Page 8 of Breaking the Lawyer

Tyler feigns offense. "Okay, then," he snaps and tries to take it back, but I press it to my chest and don't let go.

I have a feeling I'm going to need all the good luck I can get.

Tyler leaves with a final “Good luck,” and I close the door behind him.

What time is it, anyway? I look outside the window and find the sun already hanging low in the sky.

Awesome. Leave it to me to fuck up my sleep schedule the day before starting a new job.

I go back to my bedroom, pick up my phone from the bed, sigh heavily, and power it up. First I see the time—5 PM, lovely—and then, notifications start flooding in. My temperature spikes when I notice one from Christian. I swallow hard. It's okay. I just won't open it and it'll be like it never happened.

I last about point-three seconds before curiosity takes over and, with shaky fingers, I open the conversation, bracing myself to burst into flames from embarrassment.

Christian left me a voice memo.

Three hours ago.

I suddenly wish it wasn't Sunday so I could get smashed before facing this particular dragon—The Drake of Impending Cringe.

I hold my breath and press play.

"You know," comes Christian's deep, silky voice, followed by a small pause, like he's thinking about what to say. He does sound somewhat amused, but not overwhelmingly so. "I always knew lawyers liked to argue, but witnessing one argue with himself is a first for me. I'll admit, it's a rather... charmingprocess." I'm still holding my breath while Christian lets out a sophisticated chuckle. "Don't worry. You couldn't offend me if you tried. Thanks for acknowledging I'm hot though—the denial made you blink at an unhealthy rate." And now I really wish I were dead. "You're not that bad yourself. For a straight guy. Good luck on your first day, counselor."

He remembered, is the first thought that forms in my brain as the message ends.

I shake it off. He just has a good memory, that's all.

I stare at the screen for a minute or two, finger tapping the edge of my phone. He didn't gloat at my antics. I know I would have. He seems…nice.

Maybe I should end it there, but before I can think better of it, the tip of my finger finds that damn record icon again. After all, how often do you randomly meet nice people?

"Why, thank you, but I'm all set—no luck necessary.” I hear myself say. "I have my something blue, something borrowed," I recite, my eyes landing on Tyler's tie on the edge of my bed. "And something old, by the looks of it. I won’t be surprised if they promote me right away. Also, I'm not justnot that bad, I'll have you know. You just didn't get to see my best parts."

The second the words leave my mouth I wish the floor would swallow me. How do I continuously find new ways to embarrass myself? I huff. "You know what? This damn auto-send thing is a hazard. Whoever designed it needs to be sued, immediately. For emotional damage and infringement of privacy. It has a tendency of soliciting private thoughts in a way I don't appreciate."

There. That ramble should serve as a sufficient decoy.

Seriously, who came up with this social death-trap?

I plop down on my bed and open the app settings, searching for a way to change that, when my phone pings again. I close the menu to find a new memo in the conversation thread. It's only fifteen seconds long. I press play.

"Marrying your job, huh? I guess congratulations are in order." His voice is a little breathier this time, like he's been walking or running. "Also, what would the best parts be?" There's a small pause. "Actually, don't tell me."

My finger presses record again without my brain's involvement and I take my sweet time to conjure a clever response. It's not until ten seconds pass that I realize he's about to hear that silence. Panic sets in. "I…have abs."

Okay, I should be studied. Or better yet, I should write a book.How To Make an Ass of Yourself in Twelve Seconds or Less for Dummies. Instant bestseller.

The best option would be to close the app and not look at my phone for the rest of the day, so naturally I don't do that. Instead, I stare at the screen like it's about to reveal the secret to the universe until a new voice memo pops up.

"If I wanted to see abs, I'd look in the mirror. It takes way more to impress me."

I take a sharp inhale like I'm about to argue with empty air. Am Itryingto impress him?

No, that's ridiculous. It's more of a competition at this point. A lawyer thing if you will, always trying to one-up the opposition.

This time I'm fully aware I'm recording silence, technology being out to get me and all, but you know what? If he's interested in my reply he can endure some silence. Andwith that newfound confidence, I settle on, "What's your type, anyway?"

I'm not even sure why I'm asking. Research, I guess. Data collection. Whoever holds more data, holds better arguments.

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