'Something like that. Yeah.'
She digests this. 'And what did you say?'
'I told him I wasn't sure how I felt and, um, I thought we should keep things low-key over the weekend.'
Frieda from accounting darts into the elevator after us. I hope that Hillary will save further interrogation for after our elevator ride, but no, she continues as the doors close. 'Did you guys hook up?'
I nod so that Frieda, standing with her back to us, won't know my business. I would have said no, but red roses would make less sense had there been no hook-up.
'But you didn't sleep together, did you?' At least she whispers this.
'No,' I say, and then give her a look to be quiet.
The elevator doors open, and Frieda scurries on her way.
'So? Tell me more,' Hillary says.
'It was pretty minor stuff. C'mon, Hill. You're relentless!'
'Well, if you'd told me the entire story up front, I wouldn't need to be relentless.' Her face looks trusting again. I am out of the woods.
We talk about other things on our short walk to Second Avenue. But then, over steak at Palm Too, she says, 'Remember when you dropped that beer on Saturday night, while you and Dex were talking?'
'When?' I ask, feeling panicked.
'You know, when you were talking, and I came up-right at the end of the evening?'
'Oh yeah. I guess. What about it?' I make my face as blank as possible.
'What was going on? Why was Dex so upset?'
'He was upset? I don't remember.' I look at the ceiling, wrinkle my forehead. 'I don't think he was upset. Why do you ask?'
When trapped, answering a question with a question is always a sound tactic.
'No reason. It just seemed odd, is all.'
'Odd?'
'I don't know. It's crazy…'
'What?'
'It's crazy, but… you guys looked like a couple.'
I laugh nervously. 'That is crazy!'
'I know. But as I was watching you two talk, I thought to myself that you would be way better with Dex. You know, better than he is with Darcy.'
'Oh, come on,' I say. More nervous laughter. 'They look great together.'
'Sure. Yes. They have all of that surface stuff. But something about them doesn't fit.' She brings her water glass to her lips and inspects me over it.
Keep your day job, Hillary.
I tell her she is nuts, even though I love what she has just told me. I want to ask her why she thinks this. Because we both went to law school? Because we have some shared trait-more depth or dignity than Darcy? But I say nothing more, because it's always wise to say as little as possible when you're guilty.
Les barges into my office after lunch to ask me about another matter for the same client. I have figured out over the years that this is his awkward way of apologizing. He only comes by my office after an explosion, like the one this morning.
I swivel in my chair and give him the update. 'I've checked all of the cases in New York. And federal cases too.'
'Okay. But keep in mind that our fact pattern is unique,' Les says. 'I'm not sure the Court will care much about precedent.'
'I know that. But as far as I can tell, the general holding we rely upon in Section One of our brief is still good law. So that's a good first step.'
So there.
'Well, make sure you check case law in other jurisdictions too,' he says. 'We need to anticipate all of their arguments.'
'Yup,' I say.
As he turns to leave, he says over his shoulder, 'Nice roses.'
I am stunned. Les and I do not make small talk, and he has never commented on anything other than my work, not even a 'How was your weekend?' on a Monday morning, or a 'Cold enough out there for you?' when we ride the elevator together on a snowy day.
Maybe two dozen red roses make me seem more interesting. I am more interesting, I think. This affair has given me a new dimension.
I am shutting down my computer, about to leave work, with plans to see Dexter. We have not yet spoken, only traded a series of conciliatory messages, including one from me thanking him for the beautiful flowers.
Hillary appears in my doorway, on her way out. 'You're leaving now too?'
'Yeah,' I say, wishing I had slipped out ahead of her. She often asks me if I want to get a drink after work, even on Mondays, which virtually everybody else considers the only stay-in night of the week. She isn't so much a party girl, like Darcy, she just isn't one to sit home and do nothing.
Sure enough, she asks if I want to grab a margarita at Tequilaville, our favorite place near work despite-or maybe because of-the stale chips and touristy crowd. It is always a welcome escape from the predictable New York scene.
I say no, I can't.
Of course she wants a reason. Every reason I think of she can and will refute: I'm tired (c'mon, one drink?), I have to go the gym (blow it off!), I'm cutting back on alcohol (a blank, incredulous stare). So I tell her that I have a date. Her face lights up. 'So ole Marky Mark's flowers worked their magic, huh?'
'You got me,' I say, glancing at my watch for good measure.
'Where are you going? Or are you staying in?'
I tell her we're going out.
'Where?'
'Nobu,' I say, because I ate there recently.
'Nobu on a Monday night, huh? He does dig you.'
I regret my choice; I should have gone for the no-name neighborhood Italian restaurant.
'If the date ends before two, call me and give me the scoop,' she says.
'Sure thing,' I say.
I go home forgetting all about Marcus and Hillary.
'Thank you so much for seeing me,' Dex says, as I open the door. He is wearing a dark suit and white shirt. His tie is removed, likely stuffed into his briefcase, which he puts on the floor right inside my door. His eyes are tired. 'I didn't think you would.'
I never considered not seeing him. I tell him this, realizing that it might erode my power. I don't care. It is the truth.
Both of us begin to apologize, moving toward each other awkwardly, self-consciously. He takes one of my hands in his, squeezes it. His touch is both soothing and electrifying. 'I'm so sorry for everything,' he says slowly.
I wonder if he knows to be sorry about the beach too, if that is included in 'everything.' I have replayed that scene over and over, mostly in sepia, like Don Henley's 'Boys of Summer' video. I blink, squeezing the images out of my mind. I want to make up. I want to move on.
'I'm sorry too,' I say. I take his other hand, but there is still much space between us. Enough to fit another person or two.
'You have no reason to be sorry.'
'Yes I do. I had no right to be angry at you. I was so out of line… We weren't going to discuss anything until after July Fourth. That was the deal…'
'It's not fair to you,' he says. 'It's a fucked-up deal.'
'I am fine with the way things are,' I say. It's not exactly true, but I am afraid of losing him if I ask for more.
