Page 110 of Play the Game
I narrow my eyes at him. “Has anyone ever told you you’re areally bad negotiator? You should never offer a blank check. Everyone has a limit to their worth.”
“Not you,” he says immediately. “You’re a scientist and a lawyer. You’re brilliant and creative, and I have never met a harder worker in my life aside from the woman I married.” His face goes soft when he mentions his wife. “I know what it’s like to be a woman rising to the top of a field dominated by men. I mean, I don’t know exactly what it’s like because, man.” He points to himself. “But I watch my wife get up and do it every single day, and you remind me so much of her. If you like the law firm world, I totally understand. But if you’ve ever considered going in-house at some point in the future, I’m asking you to move that timeline up and consider doing it now.”
I hear the words he’s saying, but I’m struggling to re-orient my brain to the idea of foregoing the partner track I’ve been running on since I was a summer associate after my second year of law school. To getting out of the race. I can’t deny that the thought is appealing, but the idea of just giving up what I’ve been working toward all these years feels wrong, somehow. I’ve never quit anything in my entire life.
You kind of hate it here.
I silence that voice in my head—the one that’s only gotten louder over the past month or so—and sit up, squaring my shoulders.
“I’m not saying no, but I’m not ready to say yes. I need some time to think it over. I understand if you need to look elsewhere in the meantime.”
Milo laughs. “Evan, what part of this hasn’t been clear? I don’t want to search for a lawyer to hire. I want to hire you. As a lawyer. Only you. Take all the time you need. This job is yours if you want it.”
“And if I don’t?”
He shrugs. “You’re still stuck with me because I’m your client right here. Right now, or three years from now, I’ll convince you eventually. I can be very persuasive.”
“I’ll just bet,” I mutter, and Milo laughs again, pulling a business card from his pocket and scribbling a number on the back, sliding it over to me.
“That’s my personal cell number. I’m sure you have it in your files somewhere, but here it is again. If you want to talk more, or if you have any questions, text me, call me, show up at my house, or send a damn carrier pigeon, because one way or another, you’re going to be the general counsel of Pierre Pharma. Might as well start getting used to the idea.” He sits back, crossing his arms over his chest, his satisfied expression one of a man who knows he’s going to get exactly what he wants, and in this moment, I honestly can’t tell him he’s wrong. “So now that we have that all settled, are you ready to showcase your mad legal skills and tell me how we’re going to finally wrap this litigation?”
I shake my head, laughing a little as I slip the card into my portfolio. “My mad legal skills are going to have you out of this in five weeks or less.”
“That’s what I like to hear. Tell me everything.”
And for the next two hours, I do exactly that, all the time dreaming just a little about new beginnings and all the uncertainty that lies ahead.
But for the first time in twenty-two weeks, the uncertainty doesn’t feel so scary at all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
COOPER
APRIL
“Bathroom,” Evan whispers, handing me her boxes of candy and slipping out of our row, heading for the theater exit while on screen, Joe Fox shows up at Kathleen Kelly’s apartment with get well soon daisies in all of his late nineties, rom-com cinematic glory.
For the past month or so, Evan has been having trouble sleeping, and when she’s up, she’s restless. She hasn’t wanted to sit and write, so instead, when she can’t sleep, we walk. On one of our first late-night sojourns, we found this tiny, old-school movie theater in Brookline that has midnight showings of classic rom-coms. It’s the kind of Boston gem that’s rarely advertised—anif you know you knowsort of thing—so stumbling on it together one cold, clear March night felt like magic.
We’ve been back at least five or six times since, always with gas station cherry slushies and bags of drugstore candy hidden under our coats like art thieves sneaking rolled up canvases outof a museum. It's my favorite little tradition of ours, but this is the fourth time Evan’s gone to the bathroom since we sat down an hour ago, and she’s edgy and more restless than usual tonight. She’s never complained, but I wonder if maybe it’s time to move our movie nights to the couch instead. I also wonder if she’ll cut off my balls for even suggesting it.
Probably better not to risk it.
When ten minutes, and then fifteen, go by with no sign of her, unease curls in my gut. It’s late on a Tuesday night, and we’re the only ones in the theater, so there wouldn’t be a line for the bathroom, and no way should it be taking this long. It’s possible that the closer we get to Evan’s due date, the more protective I get. Okay, fine—it’s not just possible; it’s absolutely happening. But I can’t actually grow the baby, so I figure I can do just about everything else.
Including checking on my very pregnant girlfriend when she’s taking too long in the bathroom.
Setting all the candy on the floor, I leave the theater and head straight for the single stall ladies’ room. “Hey, Rhodes, you okay?” I call, knocking on the door.
“Cooper?” I can practically hear the eyeroll in those two syllables, and I smile to myself as the lock clicks and the door swings open.
My heart skips in my chest when I see her standing there, hair tumbling down her back in thick blonde waves and blue eyes flashing with her signature combination of amusement and irritation. The tight black leggings she’s wearing mold to every single gorgeous curve of her legs, and afeminist is my second favorite F wordsweatshirt hugs her belly in a way that makes me want to get down on my knees and thank her for being here.
For being her.
For being mine.
She has absolutely destroyed me, in the best way possible. I never want to be put back together.
