Page 57 of Dial L for Lawyer
Watching a documentary about women who poison their husbands.
Audrey:
Taking notes?
Me:
Only the ones that won't show up in an autopsy.
Layla:
Need anything?
Me:
A time machine and a new reputation.
And maybe a job. I'd forgotten what it was like to spend entire days alone, drifting from gym to couch to nowhere in particular. My apartment is cleaner than it's ever been. I've reorganized my closet twice, baked enough cookies to supply a small country, and refreshed my email approximately every thirty seconds hoping for news that doesn't come.
The entire case has gone silent, and I can feel the black hole forming in my LinkedIn profile, sucking recruiters and HR bots into its event horizon. I’m living in corporate purgatory.
There's nothing left for me to do but spiral. And so I spiral. I rarely eat what I bake, but I spiral through the entire roll of Tollhouse, through my own DMs—where I re-read every one of Caleb's texts from the start of our flirtation to his latest emoji-filled communication—through an hour of Pilates that does nothing to quiet my mind, and four separate re-dos of my resume. I even spend a solid thirty minutes contemplating a sidehustle as a dog walker, except I'm allergic to fur and not even sure I'd keep a labradoodle alive for more than a lap around the block.
The only break in my day comes at 3:10, when my building's front desk buzzes me about a package. I pull on my ancient UGGs and shuffle to the lobby mailbox, already anticipating the usual rent notice or spam envelope promising instant credit repair. Instead, there's a slim white box with my name written in block letters on the label.
No return address, which makes it either a bomb or some new level of lawyerly gamesmanship. I carry it back upstairs, my heartbeat a little lighter than before, and spend a full minute just staring at it on my countertop. If this is anthrax, at least my obituary will include ‘avid consumer of true crime documentaries.’
I cut the tape with a steak knife and peel back the lid.
Inside, nestled in tissue paper, is a dress—dark blue, probably cashmere, soft enough to make my fingers tingle. There's also a smaller box, the kind expensive jewelry comes in. I open it to find a pair of sapphire studs, understated but clearly real. A thick envelope sits on top, addressed to me in handwriting I recognize immediately.
It's from Caleb, but the writing is careful, like he doesn't want to put pressure on the paper.
Serena,
Four days of giving you space is killing me.
The dress is my excuse to see you.
The earrings are because I can't help myself.
Tonight. Please.
Your place, mine, another hotel—I don't care.
I just need to see you.
~ C
P.S. Still thinking about the hotel. And the wall. And the elevator.
P.P.S. And every surface on this earth I haven't had you on yet.
I read the note three times, my heart doing something stupid and fluttery. Four days of casual texts, and now this. A dress. Earrings. A man barely holding it together.
Before I can overthink it, I strip off my pajamas and pull the dress on. It fits perfectly, of course. The man who notices everything about me would definitely figure out my dress size. The cashmere feels like a whisper against my skin, and the color… It’s just stunning.
The earrings are another story. They're beautiful, expensive, the kind of thing I'd admire in a store window but never buy for myself. I put them on and stare at my reflection. With my unbrushed hair and no makeup, I look like someone playing dress-up in clothes that belong to a better, braver version of myself. Someone who hasn’t swapped salads for cookie dough for lunch.
