Do You Take This Man (21)
He had a serene smile. “She’s always been the brains of the operation. It made so much more sense for her to be the face of the company. I have always been very happy in the background.”
The interviewer continued asking questions about the scholarship foundation they’d started, one to rival the Gates Foundation, and their work helping high school students of color earn degrees. Andrew especially beamed when he talked about the program, and I made a note to look into it further. The interviewer closed by asking, “So what advice do you have for viewers about maintaining a happy marriage through the years?” I paused then, catching Dina’s eyes looking so much like they wanted to roll, and Andrew’s eyebrow quirking. It was a millisecond, a tiny peek into things gone wrong, but it was there.
I paused the video and rolled my shoulders, releasing some of the tension across my back. Those milliseconds added up, but sometimes one person didn’t notice them. I never paid much attention to my parents’ marriage—Dad screwed up, apologized; Mom forgave him; and the cycle continued until he left us both. My ex-boyfriend, Case, left, too. It wasn’t as dramatic as with my dad—we weren’t married, there wasn’t a kid, but off he went. This case was bigger and more complex than others I’d worked on, but there was no reason it should have gotten to me, rankled me like it did. Andrew Mayfield hadn’t left—the two of them had stayed together, living and working closely through their marriage, raising their children, but the milliseconds didn’t lie. I hit play again.
His hand fell over Dina’s again. “Advice? I think the best we ever received was that you both have to show up or nothing gets resolved.”
Dina had alleged that her husband cheated, and he’d alleged the same, but everything was cloaked in secrecy, NDAs, and some history they weren’t revealing. Publicly, they’d been a model couple for decades, making even me question if their love story wasn’t something special. That level of public pretending wasn’t uncommon when this amount of money and power was at stake. My stomach grumbled, and I paused the video. I was just hungry, that’s why this case felt personal.
Before I could open an app to order something, Eric popped his head in my door. “I’m out of here. I’m going to be in trouble if I’m here any longer.”
“Aww, Tyson doesn’t want to be away from you?”
Eric snort-laughed. “No. I’m solo on darling daughter duty tonight. He plays some video game on Wednesday nights with his best friend.”
“That’s sort of adorable in a preteen way,” I joked, rubbing the back of my neck.
He shrugged. “I don’t get it, but they’re happy. You going to be here much longer?”
I pointed at the screen, where I’d minimized the video. “Need to get through this research.”
He winced. “Been there.” Eric knocked twice on my door frame. “Take care of yourself!”
I gave him a wave and returned to the screen, scrolling and making notes.
“Ruthie.” Eric was one of very few people who even knew my real first name, let alone who I allowed to use it. He walked back in and handed me a box. “Ran into a delivery person on my way out who said these were for you.”
The box was pink with a sticker from Sid’s, the bakery I went to most often when I didn’t just grab something from the building’s lobby.
“Pastries for dinner is a choice . . . Do you need me to bring you meat and vegetables?”
“Bite me,” I said, running a finger over the box. “I didn’t order these. Must be a gift. I helped the owner with a custody thing last month.”
Eric nodded. “I’m out for real. Night, Ruthie.”
I smiled, remembering the older woman’s relieved and troubled expression when things were settled with her nephew. She’d reminded me of my grandma. My stomach growled again, and I flipped open the box. “Great timing, Mrs. Johnson,” I said to my empty office. Inside were two cheese Danish, and a note was scrawled in loopy handwriting on the inside of the lid: For RJ. Still not a meal. —Lear. P.S. Don’t spill coffee on these.
I stared at the handwriting, and the oddest sensation came over me as my lips tipped up in a smile. “Jackass,” I said under my breath, inhaling the scent of one of my favorite foods second to waffles. I took a bite, letting my eyes fall closed for a moment. My frustration from working late, from embarrassing myself in front of him, even from him being a jerk, faded, and I reached for my phone.
RJ: Thank you for the Danish delivery. Your note was so touching.
Lear: You’re welcome.
Lear: I genuinely wanted to remind you to not pour coffee on them.
I sat back in my chair, because I should have ended the conversation there.
RJ: Noted.
RJ: To clarify, can I pour it on you?
Lear: I’m not the lawyer here, but I think that’s assault.
RJ: I could make a case for mitigating circumstances.
Lear: What would those circumstances be?
That you’d have to take off your shirt, and what jury could fault me for that? I shook my head, because any jury vaguely conscious during the Me Too movement would surely find me at fault. I went with the next best option.
RJ: Self-defense.
Lear: In this imaginary scenario, I’m attacking you?