Page 1 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

1.

“So, Heidi,” the interviewer says. “Tell me about yourself.”

This is easily my least favorite opening line, reminiscent of law school interviews and awkward first dates. The journalist – Jeanine – sits across from me, watching intently as I squeeze three lemon slices and a sprinkle of stevia into my water. I wonder if this is going to end up in the article. I feel like articles love to pepper in little details like this, the kind that are supposed to make you feel like you were really there.

I smile evenly. “After that questionnaire your office sent over, I feel like you may know how to respond to that better than I would.”

Jeanine laughs. “That was just a formality. It’s more important for me to meet everyone in person. Get a sense of your vibe.”

I consider the blush silk blouse, gray pants, and matching blazer I wore here from the office and wonder if I have a vibe. If I do, I hope it doesn’t say, I worked through lunch, the way my stomach surely does as the waiter sets a basket of chips and bowl of salsa on the colorful patio table between us. I scoop one into my mouth with Jeanine still watching me, hoping to buy myself enough time to respond. Because even though I hate this question, I feel like I have to respond – preferably politely – and not in the least because I’ve already rescheduled this meeting. Twice.

Tell me about yourself.

Do I offer up my LinkedIn profile: Graduated Memphis Law at twenty-three; senior associate at Freeman, Maxwell, & Lewis at twenty-eight; community board member of Girls Going Places and volunteer chair of the local legal clinic for four years running?

Or maybe my Twitter bio: Millennial yuppie. Perpetually considering a capsule wardrobe. Loves baked goods and vintage sunglasses. Knows way too much about murder.

Perhaps it’d be easier to send her a playlist (the ‘90s rap I listen to on my morning run; the indie pop I play in my car; the moody ‘00s tracks I drag out when I’ve had a bad day), or even to dig up my dating profile from three years ago, the one I created before I gave up on relationships: Make me laugh. And no, I don’t mean by sending me an unsolicited picture of your *eggplant emoji*.

“Why don’t we talk about why I’m representing Teddy Glass,” I offer. “That’s really why we’re here, right?”

Jeanine laughs. “You don’t waste time.”

“Time is valuable,” I smile. “Yours and mine.”

My smartwatch buzzes against my wrist, and I silence it without glancing at the message, instead taking time to snag another chip from the basket. Despite the early heat of summer, this is one of my favorite spots. The salsa is spicy. The tortillas are handmade. The cantina lights give off a festive glow. I remind myself, amidst this sunset-glow ambiance, that I do actually want to be here. When I took this case, I knew it would involve a certain level of notoriety. I also know that not all press is good press.

“So it’s about money, then?” Jeanine presses.

“I don’t care how much money my client has. You already know this, because you’ve looked into my career.”

She smiles knowingly. “I know you’ve logged an impressive number of pro bono hours at free clinics. I know that from the looks of your resume, you probably haven’t had anything remotely resembling ‘free time’ in a decade. And I also know you have an unprecedented talent for making lose-lose situations feel like a win-win. But my readers don’t know that. Yet.”

She lets that last word dangle out there the way someone teases a dog with a Frisbee. I don’t bite.

“I’m not interested in winning in the court of public opinion,” I admit.

“Some would argue that’s the only court worth winning in.”

“I would argue those people didn’t have a very good attorney.”

Jeanine smiles, relaxing enough to take a few chips herself.

“You don’t care if people like you?” she muses.

“I didn’t get where I am by making people like me.”

“And yet you’re known for your negotiation skills.”

I should be, I think smugly. I’ve only been mediating petty squabbles between emotionally stunted adults since I was seven.

My watch buzzes again, and in my attempt to silence it while I demurely scoop a chip into my mouth, I dribble salsa down the front of my blazer. I dab uselessly at the stain with a napkin before shrugging it off and draping it over the back of my chair. I save my apologies for my dry cleaner.

“The truth is,” I tell her, “Teddy Glass is just a person, and marriage is just a contract, and I’m just trying to do them both justice.”

“Is there really any justice in a divorce?”

“Well, you know what they say,” I offer. “Nothing’s fair in love and war.”

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