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“That makes your current treatment of me acceptable?”
“It makes it justifiable.”
Silence.
“I can’t do this anymore, Andrew…” She shook her head.
“Does that mean you’ll stop acting like a child in court? Does it mean—”
“Here.” She cut me off and pressed a silver box against my chest. “I bought this for you a few weeks ago, back when Jessica was planning your birthday party.”
“Did you spit in it?”
“I should have.” She picked up her bag and rushed past me, heading for the exit.
A part of me actually wanted to go after her and make her explain what the hell she meant about “not doing this anymore,” but I knew doing so would be pointless. Talking to her for less than three minutes aroused me, and I needed to remember why I ended “us” in the first place.
I returned to the break-room and said thank you to the last of the interns, glancing at the photo HR had pinned on the wall. It was a collage of my professional photos with a birthday hat sticker attached to my head. And they’d written “Happy Birthday, Andrew! GBH Loves You!” in bright blue.
In all actuality, my birthday was months from now—in December, a day I hadn’t celebrated in a very long time. And even though I’d never publicly admit it, I somewhat liked the fact that the people at GBH were willing to celebrate my birthday—real or not.
“How many slices of cake would you like me to wrap up for you, Mr. Hamilton?” Jessica tapped my shoulder.
“Three,” I said. “And I’ll take a cup of lemonade, too.”
“You’re not going to stay for the “Who Knows Mr. Hamilton the Best” game?”
“None of you know me.” I returned to my office and locked the door, setting the new birthday gifts on top of my bookshelf.
The envelope from Mr. Greenwood contained a note that said he appreciated my hard work and dedication to the firm. Beneath his written words was a gift card to his family’s other multimillion dollar entity: A golf course.
The gifts from the interns were all “I.O.U.” letters that begged for extra time on their assignments. I held all of those over my shredder.
Jessica’s black box was next, and as much as I wanted to throw it away and never think of it again, I couldn’t resist knowing what she bought me. I took the top off and removed the paper, pulling out a soft piece of silk and a note:
I overheard that you like to keep these in your pocket… Here are mine. PS—I took them off in the bathroom five minutes ago
:-)
Jesus…
I buried her panties at the bottom of my trashcan and crumpled that note.
I stared at Aubrey’s silver box for a while, wondering if I should wait until later to unwrap it, but I couldn’t help peeling off the paper.
Inside of the box was a small black photo frame. It was handcrafted—bordered with iron pressed images of pointe slippers, law scales, and the words “Alyssa” and “Thoreau” in smooth white letters.
The picture in it was one of us, one of her laying against my chest in my bed and smiling at the camera. Her cheeks were flushed red—like they always were after sex, and she was dressed in one of my T-shirts.
I remembered her forcing me to take that photo—insisting that she “wouldn’t share it with anyone” and only wanted it for herself. She even forced me to smile…
I set the frame down and took out the other object in the box—a sparkling silver watch with an inscription etched across its back:
Subject: You.
I liked you as “Thoreau,” but I love you as Andrew.
—Aubrey (Alyssa)
