Page 71 of The Wrong Side of the Law

The idea gives me a warm feeling in my belly as I push pieces of browning chicken breast around the pan.

“Fill that pot up with water, would you please?” I say, bossing my supervisor around in his own home. “Halfway, maybe a bit more.”

In just a few minutes, dinner is ready, and we’re carrying plates of food out to a small table on an ocean-view patio, along with silverware and glasses of wine.

“This is just lovely,” I say, taking in the sweeping scene of ocean and beach spread out before me. Palm trees and cars seem tiny, from ten stories up.

“Yeah, it’s what sold me on this unit,” he says, glancing out at the water before taking a sip of his wine. “The view from right here is probably the best in the city,” he continues, looking back at me. “It’s absolutely beautiful,” he sighs, a wistful half-smile on his lips.

Something about the way his eyes linger on me hints that he’s not talking about the ocean view anymore. Am I reading too much into his words? Part of me hopes that I am… but other parts of me hope that I’m not.

“When all this is over,” Gabriel says, breaking the silence before it can turn awkward, “you really do need to go back and finish your JD.”

“Yeah. I want to. No, Ineedto,” I say, correcting myself. “Every day that passes just makes it harder to believe I’m going to manage it, though. I’ll be lucky if I can get everything fixed and get back into school this fall, and if it takes any longer than that?” I shrug, fidgeting with my now-empty wine glass. “If I miss out on a second semester, then that makes a full year away from law school. It’s going to be so hard to get back to it.”

“You can do it,” Gabriel says, reaching out to take the empty stemware away. He sets it on the table and takes both of my hands in his own. “I know you can. And you will. This whole thing—the estate, your brother—it’s a setback, sure, but you’re smart and you’re tough. You’ll weather this storm. And it would be such a waste of talent if you don’t ever go back.”

“I know,” I say, nodding slowly.

“That wasn’t a promise,” he says, squeezing my hands and leaning closer to me over the table.

“I will,” I say, breathlessly. His gaze is intense, heavy, a weight almost as palpable as the worry I’d carried up the elevator with me, setting butterflies swarming madly in my belly. “I will do it. It’s the thing I’ve wanted most, and for as long as I can remember. To finish law school, to pass the bar. I will do it, Gabriel.”

“Good,” he says, letting go of my hands and looking back out to dusk settling in over the ocean. “You belong in a court room, Emily. You’re wasted on this paperwork stuff.”

“Thank you,” I say. “That’s so sweet of you to say.”

My hands feel strangely empty, now. I reach for the bottle of wine, filling up my glass again and offering to pour for Gabriel as well.

“Yes, thank you,” he says. “And you know me better than that," he continues. “I don’t do sweet. I do blunt and sincere and no bullshit.”

“In vino veritas,” I laugh, holding up my full glass in a toast. “This is wine, andthatwas a double-shot of straight truth.”

Gabriel clinks his glass against mine with a grin, but there’s an edge to it now. Cynicism, perhaps, tinged with bitterness. Whatever it is fades quickly, though, when he takes his next bite.

“So, what’s next?” I ask. “If we’re deadlocked on Ferry while we try and get the other samples in, what did you want to work on tonight instead?”

“Y’know,” he answers, once his mouth is empty again, “we can figure that out after. Let’s just enjoy dinner, for now.”

We finish our food mostly in silence.

I’ve misjudged Gabriel Cooper, I think, with my Jekyll-and-Hyde comparison. Mister Hyde isn’t a different person at all: Mister Hyde is just a suit of armor. He’s a defense mechanism, to keep people from getting too close.

Is it a conscious thing? Does he even realize that he’s doing it? From the feel of his condo I’d think yes, but it’s hard to say. It’s so obvious to me, looking in from the outside. The sadness, the loneliness, of the one worn spot on that leather couch is heartbreaking to me.

I came here tonight questioning my motives, but the deeper I dig, the less worried I am about them. The emptiness in this place, in this man, is crying out to be filled in. The deeper I dig in myself, too, the more I hear an answer to that cry.

The realization finally sets in as we stand up to clear the table: I don’t want to manipulate Gabriel Cooper, I want to complete him.

And I want him to complete me.

Perhaps it’s this heady realization that throws me off balance. Maybe it’s the wine, or standing up too fast. Maybe it’s some combination of the three. I don’t know. All I know is that my plate tips just wrong and my fork and knife clatter to the concrete.

I quickly stoop to pick them up, but as my hand touches the fork there’s another hand on it as well. I look up to find that Gabriel has gone down on one knee to pick up the lost tableware as well. His face, so close that I can feel his breath on my cheek, carries a look of deer-in-the-headlights surprise that must mirror the one I know I’m wearing.

I swallow hard and blink. I should let go of the fork.

But I don’t, and neither does he.

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