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6
Miles
Garcia, the only other woman in my life who has nut-shriveling power over me, by virtue of the fact that she signs my paychecks, sends me a text as I’m driving away from Greenbridge.
Eve
ry inch of space between me and Martha now feels like a tragedy.
What am I doing? I should drop the case. Just seeing Garcia’s annoyed text is enough to make me spill all my beans.
“Bring an update to the weekly meeting with the partners on the Chamberlain suit. I want you to wow us with your strategy.”
Wow them with my strategy.
If Martha doesn’t hire an attorney, I won’t need a strategy. I’ll need a deserted island to spend out my days. No law firm will touch me for throwing my own clients under the bus, or Martha won’t want anything to do with me because she’ll simultaneously lose so badly.
I can’t win in either of these scenarios.
At a stoplight I quickly send her a thumbs-up emoji, risking her ire because she hates emojis.
Probably because, although most people enjoy the fact that emojis help us relate tone to each other, Garcia would rather keep people guessing.
But if Garcia puts the fear of God in me, Martha gives me all that plus full-body chills.
Those full-body chills came roaring back after eight long years, as if nothing has changed.
When she was close to me just a few minutes ago, her ginger spice scent and dazzling eyes saw right through me. She made me shiver all the way from my skin down inside my guts. If my doctor were to examine me with a live X-ray right now, I’m sure my spleen would still be trembling in fear despite my enormous hard wood.
While I sit here waiting on the traffic light, I daydream about the day I escalated the innocent flirting with Martha.
* * *
My friends thought it would be hilarious to announce my 18th birthday with a balloon bouquet in the middle of debate practice. I never told them about my crush, but the emotions on my face were uncontrollable. A liability in debate, but my dad assured me that in romance, women appreciate being able to tell what we’re thinking when we’re looking at them.
And everyone within a one-mile radius of the school had to know exactly what I was thinking when I would stare at Ms. Moody.
“Delivery for a Mister McRae?” said the disinterested delivery person.
I shrank down in my seat, but Ms. Moody insisted I stand up. “Well, come and get your present, Mister McRae, and let’s get on with it. I can’t wait to hear your argument in…favor…of…”— checking my sheet that I turned in earlier—“mountaintop blasting. Jesus, Miles. You know what, we need some fresh air before we hear this. Everyone take a break and meet back here in five minutes. I might need a stiff drink,” she joked.
Everyone left to get some water or much needed sunshine while I lingered behind. Ms. Moody hunched over her desk, grading papers. She didn’t look up but she knew I was still there.
“Something I can help you with, Miles?”
I offered her a flirtatious tone in my lowest possible register. “Just wondered if you still wanted something stiff.”
She dropped her pen on her desk, removed her glasses and looked up at me. “Drink, Miles. I said a stiff drink.”
With that, she shocked me by opening her bottom desk drawer, rifling through a pile of confiscated items, and pulling out a flask. I watched, wide-eyed and thoroughly aroused, while she took one slug. She shuddered, from her head down to her spine, dabbing a drop from her lips and screwing the cap back on.
“May I? It’s my birthday,” I tried.
“You’re 18, not 21. So, no. And technically I was supposed to have dumped this out after confiscating it off a student but … well, it’s half decent scotch.”
I mused, “It’s weird how I can do all manner of things now but I still can’t drink legally in the U.S. Register for the military, vote, enjoy the pleasures of the flesh with fellow adults.”
Martha shuddered in revulsion at my phrasing. “‘Pleasures of the flesh’? First, do not ever say that again or you won’t be experiencing any of that for the rest of your life.”
