Page 19 of That's Not a Thing

“For real?” I ask, totally unsure how to respond.

He shrugs. “I’m not on call. I’m not opposed to spending my Sunday engaged in a charitable endeavor. Especially if you wear tight pants.” He grabs one of my feet and squeezes, his hand cold from the beer bottle.

“Sure,” I answer, trying to keep my voice from sounding weak. “That would be great.” And definitely not awkward. Not awkward at all.

THE NEXT MORNINGat work, I’m the first one to set up shop in the conference room. I’m hoping our document review team can get through the remaining boxes by midafternoon, and then I can return to Moe’s case file. Aaron couldn’t sleep last night, despite having spent one and a half diurnal cycles at the hospital. Sometimes it takes several additional hours before his post-surgery adrenaline rush dwindles sufficiently to allow for solid sleep, so he stayed up, collecting articles for me. I now have a stack of reports on the different escape routes from Myanmar and the cramped conditions in Thai refugee camps. I want to read through these materials today, and I’m also hoping to review the information that the country conditions expert sent about the Burmese militia.

I head back to the seat I occupied on Friday, where a pile of papers eighteen inches high sits on the conference table awaiting me. I start flipping through the muddled collection of documents, which the defendant clearly randomized intentionally. Instead of one organized pile of accounting files, for example, what I have here is a receipt for a networking lunch, followed by two pages of marketing materials, followed by a single page out of the employee handbook, followed by a low-level employee’s nearly illegible handwritten driving directions, followed by one page of a tax return. As I turn each useless page, irritated by the defendant’s blatant tactics to obfuscate information, I place the reviewed pages facedown, starting another pile next to the first.

My cell phone vibrates from where it’s sitting on the table beside my two piles of paper. It’s Lana, texting about the bridesmaids’ dresses. She’s petrified that I’m going to choose a dress for my bridal attendants in a color tone that’s too deep for her complexion, or worse, something with an empire waist, which she says makes everyone look slightly pregnant.

I type out a quick response.

Me: Epiphany. Everyone picks her own dress. Thinking it should just be some shade of silver/gray. Thoughts?

This is going to be a wedding that leaves everyone content. I won’t have the drama this time around. The conference room suddenly feels especially chilly as I think about the importance of keeping this version of my life from spiraling out of control like the last draft did. I will not be a prima donna about this wedding, and I will make sure nobody gets hurt.

My phone buzzes again, and I glance at Lana’s response:

Lana: OMG obsessed w u!!!!!!

I smile, imagining her squeal of delight. Lana will surely launch into some intense, multipronged dress hunt now that I’ve given her personal authority, but that’s the kind of mission she loves, so no harm there. I’ve always had a soft spot for Lana, ever since we were kids and she persuaded me to become blood sisters. I shudder now, thinking about all the germs that must have passed between our grubby hands that summer afternoon in my backyard. But Lana is absolutely pulling her weight as both my bridal attendant and my friend. I don’t have a maid of honor this time. Shara, Noble’s wife, has become so devout in her observance of Judaism over the last few years that she would be uncomfortable with many of the mainstream wedding activities, like raunchy bachelorette parties. Even so, I didn’t want to hurt her feelings by asking Lana in her place. So, instead, I’ve asked no one. Lana gets it, and she has taken it upon herself to perform as the acting maid of honor anyway.

I flip the next page in my pile and find a shelving schematic that appears to be a diagram for how the chewing tobacco will be laid out in a 7-Eleven store. I pause to study it, as the crux of our client’s claim is that the defendant unfairly commandeered all the most desirable shelving space at the relevant retail locations. The page looks pretty standard—unfortunately, not any sort of smoking gun—so I add it to my growing pile and flip to the next page.

Liam McIntire walks in, followed by Darren Pool. These two guys have become my closest friends at the firm, in light of the many hours we’ve been forced to sit in the conference room together, enduring endless eye-strain and mind-numbing documents.

“I’m trying Atkins again,” Liam announces without preamble as he takes his seat opposite me at the glass conference table.

“Cutting out scotch?” Darren asks as he adjusts his Clark Kent glasses and then grabs a full box of documents for himself from the stack against the back wall. All we seem to talk about in this room is alcohol and diets. If we get into any deeper conversations, it’s hard to focus on the documents in front of us, but without the small talk, the dreary routine of this discovery project can be crushing.

“I’m trying to avoid the paunch.” Liam rubs his belly, which is admittedly rounder than it was when I first met him a few months back, after our different law firms merged. “All these weddings, the cocktail hours—what’s a man to do? At least Meredith has the good grace to wait until next winter to have her wedding. I should be in tiptop shape by then.”

Yeah, you and me both, Liam, I think. He’s got eleven months to drop some pounds. I’ve got eleven months to drop some baggage. Baggage named Wesley.

Liam and Darren banter back and forth, trading lighthearted insults about each other’s waistlines. As I continue flipping pages, I find another schematic for shelving like the one I saw moments ago, but this one is covered in handwritten notes. I pause to read them over, and they seem pretty innocuous, listing which subgroups of tobacco products the sales rep wants shelved in that particular store. But the note scribbled across the bottom stops me. “Continue with category management plan to eliminate competitive products,” it says. “Control facings and positions to make our placement larger and force out competition.”

I think I’ve found our smoking gun, and I realize, with a horrifying thud, that I don’t really care, at all. This is what I slaved away for in college? Making sure I could get into an elite law school, to secure a job at a top firm, to find a piece of paper that shows one cancer-causing company treating another cancer-causing company unfairly?

“Eureka,” I say, as I stand with the document in my hand, failing to muster the enthusiasm I was going for. I hear Aaron’s voice in my head telling me that I should look for a different job, and I actually begin to wonder if he is right. I can still be an independent woman on a lower salary, especially considering how well I’ve been saving since I started at the firm two years ago.

Liam and Darren are both out of their seats, reading over my shoulder, and my mind is still running wild. I remember how I once thought about working at the Anti-Defamation League or some other nonprofit, like a shelter for battered women or a foster-care facility. If I could get through these documents a little more quickly, I could get back to my asylum case, and then maybe I could even take a little time to research alternate employment.

“Okay, you two,” I say as I notice they are fist-bumping in a show of joy about this document I’ve discovered. Clearly, this job is bringing them more satisfaction than it is me. “We still have all those boxes.” I realize I’m whining. “I can’t spend more weeks in here, so let’s keep going.”

Five hours later, I finally turn over the last page in my pile of papers. The two first-year associates who are supposed to be reviewing along with us never showed, and I’m wondering how they managed to weasel their way out of joining today’s tedious soiree. Even so, between the three of us in the conference room, we have found another eleven documents that show a clear pattern of antitrust law violations and patently prohibited behavior by the defendant. I’m disgusted that the other party thought to delay providing these documents for discovery, perhaps hoping we would lose our patience reviewing everything and never seek their production. This whole sphere of legal practice feels foul to me, and I want out.

I’ve never been so envious of Aaron’s job as a pediatric surgeon. While I further the questionable intentions of faceless corporations, he gets to mend the brains of helpless infants.

As if my thoughts have conjured him, my phone rings. “Hey,” I answer, leaning back in my chair and surveying the many piles of documents on the table that now need to be returned to file boxes.

“Want to head out to Jersey tonight for a couple of hours?” he asks. “I got your mom those supplements, and we could take your parents to dinner at Herby’s.”

Even though my mom has been cancer free for more than eight years, Aaron knows she worries excessively about a recurrence. He helps her find all these holistic remedies that may or may not have a positive impact on her physical health, but they won’t hurt her, and they certainly help her emotionally.

“Sure,” I answer, already tensing up at the thought of dinner with my parents. I love them dearly, but we’ve never really gotten past all the garbage from when I was in college, when they were going to get divorced but didn’t, when my mom almost died but didn’t, when I almost married Wesley but didn’t. It’s like all we can think of when we’re together is the collective trauma we endured. The only time I manage to be relaxed around them is when Aaron is with us, talking loudly and running interference. He manages to keep everything lighthearted and positive. He has made a sustained effort to drive my parents and me back to a better place, and the truth is, I think it’s working. It’s just slow going.

“Great. I’ll call and let them know. Text me when you know your timing, and I’ll pick you up.”