, and I am going to miss out. I am going to be with Sara. What an absolute idiot I am. I groan internally at how long the evening suddenly seems. Because I want to be here.
Maren is looking me up and down and only when I tear myself from my mistakes, do I realize I am still standing in the doorway. I keep my tone light, despite the serious chunks of emotion swallowing me up. “It’s rude to stare.”
“You’re wearing a tuxedo,” she says.
A smile quirks on my lips. “Am I that obvious?” I adjust my bow tie and let myself be softer around her. “How would you rate my appearance?”
She splays her hand on my chest. But when she looks at me her eyes are wild and full of soul-bending green. Like the water in a faraway ocean. “I rate you a ten out of ten.” Her voice is logical as if she were reading a report. It’s the eyes I can’t leave. I don’t want to walk away. “You’re handsome, Caleb,” she says in a way that causes my cock to jump to attention.
Warmth spreads through me and I struggle to not reach out and touch her face and bring her lips to mine. Very kissable, my mind screams and my heart races. “I’m aware what the word means.”
“Don’t be rude. Accept the compliment.” She drops her hand.
I hate that I underestimated her. I hate that she notices. “Sorry,” I mutter and brush past her.
“Come on in,” Libby calls from the bedroom and steps into the kitchen. She walks right up to me and gives me a hug. “So good to see you. I’m sorry about earlier.”
“What happened earlier?” Maren says, taking her eyes off mine.
“Nothing.” Libby offers me a glass of wine, which I accept. “Maren and I are in the middle of Monopoly.” She hands me the glass, full to the brim.
“Trying to get me drunk and sabotage my evening?”
“Yes.” Libby gives an effortless smile and taps her glass against mine. “You didn’t have to dress up for our meeting.”
I tug at the shirt collar. Is it suddenly warm in here? I clear my throat. “I’m attending a fundraiser.” Hopefully I’ve satisfied their curiosity.
“Sounds interesting. Are you going alone?” Libby presses the issue.
My eyes don’t meet Maren’s. “I’m going with Sara,” I admit in an agonizing voice.
I can feel her gaze penetrate through my face. She says nothing, asks me no questions, which is disconcerting.
“Sara, huh?” Libby gives a practiced smile, but her voice insinuates otherwise. “I’m sure you’ll have a nice evening.”
The use of the word nice is not lost on me. She might as well have said you’re the biggest asshole we know and turn your tuxedo-clad body around and get lost. “Come on, we’ll talk on the couch,” she says with an air of distance, like she’s already over me.
We catch up for a few minutes and I admit, I don’t want to hear about Libby’s great job in a kick-ass city. I throw her a few bones with some work stories, but she’s moved on to bigger and better. Maren’s in the kitchen and hasn’t attempted to come over.
“Do you miss the office?” I ask Libby.
She smiles slowly. “At times I do. The job is more challenging, and the cases are more complex, which means a bigger workload. The city itself is different, noisier. There’s always a lunch or an event or parties to attend. I’ve lost ten pounds and I haven’t hit the gym once. Three of my junior staff do heroin in the bathroom and I’ve already walked in on one of the partners having sex with his assistant. Things that would make Julie’s head spin and fall off.”
“I knew I would have liked it there.”
Thud.
We both look over. Maren disappears behind the counter. “Shit,” she says placing a can of beans of the counter. “I’m fine. Keep talking.”
Libby grabs her glass. “She’s listening.”
“What’s she making anyway?”
“A seven-layer bean dip. She’s started cooking again. Did you know she went to culinary school for a while?”
“Maren told me about culinary school,” I clarify, not wanting Libby to take all the credit. “She didn’t say she’d started up again.”
“Says the guy who knows her so well and who thought it was a good idea to show up and rub your evening in her face.” Libby’s tone is 100% bitchy. She lowers her voice. “Did you also know that she asked me to do her makeup tonight? She knew you were coming over.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“I don’t care about your apologies. She’s the one you have to reckon with.”
“I will, I will make this right.”
“Yes, you will.” Libby curls her fingers together and breathes into her hands like it’s a cold winter day. “I want to clear up something else. Our phone call earlier. My parents and this idea for Maren to live in this social community.”
“The idea is crazy, and totally uncalled for.” I think of Maren jogging next to me. Maren at the chili festival. “Why don’t they just move and be closer to her?”
“My parents are three years away from retirement. The timing isn’t ideal, and they’re settled. My mother has a lot of free time to obsess over Maren. She still texts me before the sun is up to ask if Maren had gone shopping.” Our gazes drag to the big calendar on the wall with GROCERY SHOPPING listed in the Sunday slot. Libby’s cheeks flare up to pink. “I know you’re thinking, why doesn’t she text Maren with these questions? She’s trying to give her independence.” Libby brushes her hands together and hits her knees. “Enough about that. I don’t want to keep you from your night,” she says, pausing and adding disdainfully, “with Sara.”
She’s wrong. I want to know more about Maren, but she’s right. The case is the reason I’m here, not to get in to it with Libby. “Let’s get this over with then. Do you mind if I record the conversation? I don’t feel like taking notes.”
She nods. “Yeah. Fire away.”
I bring up the photos of Beth, Ellie, and Amanda on my phone. “Do you remember them?”
“This one.” She points to Beth. “She was a loud talker.”
“Hear anything she said?”
