King Size

by Lexi Whitlow

  “Oh, look at you,” Bryn whines, turning me around at the threshold. “You had a worse day than I did.”

  “Two days,” I remind her. “Yesterday was a day too. Today was just more, plus some.”

  Bryn laughs. “You don’t do drunk well. You’re not suave. You’re so pitiful. Come sit down. I’ll get you more coffee.”

  She puts me down on the couch, returning a moment later, pressing a hot cup into my hands.

  “Drink this. I need you to sober up. I have some stuff you need to hear.”

  A half hour later she has me upstairs in my bedroom, guzzling water from a bottle between swigs of coffee. Somehow, she’s gotten me here, undressed down to my shorts, in bed, all without my conscious consent. I’m still drunk, now drunk and wired on caffeine.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, still hazy, barely recollecting our earlier conversation. “I need to pee.”

  When I stumble out of the bathroom Bryn is down to a t-shirt and panties, in my bed, looking for all the world like she belongs there. We haven’t had sex in my bed yet. Mom and Drake are just a short walk away and I didn’t think it was in anyone’s best interest to bring us here just yet.

  In my current frame of mind and degree of intoxication, I don’t think I can do anything to change that.

  “Come get in bed and hear me out,” she insists. “Then you can sleep it off and we’ll talk tomorrow.”

  I climb in, pulling the sheets up high to my waist.

  “What?” I whine, my head spinning, my blood running cold. I pull the comforter over me.

  “It’s about what you said on the phone,” Bryn says. “About your family tradition? wallowing, downward spiral. I need you to know, that’s not true. Your father was railroaded. He wasn’t guilty.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “He was guilty as sin,” I tell her, not even wondering why she’s bringing this up.

  I don’t know why I brought it up, except my father tends to figure prominently in any bad mood I let linger in my head.

  “My dad told me everything,” Bryn says.

  What does her dad have to do with any of it?

  “He was the prosecuting attorney on your dad’s DUI and manslaughter case. I went and looked everything up. I pulled the whole transcript. Your father’s attorney was lazy and incompetent, and my father let two witnesses give false testimony without challenge. Your father was innocent.”

  No. He really wasn’t.

  “Bryn, do you know what my chores included when I was a kid?” I ask her, my eyelids drooping, by tongue thick in my mouth.

  She shakes her head.

  “My dad used to park his cab in the field beside our house. He’d be gone five or six days on end doing long-haul runs. When he came home, it was my job to clean out the cab.”

  I feel my jaw clench, the muscles in my neck flex as I recount this childhood detail I’ve never revealed.

  “On any given week, I’d fill two big trash bags full of empty beer cans from the floor of his cab. I made pretty good pocket change recycling them. By my best count, it was a twelve-pack a day for every day on the road, intermixed with fast food wrappers and empty coffee cups.”

  I let my bleary eyes settle on Bryn.

  “My father was a drunk, on the road and off.”

  She shakes her head. “But Daddy admitted to…”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “Your father might have fudged a detail here or there. But he was right. If my father kept up, it might have been an entire family he killed. Your dad did the world a favor.”

  Bryn considers me with questioning concern. She can’t believe what she’s hearing.

  “Look,” I say. “My father was rarely present. He hated all of us. He was ashamed of Drake. When he was on the road he stayed mostly lit, and when he was home he was obliterated. Your father did the right thing by getting him out from behind the wheel. He was a menace.”

  “Wow,” Bryn says, her expression confounded. “Not what I expected.”

  I shrug. “I don’t know what you expected. But that’s the truth. Tell your father to let go of it. I swear, I’m not holding a grudge.”

  My head hurts. I’m tired. It’s been a miserable day.

  “I’m going to sleep,” I say. “I can’t stay awake.”

  I slip under the covers, pulling them high up under my chin.

  Vaguely, I sense the lights dim. Bryn’s body sidles up alongside mine, her arms slipping around me, snuggling me close. In another minute I’m out, off into the dreamscape, sliding deep into the fog of an alcohol fed sleep.

  Chapter 19

  Bryn

  When I wake, it’s in a tangle of sheets and the sweaty, enveloping embrace of a snoring, still slumbering Logan. He reeks of too much booze consumed way too fast. I’m drenched in the same noxious scent. Ordinarily, I’d be disgusted, but as I peel myself out of his arms and have a look, he’s absolutely pitiful. Even in sleep he has dark circles under his eyes with a deep furrow cut between his brows; evidence of a headache.

  He’s going to be hungover and miserable whenever he wakes, and I’m not going to be here to nurse him. I have an early appointment this morning.

  Before I go I write Logan a note, leaving it with a fresh bottle of water and a couple Advil by the nightstand.

  Poor Logan,

  Your wallowing spiral into self-destruction failed miserably. You survived. Now take this Advil, drink all the water, and get in the shower – you reek.

  If you ever do that again, I will dump you. I’m no fan of crybabies. Buck-up.

  Dinner at my place tonight, we have more to talk about. You passed out before we even got to the broken condom. WTF?

  Gold Digger

  If that doesn’t make him laugh, he murdered his sense of humor with alcohol poisoning.

  * * *

  My early breakfast meeting goes swimmingly well.

  This morning Wake County Legal Aid extended the offer of CFO to Miles Merriweather, who just retired as Executive Director of Finance at a big corporate law firm in Charlotte. He’s sixty years old, bright, shrewd, and determined to bring his years of experience to our non-profit, advocating for the little people.

  After all these weeks trying to organize the start-up with just the help of a handful of young attorneys who, like me, all have full-time jobs, it feels great to hand the responsibility over to grown-ups who know what they’re doing, and have the time to do it.

  I’m walking on clouds as I pass through the doors of the firm, headed to my office. My ebullient mood is quickly deflated by our receptionist.

  “Mr. Beckett asked to see you as soon as you arrive,” she informs me, gnawing her lip anxiously. “Before coffee. Before you go to your office.”

  What now?

  I turn right instead of left, toward the wing of our building with better carpet, bigger offices, and nicer views out the windows. My office overlooks the parking lot. The view on this side opens on a lovely little woodland. My father wanted to give me an office over here, but I declined. I wanted to work my way up with the rest of the juniors. I didn’t want the appearance of special treatment. I was naïve.

  Two of my father’s senior partners are present as I arrive, knocking tentatively on the doorframe, leaning in.

  Their conversation goes silent as all eyes fall on me.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  Daddy motions me in. “Close the door behind you,” he says. His expression is grave.

  “Sit,” he says, pointing toward the small chair in front of his desk. His partners hover, standing at either side of me. Daddy regards me cautiously, then hands me a short stack of papers.

  The cover sheet is a service process from the Sheriff’s Department. Beneath that is a summons.

  ‘Pearson vs. Beckett, case no. 914576-B, District Court’

  Turning the page, the flesh at the back of my neck tingles with dread.

  The complaint indicates Charles W. Pearson as the Plaintiff, with E. Bryn Beckett and Beck
ett, Burkehead & Winslow, LLC, as Co-Defendants.

  I read on into the specifics. The claims horrify me, while causing me to laugh aloud.

  Charles has filed suit against me for sexual harassment and creating a toxic work environment. He’s filed against the firm for maintaining a workplace where such behavior is tolerated.

  He’s turned everything on its head. Half this complaint is absolutely true, except he’s the perpetrator who was protected by the boy’s club atmosphere of this place!

  “This is outrageous,” I say, keeping my tone measured.

  My father and his partners regard me with caution.

  “What?” I ask.

  They have no words. Odd, given they’re all lawyers.

  “You don’t believe this, do you?” I ask. “At least the part about me sexually harassing Charles?”

  My father shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Of course not.”

  “Okay then,” I chirp. “What can I do to help?”

  My father sits down on the corner of his desk, folding his arms over his chest. He hauls in a breath, letting it out slowly. He says, “Go home.”

  What?

  He shakes his head in resignation, offering his summation. “After everything that happened with Charles over the last couple days, and everything that happened before that never got dealt with properly, and everything I’ve learned about him since—which is all very troubling—we need to treat this lawsuit as the potential land mine it is.”

  Daddy releases his arms, placing palms down on the desk beneath him.

  “We need to appear as if we’re taking this seriously,” he says. “When we go to court, we have to be unimpeachable in how we handled these allegations.”

  You’re kidding me.

  “Let me get this straight,” I say. “A female lawyer on the junior team lodges a harassment complaint against Charles a year ago, and two weeks later she’s fired. And then I lodge one a few months ago, and not a god-damned thing happens to Charles. Now you get this piece of creative writing, and I have to go home?”

  I move from man to man, asking the question, settling livid eyes on my father.

  “Are none of you capable of seeing the malignant double standard—based on gender alone—in how you treat the same complaint? The guy gets to go on as if he’s done nothing wrong, but when it’s a woman, I get sent home? And what’s more, you know Charles is guilty of everything, just like you know this is bullshit.”

  I shake the papers at them.

  “You’re seriously sending me home?”

  His partners appear chastened, but my father is steadfast. “It’s what we have to do. And you can say what you want, but I’d do the same if it was any male on the team. I didn’t know about Charles—”

  “You didn’t know because you didn’t want to know!” I spit at him, standing up, pulling my bag onto my shoulder. “You organized this place so you don’t have to deal with the ugly parts. You have people who know their job is to keep you comfortably in the dark. You knew exactly what you wanted to know, exactly when. Only when Charles posed a threat to your client roster and your income, that’s when you drew the line. Not an instant before.”

  I pull my bag close, glaring at all of them.

  “I’ll leave,” I hiss. “Of course I will. That’s what the girls always have to do. You let me know when you need me for a deposition or a hearing. And just FYI, I’ve retained copies of every written statement I and other attorney’s here have made about Charles and his behavior, as well as detailed, dated and time-stamped notes on my conversations with him. You trained me well, Daddy. You’re still doing it. I may consider a lawsuit as well.”

  I walk out of my father’s office square shouldered, head high. Before departing the building, I collect my diploma from Columbia and my Bar Association credential from the wall of my office, along with a few other personal items.

  I want to put the fear of God into my father and his partners. I want them to know that just because my surname is Beckett, I’m not going to cow-tow to their cover-ups and 19th century Men’s Club method of doing business. I may be my own first client at Wake County Legal Aid.

  Wouldn’t that be something? Beckett vs. Beckett, Burkehead & Winslow, LLC.

  It has a nice ring to it.

  * * *

  Instead of going home, I decide to make the best use of my time. I’m pissed-off and agitated. I know my energy can be applied to useful things. I head over to the Legal Aid offices, hang my Columbia diploma on the wall behind my desk, then get on the phone ordering office supplies to outfit the place like a real law firm.

  Midway through the afternoon, my phone buzzes in my purse, providing a much-needed distraction.

  It’s a text.

  Logan: Oh God my head hurts. I’m so sorry about last night. Forgive me?

  I type back,

  Bryn: Forgiven. I’ve had a really shitty day. Third in a row. Would you like to hear about it?

  A second later his reply comes back.

  Logan: Sure. I’ll listen to anything you want to talk about.

  Who is this guy and where did he come from? He wants to listen to me kvetch about the petty injustices of my first-world complaints, while he’s nursing an epic hangover? What guy does that?

  Another text pings my phone.

  Logan: BTW, I may need a criminal defense attorney shortly, as I’m likely to commit murder on Charles Pearson. Details forthcoming. Have you ever tried a capital murder case?

  What the ever-loving-fuck?

  Chapter 20

  Logan

  I’m dehydrated, fuzzy, and gut-sick from last night’s bender. I’ve learned a valuable lesson; I’m not cut out to be a drunk. My father excelled in that sport, but I’m an amateur.

  Before I’m coherent, still nursing my first cup of coffee, Tim Dunigan calls with more news, none of it good. We spend the better part of the early afternoon going over the details in the kitchen while my head pounds.

  A woman who very briefly babysat Drake, has filed a lawsuit against him, for sexual assault and battery.

  This alleged assault is supposed to have occurred was while I was in rehab at the hospital at Chapel Hill, following my last knee surgery. I can’t attest to where anyone was or what transpired, because I was completely absent. What’s more, I barely knew the girl. I met her once or twice. I recall Drake didn’t like her much, and as soon as I was able to come home, we let her go.

  “This one has complications,” Tim states coolly. “First, there’s the question of competence. I don’t think Drake can assist in his own defense. But without his participation, the court only gets her side of the story.”

  I should have taken Charles Pearson’s head off when I had the chance. I should have hurt him. I should have broken him into small pieces, so he couldn’t ever do this kind of thing to anybody.

  Coming after Drake is crossing a hard line. One way or another, he’s going to pay for this.

  “The other issue is that Drake is going to look bad in a courtroom. They’ll push for a jury trial. We’ll ask for a judge. It could go either way. If we get a jury, I’m worried prejudice will taint any chance we have of a fair hearing.”

  “We can’t drag Drake through a trial, in front of a judge, or otherwise,” I say, my head throbbing with the sound of my own voice. “What will it take to settle it?”

  Tim winces. “They’re suing for six million. We can probably settle for four. But you’re showing your Achilles heel if you settle. More will follow.”

  “I can’t put Drake through it,” I say. “Make it go away.”

  Tim’s brow furrows as he regards me. “Do you think there’s anything to this?” he asks. “Could this be a legitimate? Did Drake—”

  “No,” I reply, cutting him off. “Drake can pitch a hell of a tantrum when he gets mad. He bites and breaks things. But he’s never acted out like that. He’s more inclined to hurt himself than anyone else. And never anything sexual. Never.”

  “We sho
uld fight it,” Tim says. “Or at the very least, appear as if we’re going to fight it.”

  I don’t understand.

  “The first thing we do is take depositions. Drake’s capable of sitting down and having a conversation. Especially if you and your Mother are there with him for support. Right?”

  I nod.

  “Let’s at least do that, and see what Drake has to say for himself.”

  I hate that idea, but Tim is the expert in these things. He hasn’t led me astray yet.

  * * *

  By the time I get to Bryn’s I’m still in a funk, but the symptoms have begun to subside. My headache is merely a dull thumping at the temples; it’s more annoying than painful. I’ve consumed enough water to flush most of the lingering toxins from my system. Now all I’ve got is cottonmouth and a mildly queasy stomach because I haven’t eaten much today.

  I was promised dinner. What I get is something else, and far more appealing. She’s made breakfast.

  “I thought you’d like some grease and carbs,” she says, greeting me at the door with a dubious smile. The scent of frying bacon wafts past.

  I’m drawn to it like a cat on the trail of a mouse. Her kitchen is my Nirvana. Pancakes and scrambled eggs steam on the griddle, there’s bacon sizzling in a covered skillet. Fresh coffee is brewing and there’s maple syrup warming in hot water on the stove.

  “Perfect,” I pronounce, offering a small smile, the first of the entire day.

  She sets my place at the kitchen bar, piling a plateful of the savory goodness then setting it before me.

  “Eat, and when you’re ready to come up for air, tell me what the heck set you off last night.”

  Bryn pulls up a stool on the end of the bar beside me, sipping coffee, nibbling a pancake, watching me wolf down mouthfuls, barely chewing.

  I wasn’t hungry before—not all day. Now I’m starving.

  She’s amused with me, her eyes smiling, silently appraising me. She’s adorable in her haughty superiority.

  Five minutes in and my headache subsides. I can breathe without aching from head to toe. Ten minutes and a half-dozen pancakes later, it’s as if a veil has lifted. My vision brightens. I can think again.