by Vi Keeland
“Take a walk and cool off, buddy.”
The asshole’s head whipped around. “Are you talking to me?”
“I am.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m the guy telling you to take a walk and cool off.”
He stood. “And what if I don’t?”
“You’ll be physically removed.”
“You’re going to call the cops on me for breaking a piece of glass?”
“Not unless Emerie wants me to. But I will toss your ass out on the street myself.”
I folded my arms across my chest and kept eye contact. Men who abused women were pussies. I’d kick his ass and enjoy every fucking minute of it.
After a few seconds, the guy looked at his wife. “I’m done with this counseling shit.” Then he stormed out. I stepped aside to make room for him to pass.
Both Emerie and her client stayed quiet until we heard the front door slam closed.
“You good?” I asked.
Emerie nodded, and for the first time, the woman turned and faced me. Her cheek was purple and yellow with a fading bruise. My jaw clenched. I should have punched the fucker while I had the chance.
“He’s not usually like that. It’s just been tough at his job lately.”
Sure he isn’t.
Emerie and I locked eyes one more time, an unspoken exchange. We were on the same page.
“I’ll let you two talk.” I shut the door behind me.
For the next half hour, I worked on a case file at the empty reception desk in the lobby, not wanting that asshole husband to walk back in without my knowing. Eventually, I caught his face outside the front window. He was smoking a cigarette and waiting outside for his wife. Smart move.
Emerie walked Mrs. Dawson to the lobby as they spoke. “How about we talk on the phone tomorrow? Even if it’s just for fifteen minutes? I’d really like to hear from you after today’s session.”
Her client nodded. “Okay.”
“How does ten sound?”
“That’s good. Bill leaves for work at eight.”
Emerie nodded. “You know what? I didn’t give you an appointment card for next week’s session. Let me grab one for you, and I’ll be right back.”
After she walked away, I spoke to Mrs. Dawson. My voice was low, nonjudgmental, and cautious. “You gonna be okay?”
She briefly looked in my eyes, but quickly diverted hers to the ground. “I’ll be fine. Bill isn’t really a bad guy. Honestly, you just caught him at a bad time.”
“Uh-huh.”
Emerie returned and handed her client a small card. “Talk to you tomorrow?”
She nodded and left.
When the door shut, Emerie sighed loudly. “I’m so sorry about that.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. You can’t help that your client is an asshole. Got plenty of ‘em myself.”
“I think he’s physically abusive to her.”
“I’d tend to agree with you.”
“I also don’t think I’ll ever hear from her again. She’s going to cut me off because I confronted her about what I suspected was going on.”
“You don’t think she’ll call tomorrow or show up at her appointment next week?”
“Nope. He’s not going to let her continue. Now that I know him a little better, I’m really surprised he ever agreed to come here at all. My counseling sessions have been with just her.”
“It’s tough.”
She sighed again. “I hope she calls you.”
“Me?”
“The appointment card reminder I gave her was your business card. Figured she needed a divorce attorney more than relationship counseling.”
My eyebrows jumped. “Nice.”
We walked side by side down the hall.
“I could use a drink,” Emerie said.
“Your office or mine?”
Emerie looked at me. “You have alcohol in the office?”
“I have a lot of shitty days.”
She smiled. “My office.”
“This tastes like turpentine.” Emerie’s entire face twisted.
I sipped. “It’s twenty-five-year-old Glenmorangie. That’s six-hundred-dollar-a-bottle paint thinner you’re drinking there.”
“For that price, they could have added some flavor.”
I chuckled. I sat in a guest chair, and Emerie was behind her desk. She must have unpacked the rest of her box because there were some new personal items on display. I lifted the glass coaster-like base that had gone with the award douchebag Dawson broke.
“You’re gonna need a new weapon.”
“Don’t think I need one with you around to threaten my clients.”
“He deserved it. I should have punched him in the face like he likes to do to his wife.”
“You should have. That guy was a real asshole. A fuckin asshole.”
She was cute working her New York accent, although it still sounded like Oklahoma doing New York.
There were two new frames on her desk, and I reached for one of them. It was a photo of an older couple.
“Help yourself,” she said with sarcasm and a smile.
I looked at her face, then the couple, then back at her. “These your parents?”
“Yep.”
“Who do you look like?”
“My mother, I’m told.”
I studied her mother’s face. They looked nothing alike. “I don’t see it.”
She reached over and slipped the photo from my hands. “I’m adopted. I look like my biological mother.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“It’s fine. It’s not something I’m secretive about.”
I leaned back in my chair, watching her look at the photo. There was reverence on her face when she spoke again. “I may not look like my mom, but we’re a lot alike.”
“Oh yeah? So she’s a pain in the ass, too?”
She pretended to be offended. “I’m not a pain the ass.”
“I’ve known you barely a week. Day one you were stealing office space and tried to kick my ass when I caught you. A few days later you started a fight because I made an innocent comment about some bad advice you were feeding a client, and today, I almost got into a fist fight because of you.”
“My advice wasn’t bad.” She sighed. “But I guess the rest is true. I have been a pain in the ass, haven’t I?”
I finished my drink and poured two fingers more into the tumbler, then topped off Emerie’s glass. “You’re in luck. I like pains in the asses.”
We talked for a while longer. Emerie told me about her parents’ hardware store back in Oklahoma and was in the middle of some story about selling supplies to a guy who was arrested for locking his wife in an underground bunker for two weeks when my office phone rang. I went to grab it, but she reached for it first.
“Mr. Jagger’s office. How may I assist you?” She answered in a sexy, flirty voice.
The two drinks had loosened her up, made her playful. I liked it.
“May I ask who’s calling?” She picked up a ballpoint pen and paused to listen, mindlessly rubbing the top along her bottom lip.
My eyes followed. I bet they taste good. I had the sudden urge to lean over the desk and bite one. Shit. Not a good thought.
Yet I was still staring at her lips when she looked back up at me. I should have stopped, but the way they moved when she started to speak held me captive.
“Okay, Mrs. Logan. Let me see if he’s available.”
That broke my gaze. I waved both hands in front of me, motioning to her that I wasn’t available. She put the phone on hold for five seconds and then returned to the call.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Logan. He seems to have stepped out.” A pause. “No, I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to give out Mr. Jagger’s cell phone number. But I will tell him you called.”
After she hung up, she said, “You know what I just realized?”
“That your voice sounds sexier after a few drinks?”
She bli
nked. “My voice sounds sexier?”
I gulped a mouthful of my second drink. “Yeah. You were flirting answering the phone.”
“I wasn’t flirting.”
I shrugged. “Whatever. I liked it. What were you going to say you realized?”
“I don’t even remember now. I think those two little drinks went right to my head.”
“And your lips,” I grumbled.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh! I remember what I was going to say.” She pointed a finger at me. “I’ve taken at least twenty phone calls in three days and saw a ton of appointments on your calendar. That was the first Mrs. that called. You don’t have any clients named Jane, Jessica, or Julie.”
“That’s because I only take male clients.”
“What?” She looked at me like I’d just told her the sky was purple.
“Male clients. You know, they’re like women, except with less drama and bigger di—” I quieted mid-word, hearing the front door open. “Are you expecting someone?”
“No. Why?”
“I just heard the front door open.” I stood and walked to the hallway. “Hello?”
A guy I’d never seen before popped his head around the corner from the lobby. “Hi. I’m looking for Emerie Rose?”
I squinted. “Who are you?” I was concerned that the Dawson douchebag had come back to start trouble. But this guy looked like the last trouble he saw was when the kids picked on him in elementary school.
I turned back to Emerie, who was already heading toward me. She joined me in the doorway.
“Baldwin? I thought that was your voice. What are you doing here?”
“Thought I would surprise you.”
The guy raised flowers I hadn’t noticed at his side; their color matched his crooked bow tie. They were lame—looked like he bought them at the Chinese market down the block for $7.99.
“That’s so sweet.”
Emerie stepped out of the doorway where we were nice and close and walked to the guy, giving him a hug and kiss. For some reason, I stayed put, watching it all.
After she took the flowers, she remembered I was behind her. “Baldwin, this is Drew. Drew, Baldwin is the friend I told you about the other day.”
I was confused, and she read it on my face.
“My TA in college. Remember, I told you all about him?”
Really? That guy? “Oh. Yeah.” I extended my hand. “Nice to meet you. Drew Jagger.”
“Likewise. Baldwin Marcum.”
There was an odd, awkward silence before Emerie broke it. “Isn’t the office beautiful?”
“Very nice.”
“Are you on your way to meet Rachel?”
“The show isn’t for another hour and a half. So I thought I’d check in on you.”
Baldwin was still looking around the office when he spotted the bottle of Glenmorangie and two empty glasses on Emerie’s desk.
He looked at her. “Is that scotch? At five in the afternoon?”
Emerie either didn’t catch the disdain in his voice or was good at ignoring it. “We had a rough day,” she said.
“I see.”
“Care for a glass?” I asked, certain he would decline after the sixty-second assessment I’d made. “It’s twenty-five and smooth.”
“No, thank you.”
I’d seen enough. “I have work to catch up on. Nice to meet you, Baldwin.”
He nodded.
An hour later, I was packing up my office when I heard the two of them laughing. The earlier events of the day still had testosterone pumping through my veins. Which was probably why, out of nowhere, I had the urge to punch the guy. An outlet was needed. Angry fucking. I need to get laid.
I knocked lightly on Emerie’s door before pushing it open. “I’m going to head out. You should try that sleeping technique I told you about again tonight so you’re on time again tomorrow.”
Emerie’s eyes widened as she attempted to hide her smirk. “Yes. Maybe I’ll do just that.”
Baldwin watched our exchange closely.
I waved and nodded. “You have a good night.”
I made it one step before Emerie called to me. “Drew.”
I turned back. “Yeah?”
She wrung her hands together. “Thank you for today. I didn’t say it, but I appreciate everything you did.”
“Anytime, Oklahoma.” I rapped my knuckles against her office doorframe. “Don’t stay too late, okay?”
“I won’t. I’m going to head out in a few minutes. Baldwin has plans tonight, so I’ll walk out with him.”
“Want me to wait? We can grab a burger at Joey’s again?”
Emerie started to respond when Mr. Bowtie interrupted. “Actually, I’ve had a last-minute change of plans. Why don’t I take you for some dinner?”
“You’re not going to the show with Rachel?”
“We can see it another time. I wasn’t aware you’d had a bad day. You can tell me all about it at dinner.”
Emerie looked to me, conflicted. I made the choice easier for her. Who was I to interrupt the happy couple?
“You two have a good night then.”
I might have been full of myself. After all, I’d been told on more than one occasion lately that my ego was pretty big, but I could have sworn Emerie’s little friend’s change of plans had something to do with me.
Drew, New Year’s Eve, Five years ago
“Happy anniversary.”
Alexa sat on the couch flipping through a People magazine. I bent to kiss her cheek, then leaned down farther to touch my lips to my almost-two-year-old son’s forehead where he slept with his head on her lap. He was drooling. A big pool of spit puddled on my wife’s thigh.
I pointed to it and joked, “A few years ago, making you wet on New Year’s Eve meant something very different.”
She sighed. “I wish we could go out. This is the first New Year’s I’ve been home since I was a kid.”
New Year’s Eve was a huge holiday to my wife. She looked forward to it like a kid waiting for Santa. And yesterday, someone had told Alexa there was no Santa. We’d planned on going out tonight—a party in downtown Atlanta thrown by a friend of hers I didn’t really care for—but the sitter canceled on us. Alexa was devastated. I was secretly glad. Today was the first day off I’d had in a month, and staying home and watching movies—maybe ringing in the new year inside of my wife—was as much excitement as I was in the mood for.
But Alexa had been sulking for twenty-four hours. She was still having a hard time adjusting to the new lifestyle motherhood had brought. It was understandable. After all, she was only twenty-two, and all of her friends were partying like carefree twenty-two-year-olds.
I had hoped she’d make some new friends at the Mommy and Me class she joined last month—perhaps friends who were married, had a child, and didn’t think drinking responsibly meant not spilling your shot of Goldschläger.
“Why don’t you go out? I’ll stay home with Beck tonight.”
Her eyes lit up. “Really?”
Not exactly how I thought we’d spend our anniversary, but Alexa needed it.
“Sure. I’m wiped out. Me and my little buddy will hang. We don’t get to spend enough time alone anyway.”
Alexa gently lifted Beck’s head from her lap, rested it on a throw pillow, and sprung up to give me a big hug.
“I can’t wait to wear the dress I bought. Lauren and Allison are going to be so jealous I can afford to shop at Neiman Marcus now.”
I forced a smile. “I can’t wait to help you out of it when you get home.”
We’d dropped Alexa off at her friend Lauren’s last night, and I offered to pick her up, but she insisted she’d take a cab home so I didn’t have to wake the baby. Turned out, that wasn’t a problem. The baby was wide awake—considering it was eight o’clock in the morning, and my wife still hadn’t come home.
Beck sat in his high chair, sucking on Cheerios, and made a loud quacking noise
to get my attention while I was pouring my second cup of coffee. Filling my cheeks with air, I forced it out and quacked back at him as I sat. He looked momentarily startled at the sound, and for a second, I thought he was going to cry. But then he let out a loud giggle, which made me laugh right back.
“You like that, buddy, huh?” I leaned closer to him and filled my cheeks again. “Quack. Quack.”
My son studied my face as if I were an alien, then broke out in a giggle fit. After the third or fourth time, he caught on, and I watched as he tried to make the same sound. His little cheeks would fill, but only a rush of air with some spit would come out of his mouth. No quack. It didn’t discourage him.
After every one of his attempts, I’d make the sound, and he’d watch intently and try again. At one point, it was his turn, and I thought it might finally be his shining moment. He sucked in a big mouthful of air and then…held his breath. His chubby cheeks started to turn red, and his face was so intent. That’s my boy. If at first you don’t succeed, work harder. I had a proud dad moment there. My boy was going to be a hard worker.
He did the red-face-holding-his-breath thing a few times and then started giggling again. It was my turn. So I leaned in close to quack, and when I sucked in the air, I realized during that last round he hadn’t been working on his quack. He was shitting in his diaper.
We both laughed for ten minutes as I changed him. Although I think he was laughing at me and not with me.
Shortly after, the little shit machine conked out. I stared at him in wonderment for a while. This wasn’t exactly how I’d seen my life as I looked forward three years ago, but I wouldn’t change it for the world. My son was everything to me.
By the time ten o’clock rolled around, being annoyed because Alexa hadn’t come home yet started to morph into worry. What if something had happened to her? I swiped my phone from the kitchen counter and checked my texts. Still nothing. So I dialed her phone. It went right to voicemail.
The living room window in our third-floor condo faced Broad Street, a quiet, tree-lined block on the outskirts of Atlanta. Most of the world had been out partying last night, so the street was particularly quiet this morning. Which was why I couldn’t miss the bright yellow, souped-up Dodge Charger with the number nine painted on the side coming around the corner. Even though the windows were closed, I could hear the roar of no muffler and the screech as the driver took the turn too fast.
