A confused murmur ripples through the crowd, and I know they’re all wondering if someone had the balls to slip something into my drink. I find Wexler in the throng and he looks absolutely baffled.
I ignore him. “I would like to congratulate my friend Arthur Wong for his success with the Teller case. I know there was some...doubt...as to your ability...” Snickers. “...and I know I may have led that charge.” The snickers increase. “But I was wrong.” The snickers halt. “Yes,” I say with a smile, “this speech is full of surprises.”
An entirely different kind of laughter.
“Arthur, I should have said this before, but you did a wonderful job. And you taught me something about working together. About patience, and kindness, and sharing not just the workload, but the credit.” People are looking at each other like, What the fuck is she up to? but Arthur is just beaming at me, flattered as hell. “I’ll take that with me to LA,” I tell him. “And I will endeavor to do better. As always.”
They’re a rapt audience, mostly because they’re waiting for the punch line. But there isn’t one. “Thank you,” I say, raising my glass. “And goodbye.”
They dutifully raise their glasses and echo the sentiment. It’s only as I sip my champagne and gaze around the room that I spot Eli leaning against the rail at the edge of the roof, watching me, his expression unreadable from this distance. I blink in case I’m imagining things, but when I look again, he’s gone.
* * *
That evening I’m woken from a wine-assisted nap on the couch shortly after 11:00 p.m. I’d spent the thirty minutes post-speech fielding awkward goodbyes while trying to search for Eli with no success, then come home early and alone. Now I fumble for my phone and frown when I see Joseph Morgan’s name on the display. “Hello?”
“Caitlin?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Joseph Morgan calling.”
Thank you, Captain Obvious. “Is everything all right?”
He takes a deep breath. “Well...no.”
I scramble to come up with some scenario that could undo our—Arthur’s—success with the Teller suit, but nothing comes to mind. I push myself to a sitting position and wince at the crick in my neck. “What is it then?”
“I’m at the police station.”
That was not the response I expected. “Are you in trouble?”
A short laugh. “No. But your friend is. Elijah was arrested.”
My thoughts claw their way through the remaining haze of my nap to dumbly echo, “Eli? Arrested?”
“Yes. He was pulled over two hours ago. He blew a 0.8.”
Driving under the influence. “Is he being charged?”
“I’m doing what I can to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
I scramble for something to say, but the best I can come up with is, “Why are you telling me this?”
A pause. Morgan clears his throat. “I thought since I’d seen you two at the restaurant together, you would want to know. And that you might want to come get him...?”
Before I can tell him I’m the last person Eli wants to see right now—or ever—I hear Eli in the background. He must have been released. “Joe? Who is that? Is it Stella?”
“Who? Stell—No, Elijah, it’s—”
“Let me talk to her for a minute. What time is it? Oh, Jesus, she’s been waiting for hours!”
Huh. God forbid Stella should be kept waiting.
Morgan must be gesturing as he talks, because only bits and pieces of the argument come through. I’m about to hang up when I hear the unmistakable sound of Eli’s voice and his impassioned plea: “I have to tell her I love her.”
My heart sinks, though just as quickly I race to pick up the pieces, telling myself I must have misheard. He’s drunk, the phone’s bouncing around, it’s late, I’m still half-asleep—
“I have to tell Stella I love her!” he repeats, louder.
O-kay. Definitely caught it that time. Caught it like a knife to the heart. “I’m going to hang up now, Joseph.”
There’s a pause while he wrestles the phone back. “Caitlin, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed—”
“Wait, that’s Caitlin? Why is she—”
“Good night.” I end the call the way I wish I could end this whole damn day, then turn off the phone completely for good measure. He’d told me so all along, hadn’t he? That he loved her and thought he’d never get over her? And apparently he hasn’t. He won’t.
Well. Eli may be happy living his life in replays, but I’m not.
Inspired and a little bit drunk, I head into the hall and take the elevator to the top floor, climbing the final flight of stairs to the roof. I heave it open, sticking a rock in the jamb so I don’t get locked out, and take a deep breath as I look over the city I’ve called home for five years. The one I’m leaving in three days, fifteen hours and forty-one minutes.
And not a moment too soon.
Sure, it may be lonely at the top, but at least you know where you stand.
Chapter Twenty-Two
My flight to LA leaves at three o’clock, and at noon Wednesday I make my final trip to the office. I’d shipped my luggage ahead of time so all I have today is a carry-on, and I see people eyeing it suspiciously, as though I’m preparing to load up on office supplies before I go. The truth is, I need to collect the few remaining personal items from my desk, say a pitiful number of goodbyes, then meet River in his office at twelve thirty, since we’re flying out together.
Five years of sixteen-hour days concludes in a slightly awkward exchange of handshakes and lackluster well-wishes. Belinda has the day off, so I leave her courtside Bulls tickets on her desk, in an envelope marked Audit Report so no one will steal it. Even Haines, with whom I have shared considerably more than billable hours, feels like just another rung on the ladder, a box checked en route to my ultimate goal. But instead of the familiar adrenaline rush I normally feel knowing I’m one step closer to achieving my dream, I just feel relieved. Relieved that this part is finally over.
In deference to the four-hour flight and my fresh start in LA, I’d dressed casually in a navy shift dress and black heels. The red lipstick is still in place, but only because I like it, not because I want to be the center of attention. I meant what I said at the party: I’m happy to be part of a team. I don’t need to be the star, and maybe we don’t need one. I’m going to enjoy the new office, get to know my coworkers and work with them, not against them. And I’m going to go home at a reasonable hour even if it kills me, and find a hobby and sleep in on weekends. Chicago’s Finest asked Who is Caitlin Dufresne? and I’m going to change the answer.
I take a deep breath and turn to go, stumbling when I see Eli framed in the doorway. I curse the stupid glass walls; the last thing I want is anyone to witness whatever’s about to happen. We haven’t spoken since the fight; I haven’t seen him since that split-second glimpse on Saturday. And I haven’t wanted to since I heard him announce that he was still in love with Stella.
“Hi,” he says.
I keep my expression carefully neutral. “Hi.”
“So today’s the day. You’re leaving.” He steps inside and lets the door close behind him, taking in my dress, my hair in its basic topknot, the designer suitcase waiting by the desk.
I lift a shoulder, hoping to appear nonchalant. “Yes.”
He’s wearing khakis as always, though this time they’re paired with a black button-up, open at the top to reveal the tanned column of this throat, a hint of collarbone. It doesn’t matter what he wears. He’s not my type and I want him more than anything. And that doesn’t matter either. He made his choice and I made mine.
He studies me for a moment. “You’d just go, without saying a word?”
It’s tempting to remind him that that’s exactly what he wanted from
me a week ago, but instead I reply, “What should I say, Eli? I heard you talking to Morgan. I know about the arrest. What you were trying to do.” He doesn’t pretend not to understand, just runs a tired hand over his face and looks up at me through his lashes.
“You heard?”
My lower lip is trying its best to wobble, but I manage to hold it steady through sheer force of will. He may have hurt my feelings, and perhaps my heart, small and black and dead as it may be, is a tiny bit broken, but my pride is still intact. “Of course I did.”
“What did I say?”
“You know what you said.”
“So that’s it then? You don’t want to talk about it?”
I’m completely baffled. “What is there to say? There’s no way to misinterpret ‘I have to tell Stella I love her!’” I drag in a frustrated breath and look away to compose myself. “I don’t even know why you’re here,” I mutter. “Go find Stella and give her the good news.”
Eli takes a few slow steps toward me. I’m aware of the extra foot traffic passing by outside, nosy interlopers trying to wring the last drops of gossip out of my tenure. “No way to misinterpret it, huh?” he murmurs. “No other way to look at it?”
I’ve thought about nothing but for the past four days, but once again I run that damning sentence through every rose-tinted filter I’ve got, and still it comes out looking like shit. “No,” I say finally.
“Stella told me she thought she might still be in love with me, and I wanted to tell her once and for all that I didn’t feel that way anymore, because—” He pauses as understanding dawns on me, the implication setting in.
I have to tell Stella I love her.
“Her” could be...me. “What are you saying?” I demand. I refuse to hope; I’ve made a fool out of myself already with my caring and sulking.
Eli looks around the office, now just an empty desk and vacant seat, the walls bare. “Does it matter?” he replies. “It looks like you’ve made up your mind.”
It’s getting hard to breathe. When I thought it was Stella he wanted to profess his love for, I was very prepared to get on that plane and never look back. But if it’s not her... “Just say it,” I order through numb lips. “Say what you came to say.”
Eli opens his mouth to speak, but then River, with his impeccable timing, knocks on the door and steps inside, travel bag slung over his shoulder, passport in hand.
Fuck.
“Caitlin?” he asks, shooting Eli an apologetic smile as he interrupts, shattering whatever potential had been brewing. “You ready?”
“You have to be fucking kidding me,” Eli breathes. He looks so...stunned. For a second he pales, then the blood rushes to his cheeks, anger and heartbreak. He thinks he’s been passed over for another guy. Again.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” I tell River, my look clearly communicating “Get lost.” He takes the cue and backs out, peering between us oddly.
“You’re going with him?” Eli demands, jerking a thumb after River’s departing form. “That’s perfect, isn’t it? Fucking full circle.”
I want to tell him we can work something out if he says he loves me, but I don’t want to bribe him for those three little words. “Just tell me,” I try again. “Tell me what you were going to say.”
He stares at me for a long moment, eyes dark with hurt and fury. “I was drunk,” he says. “How’s that for full circle? Getting drunk with you started this whole thing, and getting drunk ended it.”
He turns to leave and I snatch his arm, digging in my nails, furious at how petty and cowardly he is. “That’s it? That’s how you want it to end? You can’t tell me the truth?”
“Do you have a ticket to LA, Caitlin? Are you going with him?” Of course he already knows the answers to his questions, and every one damns me more and more.
Instead of answering, however, I counter with a question of my own. Something that has been nagging at me for a while, something I’d shoved aside, convinced it wasn’t important. Until now. “Do you know the name of the plaintiff in the case I’ve been working on?”
Eli frowns at the sudden change in direction. “What?”
“Do you know the name of the lawyer I’ve been working with this past month?”
“What does this—”
“When is my birthday?”
He just stares at me, uncomprehending, so I force a smile, even as my eyes burn with unshed tears. “Here are some things I know,” I tell him. “I know that Mendez needs to work on his slider if he’s ever going to move from relief pitcher to closer. I know that O’Connor’s batting average has jumped thirty-one points since Baumgartner changed the batting order and moved him from fourth to lead-off. I know to measure twice and cut once, and that glazing putty used in car repairs is your best bet for filling in cracks in wood trim. I know you keep black licorice in your glove box, and that you wake up at 3:00 a.m. every night to drink a glass of water. And I know that your birthday is April twenty-ninth and you prefer blueberry pie to any kind of cake.”
Now he just looks sad. He sees the point I’m making, as convoluted as it may be.
“I tried, Eli.” I gesture around us, at the office, the view, my life in general. “I’m not the best at what I do because I really, really want it, or because I slept with someone or stepped on somebody to get here. I’m the best because I keep trying to get better. I never stop. I never give up. But you gave up on me every time.” He tries to interrupt but I keep going, spewing words I hadn’t even known I’d been bottling up. “You let some magazine article and a bunch of strangers tell you who I was, and never tried to find out for yourself. You don’t care that I went to every losing softball game, and watched a thousand innings of baseball, and learned how to grout a bathtub, even though it’s gross and I wanted to quit and tell you to hire somebody. I don’t quit, that’s not who I am. But you do. And that’s a shame, because you put on a horrible pink shirt every Wednesday and convince a bunch of little girls not to give up, but you’re so busy living in the past that you can’t follow your own fucking example and live right now.”
He scratches his ear and stares at something over my head, buying himself some time. Finally he looks at me again. “What do you want me to say?”
“What do you think, Eli? I want you tell me what you were going to say that night.”
The phone on my desk beeps, and a secretary’s voice comes through. “Caitlin? River Smith is waiting in the lobby. The town car is ready to go.”
I close my eyes. What the ever-loving fuck is wrong with my luck today? “Thank you.”
The light on the phone dims, and it takes me a full ten seconds to meet Eli’s dark gaze. He smiles thinly and steps in close, pressing his lips to my forehead for a long, sad moment. I’m not an idiot. I know this doesn’t end well. When he backs away, the sad smile is still in place, warring alongside resignation for top billing.
“You’re the smartest woman I’ve ever met,” he says. “And I think you know what I was going to say that night. I think you know it hasn’t been about Stella for a very long time. And I think you bought a plane ticket anyway.”
I can barely stand. I hate that my breath sounds like a strangled sob and that when I manage to move it’s to wipe away the damnable tear that has somehow managed to sneak out. I hate that those were not the words I desperately want to hear. I hate that he’s still reliving the replay of his last heartbreak, and I can’t convince him otherwise.
There’s only one thing left to do. “I have to go.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Two weeks works wonders for a broken heart.
At least that’s what Susan told me, but she’s an idiot.
What has been helping is the LA sunshine, and the carryover of my formerly unbearable Chicago summer hours. Every day I arrive at the office at seven, and each day I l
eave promptly at seven. Because my reputation preceded me, this slack behavior raised some eyebrows, but I’ve been doing my best to show people the new me, the less cutthroat, more patient and...kinder me, and I think it’s working. A few people have even told me I’m “not what they expected,” and while I might have considered that an insult two months ago, I now recognize it for what it is: progress.
Instead of spending time at the office to the exclusion of all else, I’ve been using my evenings and weekends to mope explore the city. I’ve been to museums, restaurants and landmarks, and even spent time at the beach. In the shade, slathered in SPF 80 sunblock, but still. One of the perks I’d negotiated was a car to pick me up and take me home, and during the commute I chat with Dorrie or watch White Sox games on my tablet. In short, I’m keeping busy in entirely new ways, and doing whatever I can to stop my mind from wandering back to Chicago and the...people there.
The Caitlin Dufresne from the Chicago’s Finest cover story is no more. Or rather, her impressive track record, legal prowess and superb taste in footwear is still in top form, but the single-mindedness, shrewdness and, well, bitchiness, is a thing of the past. Mostly. Almost always.
Fine. I’m working on it.
Like now, for example. It’s six fifty-nine and I’m about to head home for the weekend. On my way to the elevator I pause next to the desk of one of our junior associates and study his frozen computer screen. “Still no luck?”
He shakes his head. “No. Every time two or more people try to use the database search, it locks up.”
This is normally the point where I’d grill him about what he was doing wrong, then order everyone to stay off the network until I’d finished my own research. But not only am I trying not to be the most hated woman in the office, I’m succeeding at it, and I am doing that by pretending everybody is an Arthur Wrong, and practicing patience.
“I’m sure Cole will take care of it,” I say calmly. Cole has been nothing but kind and competent, handily reinforcing our atmosphere of camaraderie and teamwork, but it still requires a concerted effort to utter the words with conviction. “Good night, Xander,” I force myself to say. “Have a nice weekend.”
In Her Defense Page 28
