Page 89 of It's Always Been You
I need, like, ten drinks and at least half an hour of venting before we discuss even one minute of work stuff. It’s been a DAY.
Girl, you have no idea. I just spent four hours proofreading corporate documents. My brain is leaking out of my ears.
Me. You. One hour from now. Many, many margaritas.
Love this for us.
I toss my phone down on my desk and start walking around my office, collecting everything I need to take home with me. Everything is everywhere, and by the time I’ve located my bag, keys, jacket, and the million other things I somehow managed to scatter around my office between the time I walked in this morning and now, I’ve made at least four vows to stop being so messy and just keep all my stuff in the same place every day. It’s not a vow I’ll keep, but making it is comforting. Like maybe, if I really wanted, I could be the kind of person who hangs up her jacket every day and can always find her car keys.
But I don’t want.
I’m just slipping my jacket on, congratulating myself for being fifteen minutes early when my office phone rings. Groaning to myself, I also wish I could be the kind of person who could ignore a ringing work line when I’m standing right next to it. Since I can’t be that person, I walk back around my desk and pick up the phone.
“Molly Jenkins,” I answer, holding the phone between my head and shoulder and double checking that I have everything in my bag because you just never know.
“Molly dear. It’s Harvey Randall.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to staunch my irritation at the “Molly dear” of it all. Fucking patronizing, patriarchal dickhead. I never used to mind Harvey all that much, but this business with Brad has pushed me right over the edge. Why even are men, honestly? I wonder idly whether I could get my friends to agree to only take on women as clients. Every lawfirm in the universe represents men. Maybe we should be the only one that doesn’t.
“Mr. Randall, what can I do for you?”
“Well, I’m back from my trip, and I would really like to see the new draft of my trust tonight. I understand there was a little misunderstanding, and you failed to give Brad the most up to date version for me to sign. That was very disappointing indeed, as is the fact that I will have to execute the trust a second time. Could you please send the draft my way as soon as possible?”
I internally groan at the same time as my anger rises, hot and fast. Of course, Brad threw me under the bus. Fucking asshole. I grit my teeth and respond.
“Of course, Mr. Randall, I would be happy to send you the drafts. Just give me a few minutes, and I’ll email them right over.”
“Thank you very much. I’ll be keeping an eye out for them.”
He hangs up without saying goodbye and I slam the phone down, raking my hands through my hair and then cursing myself for fucking up my curl definition. Fucking men, ruining fucking everything.
I take another deep breath and think. It’s shitty luck that I made the changes to the trust by hand while I was proofreading and didn’t input them into the electronic version yet, but there aren’t that many changes. I can put them in quickly, send it off, and still make it to the hospital to pick up Allie on time. Running ahead of schedule was too much to hope for anyway.
That’s just not my brand.
I rake my gaze over my messy desk, looking for the marked-up draft. When I don’t immediately see it, I start rifling through the stacks of paper, cursing under my breath when it doesn’t appear.
“Fuck,” I mutter, glancing around my office, at the books and files and piles of paper. So many places for a trust to hide andI’m now remembering that I did some of the proofreading on my couch and some at the little table by the window, so the pages really could be anywhere. I have a brief moment of hesitation. A moment where I consider sayingfuck itand waiting until morning. But it’s my biggest client, and I’m already in hot water. The conscientious lawyer in me just won’t let me do it.
It's hell when my conscientious side requires something my messy, chaotic side simply can’t deliver. Sometimes, containing multitudes is really fucking exhausting.
I heave a sigh, and starting at the couch, I tear through my office on a race against the clock in a battle I’m almost certain to lose.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Molly
The clock is just flipping to seven-fifty as I swing my car into a parking spot in front of the emergency room at the Children’s Hospital of Pittsburgh, where Allie and Jordan both work. Something is going on here because there are at least six police cars on the street, and officers are surrounding the ER entrance. The irreverent gossip in me wants to know everything immediately. I hope Allie has details, and I hope they’re juicy.
I scan the street in front of the police barricades, but when I don’t see Allie anywhere, I grab my phone to text her.
Me
I’m here! I’m so sorry! What a fucking night. Also, WTF is happening at the hospital? I’ll be needing the details.
I texted her earlier during my mad scramble through my office to tell her I would be a little late. She said it would be fine because she’s good like that, but I’m definitely buying all the drinks.
When Allie doesn’t immediately respond, I decide to go inside and look for her so I can grovel appropriately before we go to dinner. I hate being late. It’s really unfortunate that I so often am. The front entrance is barricaded off, but I see a doctor going in through a side entrance that the police seem to have forgotten about. Feeling like I’m doing something deliciously wrong, I slip in behind her, unnoticed.
