But I have to admit, as I sit here looking at Gabby in her beautiful Prada business suit, carrying her Gucci handbag, glancing out at her sleek candy apple red Lexus out in the parking lot – then contrast it to my off the rack budget suit, knockoff handbag, and my ten year old Camry that I drive as little as possible – I can’t help but feel a hot shot of jealousy. Gabby is making quite a living for herself, and I’m struggling to get by – I think being a bit jealous is probably normal.
Not that I begrudge her the fancy suits or nice cars – she works hard and has earned everything she has. And her path – corporate law – wasn’t my path. I was actually offered a job at her firm coming out of law school too but knew I’d be bored stiff negotiating contracts, mediation, and whatever else she has to do.
I’m proud of Gabs, and I know she loves what she does, but I wanted to leave a different mark on the world. I want to be known as somebody who defends the innocent. The sort of lawyer who is willing to stand between the people and the gears of the justice machine that perpetually spins and grinds people to dust. I’ve found that all too often, actual innocents are caught up in the teeth of that great machine and get chewed up along with the guilty.
“My God, Berlin,” she gasps. “He’s a beautiful man – not to mention the fact that he’s filthy rich. What’s not to like?”
“He was also a pervert who only wanted to get into my pants back in college.”
Gabby shrugs. “Time moves on. People change,” she notes. “Except for you – you have remarkably stayed pretty much the same.”
I give her a small grin. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult.”
“I’m not sure, either,” Gabby says, bursting into laughter.
I throw my crumpled-up napkin at her and laugh along, but her words echo around in my head. Am I really the same today as I was back in college? I don’t feel the same. I think I’ve grown and changed in a thousand different ways. I think I’m wiser and nothing like the naïve girl I was back then. But maybe I’m wrong. I must be if Gabby doesn’t see any change in me, since she knows me better than anybody else on this planet.
My thoughts are interrupted when Gabby takes my hand and gives it a squeeze and favors me with a small smile.
“I honestly didn’t mean that as an insult.” Her tone is serious. “All I meant is that you’re one of the most steady, consistent people I’ve ever met. We always know what we can expect from you. And that’s not a bad thing.”
I know she’s trying to be reassuring, but it still feels like she’s trying to make me feel better about what she perceives to be one of my flaws or shortcomings.
“Am I like, boring and predictable?” I ask.
“No, of course not. It’s not like that.”
There was a moment of hesitation before Gabs spoke – it was super brief, but I noticed it. It’s surprising to know she thinks I’m boring and predictable – and maybe a bit hurtful. But in my life, I’ve always had to be the strong one. I’ve always had to be steady and keep an even temperament. I’ve always had to be a rock who couldn’t afford to let herself break down.
It’s been that way since I was young. After my mother died, my father fell to pieces. He drank a lot, spent most of his days losing money at the track, burning through everything they’d put away for their retirement, and racking up bills he has no way of paying. And that was all before the Alzheimer’s struck. Now, his medical bills make the money he was drinking and gambling away look like pocket change.
I guess maybe taking on the responsibility for all of that has forced me to become a bit – stagnant. But I have to keep my head about me. I have to be the one who plans things out to the letter, and I have to be the one who keeps the entire ship afloat. I don’t have a choice.
“I am. You think I’m boring and predictable,” I groan. “I mean, I guess I am boring and predictable.”
She lets out a long breath. “You’ve got a lot on your plate, hon,” she says. “More than anybody else I know. It doesn’t leave a lot of room for just cutting loose and having fun. When you’re dealing with as much as you are, spontaneity kind of goes out the window.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“I know so.” She squeezes my hand again before letting it go. “But there is a cure for that, you know.”
“Oh? And what’s that?”
“Calling that gorgeous hunk of a man, and then getting together with him,” she quips. “I mean, if he forgives you for giving him a fake number and all.”
I laugh and feel my cheeks flush. There’s a small part of me that feels bad about giving Sawyer a fake number – I don’t like to lie. In my life, I’ve always tried to be as honest as I can be. But still, I’m not looking for a hook-up. I’m not the kind of woman who sleeps around or has sex just to have sex. I’m not a prude, and I’m not the ‘waiting for marriage’ type, but to me, sex isn’t meaningless. That intimate connection between two people is special and should be valued, and I don’t think Sawyer does. At least, not
