by Cara Bastone
“Hmm?”
“The apparent next on Estrella’s list. You said his name is Jonah. What’s wrong with him?”
“Oh. Let’s see. Midthirties, lives with his mother still, dates barely legals he meets on Tinder. Plays it fast and loose with deodorant. And I know for a fact he still shoplifts from Gristedes.”
“Wow. Does Estrella even have criteria?”
John grunted. “I’ve never seen her quite so determined to set someone up before. That’s really what I meant. Before. When I said that thing about you being desperate.” He mumbled the last part. “I guess I just wanted to know why my mother was pushing this so hard.”
Mary, of course, knew the exact answer to that question, but she’d rather eat the entire tube of Chanel lipstick she kept in her purse than explain it to John. “Maybe she just wants a project.” Mary cleared her throat. “Maybe she knows just how great I am and wants to see me happy.”
John grunted again.
What a lovely man.
“I’m going to grab some food, I think.”
She was ten steps away when those two heavy fingers tapped her shoulder again. “Look, Mary, let me make it up to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“My mother is going to keep trying to set you up with guys. Chances are, I’ll know them.” John took two steps to one side and chucked his beer bottle a few feet into a recycling can, came back and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I love my mother, and I can tell you do too, but we both know her definition of ‘nice boy’ is prohibitively inclusive. All you need to qualify is the Y chromosome and a pulse.”
Mary couldn’t help but laugh.
He blinked at her for a second and cleared some gravel out of his throat, although it didn’t make that two-toned voice any less hoarse. “I put my foot in my mouth earlier, but you can trust me to give it to you straight. If there’s one thing I’m good for...”
“You won’t sugarcoat anything for me.”
“Exactly.”
“You want to help me weed through candidates?” she guessed.
“Here, take my number and you can text me the names of the guys she wants you to meet. I’ll let you know whether they’re worth your time. Or email. Whatever.”
“My phone is in your mother’s house.” She eyed John for a moment. He had a thin mouth made thinner by the way he was pressing his lips together. He had the shadowed look of dark-haired men who shave their beards but never lose that bluish shading about the jaw. His eyes were startlingly bright, and cold, and surly, but the judgment that she’d seen at the restaurant was absent. He was rude, but he’d apologized for that, and apologized well. And she definitely trusted his taste in men more than his mother’s. She made a split-second decision. “But you can have my number and text me so I have yours.”
His eyebrows flicked upward from their typical downward V, but only for a second. He seemed surprised that she would volunteer her number. He pulled his phone from his pocket, a smaller iPhone model that had been new about seven years ago, but the screen was completely smudge and scratch free. He typed in her number as she told it to him and sent off a quick text to her.
“Have a good rest of the party,” he told her.
“You too.”
Luckily, Estrella held off on the parade of men for the rest of the time, and Mary was able to enjoy herself. Samuel never reappeared. Mary assumed he’d been summoned home by his wife. She caught a few more glimpses of John through the crowd and then she thought he must have left.
She got all the way back to Cobble Hill, unzipped from her boots, had leftover Indian food heating in the microwave, before she finally checked her phone. She had a voice mail from her mother, who considered texting to be juvenile. “Mary, love, did you get my email? It was a forwarded invitation to Meryl Overshire’s singles event on the Upper East Side next week? It sounds like a classier version of speed dating. Now, I’m sure you’ll be one of the older participants, but Meryl assured me that—” Mary deleted the voice mail. She moved on to the three texts from her friends Fin and Via on a group chat they had together. And then there was one text from an unknown number.
She opened it up.
John Modesto-Whitford, the text said. Mary laughed at it. How boring! Not even a salutation. She hadn’t ever known before that someone could have a frowny name, but she could practically feel the scowl coming off of each letter. She was almost tempted to text him back a blur of flower emojis. Thirty-five party horns, confetti fireworks, sunshines and trumpets. She pictured him receiving a colorful emoji-filled text from her and scoffing, the V of his eyebrows pulling down so far his nose disappeared.
Instead, she just saved his number into her contacts, ate her Indian food and went to bed.
CHAPTER FOUR
FIVE DAYS AFTER the block party, John did a confused double take at his cell phone as he sat in his office slogging through paperwork at 6:00 p.m.
Elijah Crawford.
Why in God’s name was an unknown number texting him the name of his childhood bully? For one confused second, John thought that maybe Elijah Crawford was texting him and identifying himself. But from a Connecticut area code?
“Oh,” he muttered to himself once he’d entered the text and saw that he and the number already had a thread going. Well, not so much a thread, but a single other text that had just his own name. It was Mary Trace.
He blinked. Took a deep breath. He was a grown man. With a law degree. His heart should not be shivering in his chest just because he’d gotten an unexpected text from a pretty girl. A very pretty girl. Okay, the prettiest girl.
And the sweetest one. She’d have to be if she was willing to forgive him for his multiple social faux pas that he’d already committed. He hadn’t saved her number into his phone when she’d given it, simply because he hadn’t thought she’d ever actually text him. His conscience, poking at him after all the rude things he’d accidentally said to her, had made him offer up his services, but he hadn’t bothered to hope that she’d take him up on it. What woman wanted further contact with a man who’d already effectively called her desperate and old?
But there she was, sending him a text that was already two minutes old. Then the meaning of her text filtered down onto John. If she was texting him the name Elijah Crawford, then that meant that his mother was considering setting Mary up with that douchenozzle.
“What?” John whispered to himself. His mother was a reasonable woman usually. What was with this psycho matchmaking thing she was doing?
He typed his response out. Veto.
He tossed his phone back down and got through one more page of paperwork before she texted back.
Why?
John sighed and typed out, Because he intentionally spilled apple juice on the crotch of my pants in third grade, tripped me down the stairs in fifth grade and stole my prom date in high school.
He stared at his unsent words, the cursor still blinking on his screen. A flush of embarrassment rose hot out of his collar as he pictured sending those words to gorgeous Mary Trace. He immediately erased them. He’d botched his chance with her, he was very clear on that point, but that didn’t mean he needed to inform her just how much of a nerd he used to be.
He’s a bully, John texted. He thought for a second and texted another line. And not a good listener. You won’t have fun.
Okay, she texted back a minute later. I’ll tell Estrella I’m busy. Thanks!
As John was reading, one last text came through, an emoji of a shiny, smiling sun, its rays waving at him, reminding him of Mary’s sunny, wavy hair. A weird jolt went through him as he looked down at the little image. It should be meaningless. It was just something she’d absently clicked on and sent. But for some reason, for a split second, John wondered if it was personal. If she purposefully picked it and sent it his way, actively wanting to send him a little sunshine.
<
br /> He found himself frowning down at his phone screen. It was nice of her to send, he supposed. But what the hell was he supposed to text back? The only person who ever texted him emojis was Richie, and John ignored each and every one of them. Was it rude to ignore Mary’s emoji?
Deciding, on principle, that he couldn’t afford to care, John turned his phone to silent and exited out of the text strand.
Juggling anywhere between thirty and forty cases at a time, John found he didn’t often have the time for indulgences like texting pretty girls. Especially not when he had two separate murder-one cases in his caseload plus that sex trafficking case that was keeping him up at night.
But none of those cases were where he needed his brain to be today. Today was all about Serge Raoul. He was a thirty-eight-year-old charged with felony assault who John had to prep for court. Normally, he’d meet with a client four or five times before the big show. He’d have clocked anywhere from ten to twenty hours of face time with them. But Raoul was rougher around the edges than most people. This would already be John’s seventh time meeting with him and lately the meetings had more the feel of a play rehearsal than they did a legal meeting. Raoul seemed almost passionately committed to perjuring himself on the stand. If he didn’t stick to the talking points that John had painstakingly prepared for him this time, John might have to go the rare route of not letting his client testify. Raoul had a motor mouth and a very twisted way of viewing the truth. There was no telling how the jury would perceive him.
He didn’t usually like to overprepare his clients, because then they could come off as rehearsed, like the truth was something they’d had to memorize. But in this case, as John carefully packed the flash cards he’d made into his messenger bag, he figured that might be the lesser of two evils. He refused to let Raoul run roughshod over the stand and get himself sent up.
John didn’t allow himself another look at his cell phone before he slipped it into the pocket of his trousers. He had work to do. A man’s freedom to salvage.
* * *
IT WAS FRIDAY NIGHT, when he was out at a bar close to the Brooklyn Supreme Court with Richie on the barstool beside him, that John got the next text from Mary.
Michael Fallon.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” John muttered. Michael Fucking Fallon? Was his mother playing some sort of sick joke on Mary?
Hard veto.
Why?
Drug dealer.
You’re joking.
Wish I were.
Which kind of drugs?
John gaped at the text, trying to interpret her response. Does it matter?
Well, sometimes people have good reasons for doing bad things, she texted back after a few minutes. In my opinion, there’s a difference between selling dime bags and selling heroin.
John barked a laugh into the palm of his hand. He’d expected blonde, obviously rich Mary to go screaming toward the hills at any mention of the D word. Huh. Maybe she’d gotten really into Breaking Bad or The Wire or something.
Besides, she texted again. Innocent until proven guilty.
He shook his head at his phone, feeling weird. Maybe he should stop at one beer tonight; he was already a little bit light-headed. He flagged down Marissa, their usual bartender, and ordered a basket of fries while he one-handedly texted Mary back.
As a criminal defense attorney, innocent until proven guilty is obviously a core tenet of my belief system. But trust me on this one. I’ve seen him deal with my own eyes. And as for Michael Fallon having good reasons for what he does? He’s 34 years old and in the middle class. His parents paid for his bachelor’s degree in social theory, for fuck’s sake. Date him if you want but just remember that I voted to veto.
“Jeez, Estrella’s got you worked up tonight, huh?” Richie, who’d been chatting up the guy on his right, finally turned his attention back to John, his eyes narrowing at the phone.
“What? Oh. I’m not texting with my mother.”
Richie’s expression fell. “Oh, Lord. What did Maddox get himself into now?”
John laughed bitterly, nodding his head at Marissa when she came back with his fries.
“He wants mustard, not ketchup, Marissa,” Richie reminded their bartender, who rolled her eyes and slid a bottle down the countertop toward them.
“You know,” John said, “I do, in fact, text people who aren’t my mother and my emotionally stunted younger brother.”
Maddox was John’s younger half brother, connected through the father that Maddox had grown up with and John hadn’t met until a decade ago. Maybe emotionally stunted was a tad harsh. But John couldn’t help but wonder if growing up with access to all their father’s money had kept Maddox from developing certain survival skills that the rest of the world seemed to have. Survival skills like caring about keeping a job and knowing how to do more in a kitchen than call up expensive delivery.
John, who’d grown up without their father, had come by those skills quite honestly.
Richie squinted his eyes into the beyond, theatrically raising his fingers one by one. “Estrella, Maddox and me. But hold on, I’m sitting right here. Who in God’s name is this mystery fourth texter?! I demand to know!”
John shook his head and stuffed some fries in his mouth, buying himself a moment. For some reason, he didn’t want to explain the arrangement with Mary to Richie. Or why he was texting with her. It was simple, innocent, but there was no telling how Richie’s perverted mind could twist it.
“Evening, girls,” a deep, borderline rude voice said from behind them, two meaty paws clapping over their shoulders.
John wasn’t often thrilled to run into Hogan Trencher around town, but right now he was relieved for the interruption. He slipped his phone back in his pocket and hoped that the appearance of Richie’s unrequited crush would squash any residual attention on who John had been texting.
“Evening, Hulk,” Richie said, a light blush washing over his cheekbones.
He called him that in reference to his first name, not because Hogan was built anything like a ripped, green monster. In truth, Hogan was a little chubby, all shoulders and spread legs and thumbs tucked into his belt. He even had the mustache to complete the picture.
John observed Richie’s bashful expression, his eyes looking everywhere but at Hogan. A gay defense attorney with the hots for a straight cop. What a hopeless situation. It wasn’t the first time that John had felt bad for the predicament Richie had found himself in.
Hogan Trencher wasn’t a crooked detective by any means, but he had a healthy disdain for the defense attorneys he felt put his collars back on the street. And John had seen too many detectives bend the truth on the stand to ever truly want to break bread with Hogan Trencher. And so had Richie. Maybe, John reflected as he polished off his beer, that was part of the appeal. People often had feelings for those on the opposite end of the opinions spectrum. It probably made the sex more combative.
Either way, this bar, only five blocks from the Brooklyn Supreme Court, had become a sort of neutral ground for defense attorneys and ADAs, and, occasionally, Hogan Trencher. Who seemed to almost get a power-trippy charge out of prodding at defense attorneys in his off time.
“Haven’t seen you around recently, John,” Hogan said after sending Marissa a wink and pointing at John’s beer to indicate he wanted one for himself. “Keeping busy?”
“Yup,” John grumbled. Talking to cops always made him feel like he was being interrogated. “Those meth labs don’t start themselves.”
Richie laughed into his beer, inhaling half of it and looking utterly mortified to be snotting foam in front of his crush.
“Just making conversation,” Hogan replied easily. “Thanks, darlin’.”
The big man slid money into Marissa’s palm and held her eye contact as he took the beer from her. Marissa tucked her lips into her mouth and ducked her chin, looking u
p at Hogan through her eyelashes, a slight flush on her pretty brown skin.
Hogan reached forward, stole a few of John’s fries and tipped his chin down at the two lawyers, a smirk firmly in place beneath his mustache. He sauntered away to a far corner of the bar.
“What the hell is it about that guy?” John wondered aloud.
“What?” Richie asked, his cheeks still pink, peeling the label from his beer bottle.
“Why is everyone so into him? From where I’m sitting, he’s just a cocky asshole.”
“You just answered your own question, John,” Marissa said, taking his empty beer bottle away and replacing it with a water. He’d thought that she’d preternaturally predicted his reticence to have a second beer, but then he realized that happy hour was now over and Marissa knew that John categorically refused to purchase full-price beer. “Cocky assholes are irresistible.”
“I have not found that to be true in my own experience,” John replied, comfortable with these kinds of conversations with Marissa after almost five years of coming to Fellow’s on Friday nights. “I’m a cocky asshole and women pretty much flee from me.”
Sometimes literally. The image of Mary striding out of the restaurant flashed through his mind. He’d felt like such an utter dolt standing there, watching her go. But could he blame her? He could not.
“You’re not a cocky asshole,” Richie chimed in, apparently recovered enough from his unexpected interaction with his crush to be able to speak again. “You’re a self-assured dick. Whole other animal. Highly repellant.”
“I’m a self-assured—What the hell is the difference?”
“The difference is that a cocky asshole knows he’s an asshole and uses his assholish swagger to charm and otherwise assert sexual dominance,” Marissa said, pushing her glasses up her nose. She’d once told John that she’d studied anthropology at SUNY Downstate, and John could suddenly see that aspect of her intellect sparklingly clearly. “Self-assured dicks don’t even realize they’re being dicks until after they’ve hurt everyone’s feelings.”
