Dream On(21)

I’m having drinks with Devin. Except this time, it’s real.





How I’ve made it to Friday without dissolving into a puddle of nerves is a mystery to me.

I tap my toe under my desk and force myself not to look at the time on my computer. Still, the tiny numbers in the corner are visible whether I like it or not, so I can’t help but absorb them in my peripheral vision.

It’s after three o’clock. Only four more hours until drinks with Devin.

At least, I assume we’re still having drinks tonight. I texted him on Tuesday with a time and place for us to meet on Friday. Within ten minutes, he’d texted me back. Junction, 7pm. Got it. Looking forward to getting to know you, mystery girl.

And then… nothing.

No follow-ups. No how’s your week going? Or, what are you up to today? Radio silence.

I can’t exactly blame him; I haven’t texted him either. But only because I’m not sure I can trust myself to engage in normal, casual chitchat. Even though we only met a few days ago, part of my brain still thinks we’re in a relationship, which is just plain weird. The reality is that we’ve never dated. He might look like Dream Devin, but who’s to say Real Devin isn’t completely different?

The only way to know for sure is to get to know him. Tonight’s my chance to understand who he is and why my brain has manufactured memories of us together—a chance I never thought I’d get. I can’t screw it up.

My phone’s dark screen taunts me from beside my keyboard. Flipping it facedown, I force my attention back to the multiple Westlaw tabs full of research and the memorandum I’ve been drafting that are crowding my double monitors. The words seem to blur together, and I drag my knuckles up the bridge of my nose to my forehead in an effort to dispel the dull headache that’s taken up permanent residence behind my eyes.

I was lucky enough to earn an assignment this summer in the litigation practice group—my top choice—but I forgot how exhausting it is to sit for ten to twelve hours a day, analyzing dense legal documents. Shaking my head, I take a long gulp of water from my Hydro Flask and refocus on the screen.

Someone coughs—a dainty sound that somehow manages to slice through my noise-canceling earbuds. Closing my eyes briefly in a bid for patience, I pluck out an earbud and rotate in my seat, even though I already know the source.

My cubicle-mate, Mercedes Trowbridge, aka summer associate “Allred,” flashes me a razor-edged smile. “Do you mind?” She nods at my foot, which I realize I’m mindlessly tapping against the back wall of my desk. Her strawberry-blond hair is as mirror smooth as it was on orientation day, and she’s wearing her signature color—red. Except today her blouse is more poppy red than yesterday’s port wine red or Monday’s crimson. Turns out I was spot-on with the “Allred” nickname.

Her long, delicate fingers hover over her keyboard as she stares at me expectantly, eyebrows raised.

I slow my tapping, and the dull tunk tunk quiets. I recross my legs. “Sorry.” The smile I flash is as tight-lipped as her own.

Exhaling briskly through her nose, she flicks her hair over her shoulder as she turns to her screen and begins typing. Grumbling, I swivel to face my own desk. Chalk it up to my rotten luck to be assigned to the same two-person workspace as the most unfriendly, daggers-out law student I’ve ever met.

After her attempt at a chair coup on Monday, I’d desperately hoped I was wrong about her—and not just because we have to share a cubicle. There are few enough women in law as it is, and even fewer who stick it out, rise through the ranks, and make partner. I say let’s lift each other up instead of bat each other down. Out of the twelve summer associates at Smith & Boone, there are only two other women besides me and Mercedes—a middle-aged career switcher and an aspiring patent attorney who’s quieter than a Pet Rock. I’d hoped that once Mercedes and I got to know one another, we’d find some common ground. Maybe even be—well, probably not friends—at the very least, mutually respected colleagues.

But no. Every single attempt to crack through her icy shell has ricocheted like putty. If she’s not actively ignoring my lunchtime small talk, she’s passive-aggressively clearing her throat or dramatically sighing every time I so much as sneeze. And when I deigned to make a peace offering yesterday of a blueberry scone I picked up from the coffee shop down the street, she looked at me like I’d offered her arsenic. Her nostrils flared and her mouth twisted when I shrugged and took a bite, like I was the most revolting person on the planet for enjoying carbs and sugar.

At least our desks face away from each other in the snug three-walled cubicle, so I don’t have to see her constant expression of haughty disapproval that she reapplies as often as her power lipstick. A small mercy.

My phone vibrates and I sigh. Fifty bucks says it’s Brie psyching me up for tonight. Or else it’s my mom texting me for the umpteenth time for an update on my first week at the firm. The name on the screen makes me jolt so hard I nearly knock over my water. My heart leaps like a ballerina. It’s Devin.

Still on for Junction @7?



I can’t stop my fingers from trembling when I text him back.

Absolutely! I have my magnifying glass packed and ready to go!



As soon as I hit send, I cringe. Oh God.

I mean, like, to solve a mystery