upset?”
She
was
feeling a little upset, now that he called her on it.
“Yes,” she admitted.
“Mallory, listen.” He tried to steer her to a bench outside of a falafel restaurant, but she resisted.
“It’s cold. And it’s two o’clock in the morning. Let’s just get a cab.”
She hailed one, the big minivan kind where they wouldn’t even be sitting close together in the seat. That was fine by her.
“Can you listen to me now?”
She knew she might as well agree to hear him out because he wouldn’t stop talking until she did.
“Fine. I’m listening.”
He pulled on her arms, which were crossed in front of her chest.
“Jeez. Your body language is terrible.”
“Just say what you have to say, Alec.” The champagne buzz was souring to a sugar crash.
“You know I love you. You’re my partner—have been since the day we got together four years ago. Anything we do with another person is just adding on to what is between us. It’s not about them—it’s just something different. Fun.”
“The subtext is that we’re not enough—I’m not enough.”
“Are you less attracted to me because you kissed Bette?”
“No.”
“Are you less in love with me?”
“No.”
“Then why can’t you accept that it’s the same for me? I adore you, Mallory. You are my soul mate, and kissing some other woman or bringing some other woman into bed with us for a fun night doesn’t diminish that—not even close. Look at it this way—you got up on stage at a burlesque club. It was something you’d never done before, and it was thrilling. But it didn’t change who you are. It’s not like you’re going to drop everything, stop being a lawyer, so you can get on stage every night. It was just a fun thing to do. It didn’t change anything, did it?”
“No,” she said.
But deep down she had to wonder.
7
M allory closed the door to her office.
“Okay, I can talk now,” she told Allison.
“I just wanted to hear how the rest of your night was.”
“Why were you MIA yesterday? I called you three times.”
“I was with Andrew. He’s a big fan of the Sunday afternoon date. Such a romantic.”
“Ahh . . .
Andrew
. When do we get to meet
Andrew?
”
“Soon. And that’s another conversation. So spill it—what happened at the Slit?”
“It was . . . interesting.” She glanced at her office door. Patricia Loomis had just e-mailed her that she would be stopping by to discuss the memo that was due at the end of the week. “I can’t get into it now. But Allison—I cannot focus on work. I don’t know what it is. The past few weeks . . . the hours pass so slowly here. I used to get lost in the research, it was like a great puzzle, and when I was done putting together the cases and wrapping up the memos, I felt a rush. Now I’m dragging myself to the finish line.”
“We all feel like that sometimes. Work sucks. Just focus on doing a decent job, make some bank, and you’ll live your life outside of the office. You don’t have to live for work.”
“I know. I just . . . If I feel like this now, what will I be like in five years?”
“You’ll hate it more, but will be well compensated for hating it more.”
“Yeah. That’s not really consoling me right now.”
“You just have the Monday blues. Let’s grab a drink later.”
Patricia opened the door and marched into the room. Mallory quickly hung up her cell.
“Harrison wants the memo tomorrow,” she said—no greeting, no preamble. She wore a putty-colored suit, her hair in a bun. Her T-zone was shiny even though it was only eleven in the morning and thirty-five degrees outside.
“What? Last Friday you said end of this week?”
“And now it’s Monday. And I’m telling you tomorrow.” She turned on her heel and paused by the door. “And we expect strong work, Mallory. Don’t think this firm will keep lowering its expectations to meet your performance level. Have you reregistered for the bar?”
“Yes. It’s in early
She
was
feeling a little upset, now that he called her on it.
“Yes,” she admitted.
“Mallory, listen.” He tried to steer her to a bench outside of a falafel restaurant, but she resisted.
“It’s cold. And it’s two o’clock in the morning. Let’s just get a cab.”
She hailed one, the big minivan kind where they wouldn’t even be sitting close together in the seat. That was fine by her.
“Can you listen to me now?”
She knew she might as well agree to hear him out because he wouldn’t stop talking until she did.
“Fine. I’m listening.”
He pulled on her arms, which were crossed in front of her chest.
“Jeez. Your body language is terrible.”
“Just say what you have to say, Alec.” The champagne buzz was souring to a sugar crash.
“You know I love you. You’re my partner—have been since the day we got together four years ago. Anything we do with another person is just adding on to what is between us. It’s not about them—it’s just something different. Fun.”
“The subtext is that we’re not enough—I’m not enough.”
“Are you less attracted to me because you kissed Bette?”
“No.”
“Are you less in love with me?”
“No.”
“Then why can’t you accept that it’s the same for me? I adore you, Mallory. You are my soul mate, and kissing some other woman or bringing some other woman into bed with us for a fun night doesn’t diminish that—not even close. Look at it this way—you got up on stage at a burlesque club. It was something you’d never done before, and it was thrilling. But it didn’t change who you are. It’s not like you’re going to drop everything, stop being a lawyer, so you can get on stage every night. It was just a fun thing to do. It didn’t change anything, did it?”
“No,” she said.
But deep down she had to wonder.
7
M allory closed the door to her office.
“Okay, I can talk now,” she told Allison.
“I just wanted to hear how the rest of your night was.”
“Why were you MIA yesterday? I called you three times.”
“I was with Andrew. He’s a big fan of the Sunday afternoon date. Such a romantic.”
“Ahh . . .
Andrew
. When do we get to meet
Andrew?
”
“Soon. And that’s another conversation. So spill it—what happened at the Slit?”
“It was . . . interesting.” She glanced at her office door. Patricia Loomis had just e-mailed her that she would be stopping by to discuss the memo that was due at the end of the week. “I can’t get into it now. But Allison—I cannot focus on work. I don’t know what it is. The past few weeks . . . the hours pass so slowly here. I used to get lost in the research, it was like a great puzzle, and when I was done putting together the cases and wrapping up the memos, I felt a rush. Now I’m dragging myself to the finish line.”
“We all feel like that sometimes. Work sucks. Just focus on doing a decent job, make some bank, and you’ll live your life outside of the office. You don’t have to live for work.”
“I know. I just . . . If I feel like this now, what will I be like in five years?”
“You’ll hate it more, but will be well compensated for hating it more.”
“Yeah. That’s not really consoling me right now.”
“You just have the Monday blues. Let’s grab a drink later.”
Patricia opened the door and marched into the room. Mallory quickly hung up her cell.
“Harrison wants the memo tomorrow,” she said—no greeting, no preamble. She wore a putty-colored suit, her hair in a bun. Her T-zone was shiny even though it was only eleven in the morning and thirty-five degrees outside.
“What? Last Friday you said end of this week?”
“And now it’s Monday. And I’m telling you tomorrow.” She turned on her heel and paused by the door. “And we expect strong work, Mallory. Don’t think this firm will keep lowering its expectations to meet your performance level. Have you reregistered for the bar?”
“Yes. It’s in early
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