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Stranger88: With my work schedule it wouldn’t be fair to the kid or my spouse.
Stranger7721: Ah. True. But you could cut back on your hours. If I had the right partner, we could make it work. Might be hard, but I think it’d be worth it. But it should be a 50-50 deal. The woman shouldn’t have to do it all.
I couldn’t agree more. So many divorces happen because the woman gets stuck doing it all, only to wake up one morning and realize it’s not worth it anymore and she might as well do it on her own anyway. In every case, the husband almost always acts blindsided despite the writing being on the wall for years.
I don’t ever want to be that guy.
I look over at Jace. There’s so much that can go wrong when it comes to raising kids. So many ways to scar them for life. Jace is a good kid, perfect even. And yet, every day, there are arrows flying right at him. Even the best guardian can’t shield him from all of them.
Stranger7721: After seeing my mom do it alone, I know how hard is. I don’t want to do it alone. I need a man who will be my equal partner, and those types are hard to find.
Stranger88: My sister’s a single mom too. It’s not easy.
Stranger7721: But would you do it? Would you be a single dad?
I look over at Jace. Sometimes, you just have to.
Stranger88: Yeah.
Stranger7721: I’d even give up my job for my child, if I had to.
Stranger88: Looks like you finally found something you’d love more than your job.
Stranger7721: Don’t tell my boss. ?
I laugh so loud that next to me, Jace lets out a moan and rolls over.
Stifling it, I type more.
Stranger88: What day are we up to?
She responds almost immediately.
Stranger7721: Only 56 left. I’m keeping count.
17
Highlighter in hand, I groan as I page through the binder, shaking my head.
Across the conference table, Brooks is calm, almost amused, leaning back in his chair as if he’s proud of himself. “I take it you’re not happy with my performance?”
I snort. “Are you serious?”
“Entirely.”
A bitter laugh escapes my throat. I don’t care that he said he came from a single mom—this is what happens when you grow up being told all your life that your bare minimum is worthy of a trophy. I jab the binder with the cap of my pen. “Did you even read through this whole exchange here on page 326?”
I take his silence as a no.
That’s what I get for trusting it to his quote-unquote capable hands, for thinking he was going to take care of things. He’s been out of the office for two days, and from the look in his eyes when he stuffed that binder under his arm, I thought he was really going to try to show me how dedicated he was to this case.
I couldn’t be more wrong. He’s nothing but a slacker who thinks he can cover his many, many inadequacies by pouring on the charm.
Not this time.
Sick kid. The more I’ve been thinking about it, the more I’m certain that the kid was an eighteen-year-old co-ed he picked up at a club somewhere. And sick? He probably couldn’t look at the binder because he was too busy giving her sexual healing.
I throw the highlighter down. “This is just shoddy work. I’m going to have to go over it myself.”
He crosses his arms. “I beg to differ. It’s solid work.”
I laugh again.
“But enjoy. If you want the torture, feel free to go over it line by line.” He presents it to me like it’s some prize I won on a game show.
“I don’t want to. I have to. Because my partner dropped the ball.” I glower at him.
He leans in. “Admit it, Bayliss. You’re only finding fault with it because it’s me and you don’t like me. And because you can’t bring yourself to admit that I did a good job at anything because you’re convinced I’m a shit lawyer.”
“Are you kidding me?” I scoff. “You did a terrible job.”
He stares as if he’s waiting for me to crack.
I will not.
An Ivy League educated attorney should be able to produce sterling work every time. And yet his is just… awful, like he was throwing together a homework assignment at the last minute hoping to turn it in for a passing grade.
I page through it a bit more, stopping when I see he used color-coded tabs to point out items of interest, and he made several insightful comments in the margins—things I probably wouldn’t have thought of myself. It’s all pretty damning to James Perry’s case and makes him look like a real scumbag, which should make me happy.
But it took him three days to deliver this to me, and when he did, he slid into the conference room like an oily snake and said, “Thank god I’m back, right?” as if he’d been the one holding things together in my absence.
