Page 22 of Play the Game
I glance at my computer—at my overflowing inbox, the half-finished memo I’m drafting on the Economic Espionage Act of 1996, and a web browser with at least forty tabs open to various state statutes dealing with trade secrets.
“Shit,” I mutter, shoving up from my desk, knowing that there is no focusing on any of it until I figure out what’s going on behind Evan’s closed door. I pick up my phone and hammer out a message to Noah.
Me
Something came up at work and I’m stuck here for a little while longer. I’ll get there as soon as I can.
Noah
No problem. I figured there was only a fifty percent chance you would be on time. We’ll see you when you get here.
I wince at the message. I hate being this person. One who cancels on the people I love most in the world because of work shit. At some point, I have to get around to figuring out my life. But with another glance at Evan’s closed door, I know today is not that day.
The hallway is quiet as I stride across to Evan’s office, the assistants having long-since gone home for the night, and any lawyers still around likely ensconced in their own offices, settling in for a long night doing work that probably feels like the most important thing in the entire world but in the grand scheme of things could not possibly matter less.
I lift my hand and knock on Evan’s door, prepared for her to tell me to go the fuck away, but I’m met with silence.
“Hey, Rhodes,” I call. “Avoidance time is over. I know you’re probably embarrassed that I saw you throw up two separate times in two separate trash cans on two different days, but atsome point, you have to come out of there.” There. I smirk at the closed door, knowing that’s going to piss her off enough that she’ll have to come out and spar with me.
But still nothing.
Before I can question what I’m about to do, I reach down and twist the handle, pushing open the door, mildly concerned that she’s in there passed out or something because she came to work still sick. When I see her leaning over in her chair, head pillowed on her forearm and blonde hair spilling all over her desk, suddenly I’m really worried. But it takes me approximately ten seconds to realize that she’s not passed out. She’s fast asleep.
Her breathing is slow and even, her lips just slightly parted, long eyelashes fanning out across her cheeks. Her face is soft in sleep, as relaxed as I’ve ever seen it. I don’t know if I make some kind of noise or she just senses that she’s no longer alone, but as I stand there watching, her eyelashes flutter, her eyes opening slowly and then all at once as she inhales sharply, shooting to a sitting position. She sucks in another breath and presses one hand to her stomach, her other reaching out to the pile of red Jolly Ranchers on her desk, unwrapping one and slipping it between her lips before her eyes meet mine.
“What are you doing in here?”
I can tell she’s going for accusatory, but the fact that her hair is a mess, her eyes deeply shadowed, her black silk tank wrinkled, and her face pale means she doesn’t quite get there. Seeing her so unraveled stokes something deep inside me…something I don’t understand and know instinctively I don’t want to parse right now.
I shrug, going for casual. “Your door has been closed all day. I was worried. Thought maybe you were in here brewing some sort of potion that would instantly make you queen of intellectual property litigation. Or, like, turn me into a frog or something.”
Evan lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Not today.” She reaches over for the can of seltzer on her desk, taking a small sipand making a face. “Ugh, flat,” she mutters, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, pressing her hand to her stomach again like she’s trying to settle it.
I drop down into one of the chairs opposite her, leaning my elbows on her desk. “Okay seriously, Rhodes. Go home. You’ve been shut in here all day. I just walked in on you sleeping on your desk, and you look like hell. I know you’re the most dedicated BigLaw associate ever to grace these halls, but you’re sick. Like, really, really sick. Go home and get well so you can kick my ass all over the conference room again.”
“I’m not sick,” she mumbles, crossing her arms over her desk and leaning her forehead down.
“Excuse me?” I say, not sure I heard her right.
She raises her head, her shadowed, exhausted eyes looking directly into mine, something deeply serious in them sending my instincts humming. “I’m not sick,” she repeats, unwrapping another Jolly Rancher and shoving it into her mouth. “I’m pregnant.”
Pregnant.
The word reverberates around my head as I stare at Evan and she stares right back, the entire world shrinking down to the space between us that now houses that word and the look in Evan’s eyes that I suddenly understand right down to the marrow of my bones.
The middle of the night.
A dimly lit conference room.
A wall of windows.
Fuck me already.
Pregnant.
I stare at her, somehow asking without words the only question I can think of.
She stares back at me, somehow understanding. And she nods.
