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What the fuck have I done?
“Are you okay?” Tristan sits up beside me.
“Uh, yeah.” I nod, scooting off the bed. “I can just feel your, uh… I can feel it dripping out of me. So, I’m gonna go shower.”
“Okay.”
I pull the sheet with me and cover up my nakedness as I head to the bathroom. For some reason, I feel embarrassed about Tristan seeing me naked. I don’t glance back at all, and when I get to the bathroom, I shut the door behind me.
In the white bathroom, my eyes meet my reflection in the mirror above the sink. My hair is messy, and a trail of love bites marks my neck. I clutch the sheets against my breasts.
“What the fuck have you done, Layla?” I whisper to myself in the mirror.
Chapter eighteen
Tristan
Ihate courts—always have. The snooty faces of the lawyers, the criminals dressed in uncomfortable suits, unsmiling faces, and fluorescent lights. I hate everything about the court, and I hate the Fishers for putting me through this.
I should be at the construction site, but here I am, sitting in the closed courtroom amidst murmurs and shuffles of paper. The judge, a shapely older woman with a red face, peers over her round glasses at us. My lawyer, Joan Kinnaman, is scribbling something on a sheet, and I don’t bother looking at it.
The newly built court is almost completely empty as this is just the pretrial. The lawyer and the stenographer sit across from us. Across the room, Ellen and Jacob, dressed in denim and hats, sit with a veneer of composed determination. Jacob coughs into his closed fist, and Ellen pats him on the back like a child. Their lawyer, an older man in a green suit, whispers something in their ears, and they glance at me.
“When will this be done?” I lean over to Joan and ask. “I have somewhere to be.”
The construction is going fast, and according to recent progressions, it should be completed in two months. The board meeting is in two weeks, and I still have the custody hearings—this one being the first of many. My palms are clammy, and I remove a handkerchief from my jacket’s pocket and clean it up.
“Soon.” Joan’s blue eyes offer reassurance, her blonde ponytail bobbing. “This is simply the pretrial, you know?”
“Ugh.” I shake my head and lean back into the uncomfortable seat.
Layla crosses my mind, and I think back to three days ago, when we made love. Afterward, she bathed and left without saying much. I’ve been so busy with work that we haven’t seen each other much since then, but the truth is I can’t stop thinking about her.
I don’t know how she feels, but I know it’s all gotten complicated. It wasn’t supposed to be real. No intimacy and no feelings. That was the deal, but now, I don’t know. It’s all gotten complicated. I push my hair away from my face as I watch their lawyer approach the judge.
Joan hurriedly stands and approaches the bench, too. They discuss with the judge for a few minutes before returning to their seats. The judge clears her throat and then regards us.
“As you know,” her voice is surprisingly high. “Mediation fell through.”
My lawyer and theirs attempted to reach an agreement a few days ago in mediation, but they played hardball. I offered them visitations on Sundays, but they want full custody. So, Joan told them, in official terms, to fuck off.
“So, this is the pretrial conference. If this falls through, we’d have no choice but to go to trial.” A frown appears on her face like she hates the idea of a trial. “I hope you’ve submitted all financial records, parenting plans, and other necessary documents in discovery.”
The Judge peers over her glasses at our lawyers, who nod. Their green-suited lawyer leans over, and Ellen whispers something to him. I wonder what they’re talking about. Ellen smiles—an image that annoys me.
The lawyer suddenly shoots to his feet. “Your honor, we have credible evidence from Mr. Jackson’s home that shows his unsuitability to be a parent.”
What?!
“Objection!” Joan stands, straightening her pants. “They claim to have evidence that would sway the court, but everything of the sort should have been submitted in discovery.” Her voice echoes in the mostly empty room.
“Not if we believe there’s a solid chance this goes to trial.” Their lawyer regards Joan with a smirk, his mustache curling.
“Overruled, Ms. Kinnaman.” The judge says in a bored tone.
The judge cocks a brow. “Mr. Burns.” She gestured to him to approach.
Joan leans in to whisper to me, “Evidence? Do you know what they’re talking about?” Her breath is cool in my ear, and I smell mint on it.
