He nods. “Yeah, I am so glad I don’t have a career that requires me to use social media or perform in anyway.”
“I think it’s a great way to connect but also very easy to blur lines.” I hand him the clean pot and he wipes it dry.
“Thank you for reading it. I’m glad you like it,” I say honestly touched. No one in my family has read it. At least not to my knowledge.
“It’s my pleasure. I went back and read some of your old work when you were in New York and I was surprised by how different this is.”
I stiffen at the question and have to remind myself that he’s just making an observation. “I know. That’s what I wanted.” I’m caught offguard by the heaviness in my throat when I say those words. It’s true. I took this job, vastly different from what I was doing because I wanted something safe, fun, and anonymous.
“I read your series on the battle to repatriate stolen artifacts. I wonder if my mom knew you were doing that work?”
I cock my head to the side and slide into one of the barstools in front of the island. “I don’t know. The story got a lot of attention. When the transit was robbed on its way to DC, I’d started looking into it and even identified someone who I thought was running a black market for West African art and relics.”
“In DC?” His eyes widen. He wipes his hands and pumps a drop of lotion into his palm and holds it out for me to use.
My heart skips a beat like he just handed me a flower. That’s why his hands are so soft.
“Yup. Not just DC, but it seems to be a hub of activity.”
He sits on the stool next to me and his shoulders and thigh brush mine so casually, but I’m acutely aware that this is the closest we’ve been physically since that first night.
“So why aren’t you working onthatstory?”
I roll my neck and groan at the twinge of pain where it meets my left shoulder. “Because I write an advice column now.”
“You sound much more excited about your stolen artifacts story,” he presses.
I press my fingers into the spot on my shoulder that’s tense and rub. “Ilovedinvestigative journalism. But it didn’t love me back.”
“What does that mean?” He brushes my fingers away and replaces them with his. The pressure is delicious and I don’t bother pretending I want him to stop.
I let my head fall forward and explain. “It means I had a few brushes with great stories that my editors whitewashed and ruined or that turned out to be bad leads. It’s competitive, and it can be dangerous when you’re telling stories that threaten power. I just want to write, have an impact, and to have time to live my life.” It’s a jumble of half-truths but it’s all I’ve got.
“You’re a prosecutor, right?” I turn the light on him.
He shakes his head. “Not anymore. I took a job with a private law firm when I moved here. My practice area is the same though, antitrust and competition.”
“In English for those of us who aren’t legal eagles?” I tease.
“I have clients who are trying to merge, acquire other businesses.”
“That sounds very different from prosecution. Do you like it?”
“It’s weird being on this side of the table. But I’m giving it a chance for the same reason I’m in DC, and the same reason I came to see your parents.”
“Wait, your mom asked you to do that, too?”
“Yes. She asked me to give their vision a chance for a year, so I am.”
“And when that year is up?”
“I’ll see. But right now, it’s not looking good for DC.”
“You miss LA?” I ask.
“My best friend Titus lives there and I miss being in the same city as him.”
“That’s nice. My best friends live elsewhere, too,” I commiserate.
