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“That bad, huh? Even before taking on this case?” I nod. “What happened to Josh? It seemed like you guys were going pretty strong. Thought he might bethe onegiven the way you talked about him.”
“Yeah,” I say, tugging my bag over my shoulder as we exit and walk across the cement floor toward our parked cars. “You and me both. Turns out, I tend to bury myself in my work—resulting in my partner feeling neglected and more like a roommate or an inanimate object in my life, like a couch.”
“Nooo,you’rea workaholic?” Brett has a look of fake shock on his face, which makes me laugh as we approach my car.
“Ass,” I mutter, smacking his chest playfully.
“Seriously, though,” he says, reaching out his hand to grab mine, “you need to ensure you’re making time for yourself and your needs too. You’re a kick-ass lawyer—probably the best in the city—and an amazing mom, but you can’t pour from an empty cup.” He drops my hand and reaches his finger up to gently poke my nose.
“I don’t recall asking you to give me sage advice.” I smile. It feels good to have this kind of moment with Brett again. We’ve been so close over the years, but recently we’ve both let life get in the way of seeing each other outside of work. “We really need to have a wine night at my house, you know that? Tell Nathan to make some of those mini quiche things with the goat cheese, and you guys come over so we can watch trash reality TV and you can make Chloe laugh telling her ridiculous stories about us in college.”
“That sounds amazing. He and I could use some friend time. It’s either been a constant rotation of in-law Sunday brunches or flea market runs to find vintage inventory for his interior design business. I’ll talk to him tonight and we’ll get it on the books.”
“Thank you,” I say, reaching up to wrap my hands around his neck as he kisses my cheek.
“Love you, drive safe, and stop working so hard!” he shouts, his back to me as he walks toward his car.
I turn, reaching for the handle of my car door, when I notice a black Dodge Charger with tinted windows in the far corner of the parking garage. I hesitate, my heart skipping a beat for a second, when I realize it’s the same car that was parked outside my house the other night . . . Alex’s car.
I yank my door open, squinting through my windshield at the figure behind the wheel. I know it’s him, but I can’t make out his features. He has a dark baseball cap pulled down over his brow. I start my car, putting it in reverse, and watch as his headlights come on, indicating he too has started his car.
“Seriously?” I mutter, wondering if he sat in his car all day in this hot garage as I pull out of the garage and head toward home. I make a quick pit stop at the market down the street from my house, settling on fresh pasta noodles and a rotisserie chicken. I have enough ingredients at home to make Chloe’s favorite pasta with a side of garlic bread.
“I’m home!” I shout as I close the door behind me and drop my bags.
“Hey, Miss Pierce,” Zara, the babysitter, says in her typical monotone voice.
“Hey, Zara, everything go okay?” I ask that question every time she watches Chloe, and she has the same response without fail.
“Of course, totally chill. Chloe already finished her homework and had a snack. She’s just upstairs reading in her room.”
“That kid’s never met a book she doesn’t like,” I say, kicking off my shoes and grabbing my purse to pay Zara.
“I brought her a few more, so I’m sure she’ll be busy for a couple days.” She smiles, taking the cash from me with her slender fingers and fluorescent-green, mile-long nails. When you picturethat girl—you know, the cool girl from Brooklyn who knows all the great indie bookstores and vintage resale shops—that’s Zara. She’s an incredible graphic design intern, part-time babysitter, part-time yoga instructor, and I think part-time dog-walker.
“Hey, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Has Chloe said anything to you lately about her dad or anything at school?” Zara squints, looking up toward the ceiling like she’s trying to recall. “The reason I ask is because she’s starting to get to that age where what she tells me isn’t probably the whole truth, and I just get nervous. She does so well in school, seems to have amazing friends, and loves hanging out with me . . . maybe I’m overthinking it.” I laugh, pressing the heel of my palm against my forehead.
“No, I get it. But to answer your question, no. She does seem genuinely happy. She’s never talked about her dad with me, other than telling me that he’s not around, but hey, neither is mine.” She shrugs, pushing her hands deep into the back pockets of her baggy jeans. “It’s good you’re concerned. You’re a great mom, Miss Pierce.”
“Thanks, Zara.”
She heads out the door and I place the groceries in the kitchen, getting a pot of water on the stove to boil before heading upstairs to check on Chloe. I tiptoe across the hardwood floor, making sure to avoid where the squeaks are, and peek my head around her cracked bedroom door. Just as Zara said, she’s buried in her book, her body wrapped in her favorite fleeceStar Warsblanket.
For as much guilt as I’ve been carrying since she was born about her father and especially with how busy I’ve been lately, seeing her safe—so focused on her book that she doesn’t even realize I’m there—makes me want to burst into tears. When I was her age, my body had already been functioning in fight-or-flight mode for most of my life. I was constantly on edge, waiting, listening to hear my dad stumble home, praying he’d actually make it back without killing himself or someone else on the road.
“Knock, knock,” I say softly as I step into her room, a smile instantly taking over her face as she reaches for her bookmark and snaps the book closed. “What’s it this time? Vampires? Aliens? A fight against time to save Earth from a mob of marauders on a desolate planet?”
“Not even close. It’s about a fairies and really cool girls who kick butt.” She tosses off her blanket and walks over to give me a hug. “You have a good day, Mom?” she asks, her arms around me as she looks up at me.
“I did,” I say, smoothing back her hair, “even better now that I’m home with you.”
“Good. I’m starving.” She smiles as I wrap my arm around her and we walk downstairs to the kitchen.
“Okay, you pick the record, and I’ll start chopping the veggies,” I say as I pull open the refrigerator door.
