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“Skylar Crosby, sir,” I said, extending my hand and shaking his firmly.
He returned my smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Pleasure to meet you. Please sit down. Do you want some coffee? There might be some dregs in the pot.” He nodded to a small drip-coffee maker on a shelf.
“I’ll take a beer if you’ve got one,” Brandon said as we both sat in the two small chairs provided for students. The legs on Brandon’s creaked as he folded his large frame into the small metal seat. “I know you’ve got a few stashed under your desk where Susan won’t find them.”
Ray opened his mouth as if to argue, but then sighed, sat back into his rolling chair, and reached under his desk into a mini refrigerator for said beers.
“Damn woman is on a new health kick. Some Paleo-diet garbage,” he muttered. “I told her there was a reason why cavemen only lived thirty-five years, but she won’t listen to basic science.”
He held out three cans of PBR, and I took one, not wanting to be rude. We cracked open the cans and sipped in silence.
“So, what does the young lady do?” Ray asked Brandon.
I did my best to hide a frown; it drove me crazy when men talked about women as if they weren’t in the room.
“I’m in law school, Dr. Petersen,” I piped up. “Finishing my third year.”
Ray glanced at me with a slightly hawkish look behind his glasses. “Is that so? I’ve never really thought much of lawyers. Always seemed like a lot of rhetorical posturing if you ask me.”
Brandon’s grip on his beer can was the only thing that betrayed his irritation. I wasn’t so good at holding my tongue.
“I don’t know about that, sir,” I said as nonchalantly as I could. “I like to think of us as necessary interpreters of the abstract social boundaries by which our society operates. Without the law, there is chaos, which would be much more restrictive than anything we live by. Like John Locke said, ‘Where there is no law, there is no freedom.’”
Ray stared at me for a few seconds before turning back to Brandon. “Is she always like this?”
There he went again. I didn’t care if he was a Fields Medal winner; Raymond Petersen was obviously one of those old male academics who tended to treat women as if they had half a brain.
“Like what, sir?” I asked politely.
Ray rewarded me with another quick glance, but continued to address his foster son. “So outspoken?”
“Skylar’s at the top of her class at Harvard, Ray,” Brandon replied irritably. “I’d say her willingness to challenge others will serve her clients well.” He squeezed my hand. “I know I like it.”
Ray blinked between Brandon and me a few times, looking pointedly at our joined hands before focusing back on Brandon.
“So, is everything all right? What’s really going on here?”
Ray’s eyes continued to flicker between the two of us suspiciously. I took a large gulp of beer. It was an oddly direct question, particularly in New England, where most folks tended to swath their inquiries in pleasantries and passive aggressive behavior. I glanced at Brandon, who just sighed.
“Nothing’s going on, Ray,” he replied.
“Well, it doesn’t add up,” Ray said. “You call me or Susan, what, once every few weeks or so? We usually only see you when you’ve got some personal problem you can’t sort out. Last time it was because that other woman was suing––”
“That’s enough,” Brandon cut him off.
“Is that done with? What’s going on with this girl? Did you get her pregnant? There are clinics that can help you take care of that, you know. You’re thirty-seven, Bran; you need to learn to deal with these things on your own.”
Brandon set his can on the desk hard enough that a bit of beer spurted out and down the sides. Ray immediately picked it up and wiped the liquid away. Brandon stood up and pulled me from my chair. I was barely able to set my beer next to Brandon’s before I was tugged backward toward the office door.
“Nothing’s going on,” Brandon said again. “I met someone I like. I wanted her to meet you. That’s it. Tell Susan I said hi.”
“It was nice to meet you, Dr. Petersen,” I offered as I was practically dragged away.
Ray didn’t look up; he had already dumped our beers in the garbage and had pivoted back to the mess of papers on his desk.
Twenty
“Can I ask you something?”
