Jack With a Twist

“That’s because you two never should have been opposing each other in court in the first place,” Vanessa says, handing over her credit card to the cashier.

“The way his family treated mine,” I say.

“You’re marrying Jack,” she says, turning to face me, “not his family. If I’d judged Marcus by his family, we’d have never made it down the aisle. You’ve met his sister. What was it that you called her?”

“Now whose argument is flawed?” I say, turning to face her, too. “You divorced Marcus.”

“But still,” she says.

“But still nothing,” I say. “I think your argument proves my point. Maybe you should judge a guy by his family. I remember what I called Marcus’s sister that time I met her. But, I’m a lady, so I refuse to repeat it.”

“You know, Brooke,” Vanessa says, “people get very stressed when it comes to planning weddings and stuff. I’m sure that Jack’s family isn’t nearly as bad in reality as they were in the course of planning this wedding. I’m sure they were just as stressed about all of this as you. Let’s just assume that what we saw wasn’t actually the real them. I’m sure that if you just explained to Jack how you really feel, he’d save the day and fix everything for you. Just like he always does.”

“Well, it’s too late for that now,” I say, grabbing one of Vanessa’s shopping bags while she grabs the other one and the garment bag, “so let’s go get a bite to eat in the café. I’m thinking scones?”

I will be finding out who Vanessa’s mystery man is, no matter how many scones it takes.

When I walk in the door from work the following evening at 11:00 p.m., my mother’s still up, boxing up engagement and wedding presents to ship back to their respective senders. She’s in a pale-pink robe that I bought for her for Mother’s Day last year. She always wears pretty robes and nightgowns to sleep—something about advice her great-aunt gave her as a newlywed about “always keeping the magic alive”—so that’s been my go-to present for her for as long as I can recall.

“Late day, huh?” she says, looking up from her bubble wrap. “Want something to eat?”

“I grabbed a slice of pizza at the office,” I say, throwing my work bag down in the foyer and taking off my jacket.

“Reminds me of when you worked at Gilson, Hecht,” my mother says.

“Please don’t even mention the name of that law firm to me,” I say, slipping my shoes off and sitting down next to her in the living room.

“It’s just that you seem to be working just as hard now as when you left the firm,” she says, putting down the industrial roll of tape she’d been using. “See, I didn’t mention the name.”

“Thank you,” I say, and grab the roll of tape to help her seal up a box from Crate and Barrel. “I’m on a very high-profile case. You know that.”

“You’ve told me that,” she says, passing me a black Sharpie to use to write the address on the box, “I know how important the case is. For God’s sake, you sacrificed your wedding dress for it.”

“I didn’t sacrifice anything for it,” I say, looking up and trying to meet her eye.

My mother slowly looks up from the box she’s packing and regards me.

“I didn’t,” I say.

“Okay,” she says, going back to her box. “It’s just that I thought that the reason you left your old firm to go to a smaller firm was so that you wouldn’t have to work quite as many hours. So that you could have more of a life.”

“I do have a life,” I say.

“Okay,” she says with that smile again. It’s that same smile she’s been using since I’ve been home. I want to scream: “It really is okay!” but I know that screaming like that will not prove my point. It will prove hers.

I just know her too well. And being here, back at home, reminds me of everything I forgot about my parents. Well, I didn’t forget, it’s just the things that I stopped noticing since I moved out. Like how my mother dons these adorable nightshirt and robe sets and doesn’t take her makeup off until the second before she jumps into bed. Or like how my father calls out “Honey, I’m home!” when he walks in the door at night, or really any time he enters a room in the house.

It reminds me of things that I’ve forgotten about myself, too. Who I used to be. Who I used to think I’d grow up to be. How I thought my life would turn out.

After boxing up a few more presents, my mother and I retreat upstairs where I plop down onto my bed without even taking off my work clothes. I look around my room—up at my bulletin board, untouched since the day I graduated high school, with my varsity letter from cheerleading and various snapshots from Senior Weekend, into my closet, with my prom dress and assorted bridesmaid dresses from throughout the years, and my bookshelf, with my books from law school piled high.

Back when I lived in this room, I thought that I had it all figured out. I’d go to college, go to law school and then meet and marry the man of my dreams. Soon thereafter, my 2.4 children would follow. When I thought all of these things, I suppose I was a child myself. I had no idea all of the heartbreak and hard work real life would bring. How hard it would be to have a life and make a life for yourself.

I took for granted that I could just have a happy life and live happily ever after. Happily ever after never included being over thirty and moving back in with your parents.

I turn onto my side and begin to quietly cry. I try to keep it down, since I don’t want my parents to worry, so I turn my face toward my pillow.

As I look at my bedside table, I see the messages set neatly next to my phone, the way they have been every evening since I’ve been here. I get the same messages every night: Jack called (7:05 p.m.), Jack called (7:49 p.m.), Jack stopped by to see you (8:40 p.m.), Jack called (9:55 p.m.). They are almost the same as the ones I get at work every day, which my assistant drops on my desk without looking up to meet my eye: Jack stopped by (9:27 a.m.), Jack called (11:45 a.m.), Jack called (2:15 p.m.), Jack called (4:01 p.m.), Jack stopped by (5:55 p.m.).

I pick up this evening’s messages and look at them for a moment before throwing them into the trash.

25

“Oops, she did it again!” Esther sings to me as she comes sailing into my office.

“Did what?” I say, barely looking up from my research on dissolution of partnership. “Who?”

“Miranda!” Esther says, clearly enjoying the delivery of this news way too much.

“What did she do?” I ask, barely able to choke the words out.

“What does she always do?” Esther says.

But, I don’t have to ask because I already know what Miranda always does.

Sleep with partners. That’s what Miranda does.

I just hope that she hasn’t slept with my partner.

“Who was it?” I say, just as the phone begins to ring.

“Come to my office when you’re off,” Esther whispers, and then disappears before I even have a chance to tell her that I’ll let the call go to voice-mail.

I don’t pick the phone up anyway, and instead choose to just stare at my computer screen blankly. Out of habit, I go onto the Internet and pull up the Gilson, Hecht Web site. First, as I always do, I type in Vanessa’s name, as if that’s the real reason I’m there. From there, it’s just a few clicks over to the S section of the “Our Attorneys” page and I’m at Jack’s profile.

I remember the day he got the picture taken for the Web site. Even though the Gilson, Hecht attorneys get photographs taken every year for the firm Web site, this was the first year he’d be getting his done as a partner. We obsessed the whole week before over what Jack should wear in his photo. Should he wear his navy single- breasted suit, so as to denote “serious junior partner on the fast track to becoming an equity partner?” Or, should he instead go simply with a shirt and a tie, so as to denote “serious junior partner who’s just too busy working