Page 91 of After Everything
That version of me had been miserable. Chasing the next promotion, the next case, the next validation. Coming home at midnight to a wife I'd stopped seeing. Choosing billable hours over everything else.
Choosing wrong.
I pulled up my case files. Maria's motion was only half-finished. I had research to do, precedents to cite, arguments to tighten. She deserved my full attention. Her kids deserved a lawyer who gave a damn about keeping them safe.
Morrison & Klein wouldn't give me cases like this. They'd give me corporate disputes and contract negotiations and clients who could afford to pay $800 an hour. Important work, in its own way. Lucrative work.
But not this.
My phone rang again. Jennifer could be persistent, it seemed.
I let it ring.
Thought about Emma. About the wayshe'd looked at me in that hallway four days ago.
I looked at my calendar again. At the work I'd built here. At the small practice that barely paid the bills but let me sleep at night. At the women who needed someone to show up and fight for them because no one else would.
At the life I'd chosen instead of the one that had been chosen for me.
My office was quiet. Just the hum of my laptop and the faint sounds of the coffee shop closing up below. Outside, the sun was setting, casting long shadows across my desk.
I thought about New York. About corner offices and million-dollar compensation packages and partnership at one of the best firms in the country.
I thought about my tiny office above a coffee shop.
About Emma's voice:I don't know if I can trust you.
About my own voice, three years ago, lying to her face about where I'd been.
About who I'd been then, and who I wanted to be now.
My phone rang again.
I looked at it. Jennifer Paulson. Morrison & Klein.
Friday deadline. They needed an answer.
I picked up the phone.
Took a breath.
And answered the call.
"Ms. Paulson,” I said. "Thanks for your patience. I've made my decision."
CHAPTER 30: EMMA
Ishould have called.
That's what a rational person would have done. Pick up the phone, dial his number, ask him directly about the offer. Simple. Clean. Professional.
Instead, I was standing outside his office building at nine in the morning, staring up at the narrow staircase that led to his practice, trying to convince myself this wasn't insane.
I'd barely slept. Had spent the entire night replaying the headhunter's call, imagining David packing his bags, picturing him in some sleek New York office with floor-to-ceiling windows and a salarythat could buy my apartment ten times over.
I could have texted him. Could have sent a simpleHey, got a strange call yesterday. Want to talk?
But I didn't want to text. Didn't want the distance of a phone call or the safety of written words I could craft and delete and craft again.
