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“You do. And you tend to paint wealthy people into shapes that are distorted by your bias for, and dislike of, them,” I challenge her.
She lets go of her legs and plants her feet on the ground. Her mouth opens in an affront, her eyes wide with offense at my word.
“I am not biased,” she says in a high-pitched, loud voice.
I laugh. “Chill, it’s okay. We’re all biased. You just don’t know it. Because you’re walking around thinking that you’re being judged for being poor. You wear it like it’s Joseph’s multi-color cloak. Your suffering is not more valid because you didn’t have money at the same time, Confidence,” I say and her face turns red.
“And yes, I agree that I have an obligation to the people whose money I’ve collected in the form of rent. But you’re a lawyer, so you know that the way this plays out won’t have anything to do with what my beliefs are. It’s not a personal decision, it’s a business one. And the business will do what is best for it. It’s not going to pay them more money because we feel sorry for them,” I tell her.
“They are not them. They are us. A country is only as strong as its poorest citizens, Hayes. So you should feel sorry for us as a nation because we are poor. And it should be a personal decision. This is not about contracts to rebuild. This is about Kingdom admitting that they have contributed heavily to the catastrophe their fellow Houstonians find themselves facing, and we will, in equal measure, contribute to the mitigation of the damage,” she shouts at me.
“I agree,” I say grimly.
“God, Hayes. I’m sorry,” she says and covers her mouth with her hands. “This is inappropriate. For me to be discussing
this case. And I understand about your hands being tied. I get it. You can’t commit Kingdom to terms that are completely against its interests.” She drops back down and rests her head on my shoulder. I wrap my arm around her and pull her into me.
“I wish I could snap my fingers and have them make different decisions. But, I can’t.”
“No, I know …” she says as if she’s trying to convince herself as much as me.
“Maybe I’m being crazy. I’m committing career suicide by being the architect of a case that could change the way insurance companies, cities, governments, and banks treat people who have been the victims of natural disasters. I’ll never find a job in this industry again,” she says.
A lightbulb goes on in my head, and I sit up.
“What are you thinking?” she asks, and I realize I’m staring off into the distance, lost in my thoughts. I glance at her brilliant blue eyes and relax because I always see the truth of her feelings in them.
“You could always come work for me,” I say.
“No way,” she says with an incredulous laugh. She looks at me sideways. “And have you signing my paychecks?” she groans, but with a laugh and right then, I know we’re going to be okay. We always have this. Our ability to talk. Connect, argue, challenge each other and yet find humor in the midst of it all.
“Why not? Think about it. The foundation could create a legal defense fund that you could run,” I say. She starts to cough.
I hop up to get her some water.
I pull open her fridge and it’s completely empty. “Where’s all the fucking food?”
“I don’t have any,” she croaks defensively.
“Not even a bottle of water?” I ask incredulous. She shakes her head and her coughing subsides.
“Who doesn’t have water?” I ask, and walk back to the couch.
“Me. I haven’t had time, and I’m barely here. And when I am, it’s just to sleep,” she confesses.
I want to tell her that she should be sleeping in my bed, that she was supposed to be living with me. But I’m not going to ask her again. I want her to be the one to say it.
She yawns and eyes the pastries I’ve spread out. “Thanks for the … croissants, but can we go out for coffee? I want to get a latte from Sweet and Lo’s. They’re delicious, Hayes,” she says brightly. I’m glad for the subject change because it was getting too heavy.
“Croissants? These aren’t croissants. They don’t even remotely resemble them,” I say and pick up the eclair shaped like a piece of bread.
“This,” I say dramatically while I rip the dough in half, “is a kolache.” I put the two halves under her nose. “Lo style,” I add and her eyes light up and she sniffs the fragrant steam wafting under her nose.
“Who would give such a magical smelling miracle such a terrible name? What the heck is a koalachee?”
“You’re mispronouncing it. And it was brought here by the Czech immigrants who settled in Texas. I would say I’d take you to the Kolache Factory, because growing up that’s all there was. But Sweet’s in Rivers Wilde is next level.”
“Mmm,” she moans and licks her lips. “Gimme.” She snatches half from mine. “What is this magic?” she drawls excitedly.
