by Amy Faye
So I don't think he knew, and I know I sure as hell didn't talk to anyone about it, not so you'd know who I was talking about.
But when he left, I just remember feeling like my heart was getting ripped out of my chest.
Nothing before that feels like a real memory. Just little flashes, but nothing that makes good sense. Nothing with real context. A few teachers' faces. I don't know their names. Can't put them in order. Couldn't tell you something I learned from them.
But that image of Eric walking out my Mom's front door, the morning sun just hitting the horizon and shooting pink-colored lights around him, that I remember well.
More than that, I remember how, when everyone else was up—I couldn't go back to sleep after that, could I?—I couldn't get anyone to tell me what had happened.
It wasn't something that they wanted to talk to me about.
There are things I know now, that I didn't know then. Things I understand that I didn't understand at the time. That's how it always is, really. There's always something that you don't know until it's too late.
I learned that just because two people say they love each other, that doesn't mean that they're going to be together forever.
Mom had assured me a thousand times over that she loved Dad. That wasn't how it worked out. In fact, after Eric left, it seemed like it was only a matter of time. Something had changed, however small, and then it just got bigger as time went on, until they couldn't ignore it any more.
I learned that Mom was prone to mistakes. Later, I learned that I'd been the one making a mistake—Mom's mistakes were always the sort of mistakes you can avoid with the radical technique of 'not looking for trouble.'
I learned that fairy tale romances aren't real. My Mom taught me about everything anyone could ever want to know, and I guess for all that I think about her, I guess I have to thank her for that.
Without her little lessons, I wouldn't have toughened up. I wouldn't have the understanding I do now, of the world and of how to get by in it. I wouldn't be where I am today.
So it doesn't change how I feel, but she's right about one thing. I should feel bad for her. She didn't want to be a walking disaster, and she didn't want to chase every man in her life away.
She didn't want to chase the only man in my young, fourteen-year-old world away.
It was just how she was. The question then became, how far was I willing to carry that anger, and when you put it that way, the answer became much clearer.
She wasn't. No reason to suffer for nothing, just to be self-righteous. Mom would get what she deserved, or she wouldn't.
But I'm not going to carry a torch for it. The damage is already done, and I learned an important lesson in the process. Don't put yourself in positions to get hurt. Don't trust anyone unless you know how to get yourself out of the situation.
Look at the details. Think about solutions, rather than problems. My solution is right in my hands. A letter of recommendation, stacked on top of a resume that is as good as any can be, coming straight out of school.
So I should probably have earlier memories of my life. I should probably have lots of things.
I should probably have a real Mom. I should probably have some faith in Dad. He's doing his best. I'm sure that Eric's dad did, too.
I should probably have an apartment in the city, if I'm going to be working here. I should probably have a metro pass.
But I don't. I have an older sister that I have to take care of on occasion. It's a reality I have to deal with.
Dad's going to keep the relationship going as long as he can. He's been working hard at it for the past five years, and he's got the patience of a saint. Even a saint has to break at some point, and Mom has a unique gift for breaking folks.
Apartments are expensive, and I would never admit it out loud but I have no idea where I'm supposed to buy a metro pass. Which I guess covers everything.
I swallow hard. I've got the interview in the bag. It's not going to be a problem. The letter of recommendation should do a lot. The fact that I've got a special interview, that I was introduced and I'll be speaking to the head Partner, rather than some HR department goon…
Those things are all acting in my favor. So there's nothing to freak out about.
But my oldest memory is one of having my entire world shattered, and since then, I've had to get used to one thing:
No matter how bad things seem, they can always get worse. Be prepared to be disappointed, because you always will be.
I flip through my papers one more time. As if they will have gotten themselves out of order in the past five minutes, since I sat down. They're all in order.
A woman's head pops out from the other side of the door. She's got silky-smooth red hair that mirrors my own. It's rare that I run into red-heads, but he's got one working as his secretary.
I'm not above letting a man hire me because he thinks I'm attractive. Another bonus.
"Miss Logan?"
"Yes?"
She smiles and steps through the door. She's got a nice body. I feel a little jealousy simmering, as if there were some sort of 'law of the jungle' that said no woman could be any better-looking than I am. "Mr. Warren will see you now."
Chapter Two
I don't know what I was expecting when she came in. Len had a solid head on his shoulders, and he had a wit that couldn't be beat. He'd have made a great trial lawyer if that had been what he'd wanted.
Hell, maybe he had been a great trial lawyer, once. It's difficult to say, because as long as I've known him, he's been teaching.
The other thing I know is about his weakness for attractive women. A particular weakness, and particularly strong in him.
So when someone named "Autumn" came across my desk, it was hard to know if I was getting Len, the legal genius, the argumentative son of a bitch who wouldn't give an inch even past the point where the argument was belabored, or if I was getting Len who regularly slept with available young women who needed a solid GPA more than they needed a solid reputation.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, of course, the idea wasn't totally foreign. Autumn isn't a common name, after all. How many 'Autumn's are there in the world? A hundred thousand? How many in the country?
Not many. Not as many as there are Sarahs, or Jackies, or Ellens. But plenty. So while the idea that it might be that Autumn had occurred to me the minute that he'd made the call, I'd dismissed it.
Obviously it wasn't her. What were the odds, really? One-in-a-hundred or less.
Then she walked through the door. Her hair was still the same fire-red, a loose braid pulled forward over one shoulder. There were differences, too. Very big differences. Two of them at least.
Natural differences between a fourteen-year-old girl and a grown woman. She walks like a woman, and I can't help watching her do it.
I wonder idly as she settles into the seat across from me whether or not to tell her I know who she is. Part of me wants to think that I knew before, but I didn't. The last name sealed the deal, it definitely wasn't her.
"Nice to meet you, Miss Logan."
"Mr. Warren. Beautiful day, isn't it?"
She's looking out the window. It's large and behind me and it shines light in the face of whoever's sitting across from me, and I like it that way.
"Absolutely beautiful. Len Carson tells me that you're his brightest student. His star pupil. Is that right?"
She blushes at the praise, her pale skin darkening deep to a color almost approximating her hair.
"I don't know about that…"
I don't know if I'm frowning. It's been a long time since I've practiced any of these expressions in a mirror, but I give her my stoniest expression.
"I don't need modesty, Miss Logan. I need talented people."
"I have distinguished myself well. I don't think that any of my classmates would disagree that I've stood out."
"Good."
She's playing the professional. Of course, so did her mother, when she wanted
to. She was all goodness and righteousness, when it was convenient for her. Yet, when it wasn't, or when she didn't want to fake it any more, she could become a completely different person.
Maybe it's unfair to judge a woman by her mother. Maybe it's a natural consequence of the fact that people copy the folks around them. But he's going to do it anyways. If she's as good as Len says, she'll get over it.
A pro knows that life isn't fair, and if she's going to be any use to him, she'd better be a pro.
"So this is your first job, in the field?"
"I assisted with a few cases, before I graduated."
"Of course. Can you give me the details? Any court work, or just contract stuff?"
"I helped prepare a brief for a patent violation suit. Jones v. Broadwell, I uh. I don't have the file. I'm sure that you understand. Not mine to give."
"No, of course not. But I could call Randall Clark and he'd give me an opinion on how you did, is that right?"
"Yes sir."
"And he'd tell me…"
"I imagine he'd tell you that I conducted myself in a professional manner."
What he thought of her professionally would be one of the things Randy would tell me if I called him. He'd also be more than willing to give an opinion on her looks, if I didn't mention that we'd known each other previously.
If I mentioned that I'd known her when she was fourteen years old, and she was my kid sister, then I'd get the most positive comments that I'd ever heard, even if she'd burned the case to the fucking ground.
"Excellent. I will call him, then. Any other cases you felt I should look into?"
"None as big as that one, but I did help draft several wills, things like that."
"But no other court work?"
"No, sir. I found most men and women working court trials to be staffed. Few needed a student to hop on, even as an intern with paralegal training."
"No, you're right about that."
"I've also been in several mock-trials, and performed well enough in those."
"There's a difference between that and the real thing, Miss Logan, but I'm sure you know that."
"Of course. But I can only do what I can do, right?"
"Of course. Look, I've got to make some calls, talk to some people, and make sure that it all checks out. But if you're half the assistant that Len Clark makes you out to be, I'll be giving you a call in a couple days, alright? We'll talk salary, when you can start, all that stuff, when I've checked you out."
I'm already checking her out. Which I shouldn't be. The phrase 'kid sister' floats through my mind, as if it's going to make her less of a knockout. As if it means anything, after ten years of separation and a divorce. As if she's related to me at all, really.
Kid step-sister was more accurate. But then again, men's brains are rarely accurate. When it's remembering a skinny fourteen year old who clung to his hip like she was attached to it, that's one thing.
A twiggy fourteen-year-old girl who frankly was the most effective damn chastity belt I'd ever imagined. How many dates had she ruined? It was hard to say.
'Kid sister' fit that Autumn. Too big an age difference to really get along. Too young to really have grown into any sort of a woman.
This woman? 'Kid sister' was the furthest thing from what I'd use to describe her. Memory of how our time together ended, though, kept 'sister' in the picture. Maybe if it had been on good terms, I'd be ready to overlook it.
Half the brain she seems to be would be good enough, if it came with a body like hers. Honestly, she'd making life hard for herself getting into the legal profession, when she could have a comfortable living letting people take her photo.
But it hadn't been a separation on good terms. I'd gotten over it. Or so I thought. But as she closed the door behind herself, my teeth clicked together.
Some hurts didn't heal quite as well as you thought they did, and I hadn't realized how sore the wound still was until she'd walked back into my life.
Chapter Three
The second he'd raked his eyes across my body, looked at me like a man looks at a woman, I couldn't get rid of the feeling. Even once I left the room I thought it was going to be alright, but it wasn't.
The weight that he'd settled on me, the feeling of being watched, of raw want that I'd seen in his eyes was almost upsetting.
Almost.
Just thinking about it now, the way that his eyes bored into me, my heart skipped a beat. Did he look at every woman that way? Another woman might have been tempted by a man that intense, that full of… power, of vigor.
He didn't say anything about knowing me. I suppose that, by itself, should be enough to tell me that he doesn't remember. But the way his eyes smoldered, the intensity of his look…
I can't remember anyone ever looking at me that way, but somehow it seems like everything I had ever felt about my brother. Like there was a sort of super-human intensity to him.
I'd imagined it was probably the results of a girlish crush, and the way that children look up to teens, teens look up to young adults. Six years was enough to make him a God in anyone's eyes. Of course I would assign all kinds of crazy traits to him.
But seeing him again only helped to confirm everything I'd suspected. With looks like his, and the intensity in those eyes, it wasn't hard to imagine that he had his pick of women throughout law school.
Now, he had a woman working as his secretary that most men would kill for without question. He had money, he had prestige, he had power. He had everything any woman would want. If he scored when he was in college, it was hard to imagine how much he got up to now, as a powerful, notably unmarried, lawyer.
I closed my eyes. He wasn't some guy, though. I had gotten over my girlhood crush. If I hadn't, then I would. People tend to mythologize people who they only know a little about, but it's different when you find out who they are.
Eric was a mystery, and he has been since I was fourteen years old. Because of that, he was going to be some sort of legend in my eyes.
A perfect body, chiseled out of marble, the only memory that I could recall, that morning he walked out. The few photos that I could find, from year books that Mom couldn't get rid of—she couldn't get rid of anything—showed a preternaturally attractive face.
My subconscious created the rest. I'd manufactured him into the perfect man, just edgy enough to really entice a woman. Strong and proud and intelligent and well-spoken. Soft at times, hard at others.
It was impossible not to compare the Eric who had fueled more than a few sleepless nights, twisting up the sheets around my legs as I tried to get comfortable, unable to think about anything but that hot guy I must have known, and Eric Warren, the man who had sat behind that heavy wooden desk and set the heaviest gaze on her that I've ever felt.
And to my surprise, it was no contest. My brother was everything that I'd imagined him to be and more, hardened and tempered by a decade apart.
My breath still catches in my throat every time that I remember him, every time that I catch the smell of leather. It had permeated his office and now it hooked into the back of my mind, reminding me of that interview every time I pass by the cheap, heavily-worn leather sofa in my front room.
The phone rings, starting with a buzz that makes me jump. The tabletop makes it that much louder, that much more shrill. Is it him?
I've already got the job. I heard it from that secretary of his. When I don't have to feel as if she's some sort of competition for the affection of a man who is almost certainly off the table, she seems nice. Polite, friendly.
All the friendliness in the world doesn't explain why she's calling me, though. Not when I don't even start work for another two days.
It's not her, though. And as much as I might want it—don't want it—it's not Eric's office, or even a number I don't recognize that might prove to be his cell phone.
It's a number I know well. The caller I.D. reads "DO NOT ANSWER" in big letters, and the advice is good. I'd given it to myself in a time wh
ere I thought that I would listen to advice if it was good.
I can feel my blood pressure shooting up just from seeing it. I shouldn't answer. I really shouldn't. Mom is trouble, and she's always been trouble. It took me twenty years to see that, but as long as I kept her at a distance it wasn't a big problem.
It was when I let her in that things got tricky. She wanted to talk to me, she could see me at dinner on Thursday. We'd talk then.
If she was calling, it was because she wanted something. If she wanted something, then she was just slipping into the old patterns.
I should answer it. She's my mother. I should ignore it. She's only going to hurt me, the same way that she's always hurt me.
I don't know what to do. A moment later, the phone stops ringing, and my problems go away.
She's got the message. Don't call me, Mom.
I told you not to call me.
She won't call back again. She promised not to call, but it was a mistake. A butt-dial.
I told you not to call me, Mom.
My breath catches in my throat. The phone buzzes again in my hand.
DO NOT ANSWER, the phone says. It's good advice. She promised not to call.
I take a deep breath and count down from ten. I'm feeling shaky. She'll get the message. She has to.
Whatever trouble she's gotten herself into, it can wait. Dinner once a week is plenty. More than most daughters give, once they leave. Most daughters leave on better terms than I did.
I don't need to feel bad about refusing to answer. I don't. She promised not to call. She's the one who needs to feel bad.
She promised not to call. I look down at the caller ID again. It hasn't changed. Still says, in big letters, DO NOT ANSWER.
My thumb flicks over the green circle before I can let myself regret what I'm doing.
"I thought you weren't going to do this any more, Mom," I say softly.
"I just missed hearing your voice," she says.
And with that, the song and dance begins once again.
Chapter Four
