He shrugs. “I don’t make begging a habit, and if you say you aren’t feeling it anymore, then I guess that’s that.”

“Uh-huh.” I continue to watch him as if he’s going to laugh at any second, making this into another joke, but when he doesn’t, I feel a flood of something coursing through me. I tell myself it’s relief, but I can’t be sure. Does relief make your stomach knot? “All right then. So we’ll stick to strictly professional going forward?”

“Strictly professional,” he repeats. “Can do.”

“Well, I…huh. Okay.” I rub the ends of my hair that have fallen over my shoulder, still eyeing him. “Thank you, Ezra.”

“Of course.”

I keep waiting for him to say something more, and when he remains silent, I’m struck with an overwhelming urge to put distance between us. As if it might be me who does something reckless if I stay here any longer.

“I’ll be in touch,” I tell him. “I have some additional interrogatories.”

He gives me another brief nod. “Sounds good.”

I allow myself one last look, realizing that he really is going to leave it at this, and I tell myself it is relief that I’m feeling as I turn from him to leave the room. That it’s a smart decision, ending this thing between us. No good can come of it, it certainly isn’t going anywhere, and I don’t need the distraction. This is a good thing.

Bianca is already gone when I leave the conference room, but I think I expected that. I suppose that means I’ll need to call her when I get home and try to sort through what happened back there. It’s not a phone call I’m looking forward to. I realize too late that I’m still lingering outside the conference room, just standing in front of the door without any real reason as my thoughts swim. Pretending I don’t know why I’m so distracted. Telling myself it has everything to do with the professional happenings that just occurred in that room and not the personal ones.

It’s a good thing.

I tell myself that a dozen more times on the walk to my car.

OceanofPDF.com

Nine

In the weeks that follow depositions, Ezra makes good on his word to keep things professional. Gone are the random flirty text messages at least once a day I’ve become used to, and when we do text—it’s curt, succinct, and completely centered on the case.

It’s what I wanted, what I asked for, sure. So why have I been so…unsettled?

It’s as if I’d gotten so used to his annoyingly constant presence that now that he’s stepped back (like I asked him to), I feel out of sorts. It might be more annoying than Ezra is, feeling this way.

“Dani, you’re crushing my nuts.”

I jolt, dropping the pastry cutter I’ve been using to break up Mom’s pecans for the bottom of her pie. When I look into the bowl I’ve been working with, it’s clear I have in fact pulverized several of them into powder.

“Sorry,” I mutter, dumping my work and grabbing another cup of shelled pecans to start over. “Spaced out.”

She frowns at me from where she’s icing her cake. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine.”

She looks unconvinced. “Anything bothering you at work?”

“No, no. It’s going well at work.”

Well, mostly. Bianca’s second omission about her previous divorce petition and trust fund woes was a setback, one she hadn’t been too keen to talk about. When we discussed it, she more or less went Edna Mode on me. I could practically see her waving at me from over her shoulder saying, “I never look back, darling. It distracts from the now.”

Which is frustrating. Since she refuses to dive any deeper into the withdrawal of her petition, I’m only left with the assurance that her trust fund quickly regained its lost assets, giving her ample reasoning to go through with her petition, if money had been the issue. She didn’t have to stick it out with him for another thirty years if that had been what she was worried about.

“Good,” Mom says. “No work stuff today.”

“That might be hard considering half of your guest list are Dad’s old work buddies.”

“And if I hear anyone talking shop, there will be no pie for any of them.”

A laugh escapes me. “You know, most people don’t continue to listen to their spouses after the divorce.”

“We respect each other,” Mom answers casually. “We don’t need nuptials for that.”

I frown, giving my attention back to the bowl in front of me. I don’t think I can handle letting my mind wander to the complexity that is my parents and stepparents today. That’s never a fun time for my brain.

“Where is Bill anyway?”

“Oh, he and Patty are out back with your dad trying to get the grill going. Leave it to your father to buy the fanciest model they make without having any idea how to use it.”

That makes me smile. It definitely sounds like Dad. I finish chopping the pecans for the bottom of the pie so Mom can add the filling, wiping my hands on my apron before pulling it over my head. “Do you need my help to finish this up? I was going to get changed.”

“Oh, I got you a new dress,” she tells me. “I left it in your old room.”

“What? Why?”

“Do I need a reason to buy my daughter a gift?”

I roll my eyes. “Is this bribery? Because I already brought the apple pie.”

“No,” she laughs. “I just thought it would be nice to see you out of work clothes.”

I glance down at my beige linen slacks, frowning. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

“Nothing at all,” she assures me. “Just indulge an old woman, okay?”

“Fine, fine.”

She pauses what she’s doing, eyeing me from across the kitchen. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes? Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I just know how you get when we’re all together…”

“Mom, stop.” I have to shove down the roiling emotions bubbling inside. “You know I love Bill and Patty.”

“I know, honey, but…” Her teeth worry at her lower lip. “I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like you hardly ever smile anymore. I guess some days I can’t help but worry that it’s our fault.”

Jesus Christ, the universe is really out to get me lately.

“Mom,” I answer, trying to keep my tone even. “It’s been years. I’m over it.”

“I just wanted to make sure you knew that you could talk to me,” she urges. “I don’t care how long it’s been. You’re always working so hard, and I just worry about you.”

“We don’t have to talk about this at every family gathering,” I say softly. “Honestly.”

She nods slowly. “All right. Don’t mind me. Just being a worrywart.”

I can tell there’s more she’d like to say; there’s nothing new about my mother prodding at my emotions whenever we’re alone as if she might somehow teach me how to suddenly open up to someone, and just like every other time, I’m determined not to give her much. I never want her to feel guiltier than she has to for the way our lives turned out. I carry enough guilt for the both of us.

“I’ll just…go get changed.”

Mom nods again. “Good idea. People should be arriving soon.”

I leave her in the kitchen to head for the stairs toward my old bedroom; I’ve told Mom and Bill a hundred times that they should turn it into something useful, but Mom insists on keeping it as is. I think deep down she tells herself that keeping this one small thing the same might somehow make up for the childhood I still feel like I lost.

I find Mom’s gift laid out over my bed—a bright red sundress covered in tiny little daisies that cinches at the waist. It’s nothing that I would ever pick out for myself, but I can’t deny that it’s pretty. I move to the full-length mirror in the corner of my room, holding it against my body. It’s weird, the last time I did this—my high school graduation, I think?—I agonized over which dress to wear, which seems silly now, given that it was going to be under that ugly gown the entire time.