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The sight of her should take my breath away.
“Looking good, son,” Professor Westfield says as he claps me on the back. He’s been calling me son since long before I started dating Samantha, but I cringe when he says it now.
Samantha’s mom kisses me on the cheek and then fusses as the photographer poses the happy couple on the stairs and on the front landing. The photographer gets the four of us together then, snapping pictures that will last a lifetime.
“So, you’re officially no longer a one-L. How does it feel?”
“One down, two to go. It feels good.”
“Are you sure you made the right decision turning down that summer associate position? I could still make a call.”
I feel my jaw tighten and breathe through it. “I’m confident interning with Judge Michaels will be a great experience. Could lead to a clerkship after I graduate and it’s the type of exposure to litigation I want.”
“Don’t get me wrong, it’s prestigious, it’s just not the direction I’d take if I wanted a shot at corporate law.” When I go to speak up, he nods and attempts to placate me. “I know that’s not where your heart is, but you don’t want to cut off avenues so early on in the game.”
What he’s thinking but not saying: You’d best get a job that will allow my baby girl to live in the manner she’s become accustomed to.
What I’m thinking but not saying: You’ve been a great help to me these past few years and I do appreciate it. I know one-L’s don’t get offers for associate positions at white-shoe firms, know your wealthy law school buddy did that as a favor to you. I feel bad turning it down, I do, but I don’t want anything from you anymore. I don’t want to get rich representing corporations or getting affluent people off when they’re guilty. I don’t want to get rich so I can buy a five thousand square foot home for Samantha to decorate and a lakeside cottage to boot. I don’t want to marry your daughter. In fact, I’m laying the groundwork for our break-up at this very moment.
I don’t have the heart to do it today, even though she’s betrayed me—told a lie of omission that I cannot forgive.
Tomorrow I’m driving nearly five hours to Ann Arbor. It’s taking everything I have in me to refrain from confronting her, to hold back the rage I’ve felt since I found it. In a rush to get my suit from the dry cleaners, I was looking for my keys when the crumpled paper fell from her bag onto the floor. The familiar handwriting caught my eye. Ironing out the creases, my heart hammered when I took in the name and return address. Awful things began to click into place when I noticed the postmark dated more than two months ago. The envelope was empty, and a thorough search of her bag, her desk, her dresser drawers and her car turned up nothing more.
I avoid Samantha all day, giving myself time to think. She feels threatened, naturally she would, but it’s still no excuse for what she’s done. I’m furious but there’s guilt there too. This past year, I’ve given her something to believe in when I shouldn’t have. And I feel guilty because I’m relieved. Yes, I immediately see her betrayal for what it is: my get out of jail free card. I don’t deserve to feel morally superior to her. I’m well aware of the fact.
I spend the afternoon searching the internet. The same search I’ve done so many times before finally gets me a hit. It’s a transfer of property notice, the address the same as the return address written on the envelope. Property transferred to Charlotte Mason from one Janelle Cohen, nee Mason. Her aunt, the aunt she went to live with. All this time, has she been just a few hours away? And why is the property in Charlotte’s name? A search of her aunt’s name reveals a death notice dated this past December, just a few days after Christmas.
Samantha knows something is off tonight. She’s asked me what’s wrong twice already. I assure her I’m good, and in a way, I’m better than I have been in a very long time.
She wrote to me. Nearly four years have passed and she’s reaching out. It’s crossed my mind that the letter might be nothing more than a long overdue, scathing rant where she tells me off over the shitty way I walked out on her, but I don’t care. She’s thinking of me—that’s all that matters right now.
I dance with my soon to be ex-girlfriend, stay by her side as she chats up our fellow classmates, help her stay upright when she drinks too much, and drop her off at her parents’ house, surprising her father when he opens the door a little past midnight.
He’s a brilliant man, perceptive, and it feels like he’s about to ask me a question—one I don’t want to answer—when she pukes on his slipper-clad feet.Thanks for the save,Samantha.
“Jeez.”
“Um, I guess she overdid it.”
He shoots me an annoyed look. “Obviously.” When I make a move to help, he waves me off. “I’ll take care of her.”
He knows.
I was planning to leave at daybreak but sleep is out of the question. So I’m walking Main Street in Ann Arbor as the sun rises, sipping from a cup of coffee that cost me nearly five bucks. The shops and restaurants here remind me of Chicago and Evanston: aesthetically pleasing and wildly overpriced. Quaint and charming, that’s how Samantha would tag this downtown area.
I hold off until seven in the morning, and while I’m thinking it’s rude to drop in unexpected on her so early, I just can’t wait any longer. Her place is in a nice area, just a short distance from campus. Does she go to school here? She must. Probably just finished her sophomore year. I knock on her door, smiling because I’m proud of her. Mr. Vargas would be too.
I don’t get a second knock off before a woman pops her head out from next door. “Can I help you?” When I turn, her eyes go wide. “My Lord,” she whispers.
“Um, yes ma’am, I’m looking for Charlotte Mason.”
She comes out into the corridor between the two units. Comes close, looks me over and studies my face in a way that’s uncomfortable. Absently, she says, “She went home a few days ago.”
“Home?”
The woman, who looks to be in her mid-sixties and bears a freakishly close resemblance to Kathy Bates, is suddenly all business. Dressed in workout clothes, she looks tenacious, like she could power walk laps in the mall for hours. “Yes, home. What’s your name young man, and what’s your business with Charlotte?”
“I’m Simon Wade. I’m a friend of Charlotte’s. She’s been trying to get in touch with me, and I, uh, came to see her.”
