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Damn right, I did.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Shane
By the time everyone leaves, Ruthie is giving big, jaw-cracking yawns, so I carry her to bed, literally, and tell her I’m cleaning up.
“But it’s your party. You can’t clean up after your own party,” she complains.
“I won’t say anything if you don’t,” I tease, feeling a wave of deep contentment as I tuck her under the covers.
“You don’t have to tuck me in.”
“Like hell I don’t,” I kiss her forehead and then her lips. “Thank you for tonight.”
She smiles up at me. “I knew you were going to win.”
“You know, I feel like saying something sentimental.”
“Do it,” she says, propping up on her elbows to look at me, her eyes gleaming.
“I feel like I’d already won because I have you,” I tell her.
“Oooh, yup, that was almost unforgivably cheesy.” I pretend to lift my hands and walk off, but she grabs my tie and pulls me back. “And I loved it.”
She gives me another soft kiss, sweet enough that I consider staying until I notice how heavy her eyes still are.
“Get some sleep, honey,” I say, then I head into the living room to clean up.
Flower thwaps her tail on her dog bed, and I give her a quick pet before cleaning up the plates and cups we left out. I find myself humming as I work, then laugh at my own absurdity. I’m flying high, feeling good.
When I’m done, I stop by Izzy’s room on a whim, opening the door and peeking inside to check on her. She’s curled up, her dark hair splayed on the pillow, and she looks so much like Ruthie it makes me smile.
I’m brushing my teeth, getting ready for bed, when my phone buzzes. I’m half tempted to turn it off without checking—surely I’ve done my work for the day—but then I see something interesting on the screen. An email from one of the many people I interviewed with prior to finding a job with Freeman. I spit out the toothpaste and check it out.
I listened to your closing argument today. If you’re still interested in a future at Beckett Brothers, come see me on Monday. 7 a.m.
-Lance Beckett
It’s ballsy of him, all things considered. Two months ago, he told me I was interesting, but not interesting enough to tempt him. Apparently, he’d only asked me in for an interview to find out if I’d really called Fred Myles a withered dick in a bad suit.
I didn’t, but regrets are a real thing.
I don’t answer the email, because an answer isn’t required.
It’s a challenge he’s handed me, and my choices are thus: Go, don’t go.
Two months ago, when I left Beckett’s office and immediately showed myself to the closest bar, I would have been ecstatic to receive a rude email from him. I would have bought everyone in the bar a top-shelf drink, but now I don’t feel anything approaching relief. In fact, the peace and happiness I’ve felt all evening have disappeared like vapor, and I’m so conflicted, I consider pulling out a coin.
Freeman let me handle this case the way I wanted to. He didn’t interfere, even though my approach should have been a loser’s choice. He believed I could pull it off.
I like Freeman. But loyalty to him isn’t my main hesitation.
There are two problems, as I see them: the interview time and day. Izzy’s getting her surgery on Monday. Not until noon, but she’s scared, and I want to be there holding her hand. Reassuring Ruthie. Then there’s my knowledge of what life is like at Beckett’s firm. The hours are on par with what we had at Myles & Lee. If I take a job there, I’ll be working around the clock again, living at the office. I’ll hardly ever see Ruthie and Izzy, a thought that fills me with something like panic.
But you’ll be able to provide for them, I tell myself.
And if I work there, I can build a name for myself. A legacy. The kind of thing that can’t easily be washed away by waves.
