Page 10 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

“So you want me to split the case,” I say. “And the commission.”

“I don’t need the commission,” Quentin offers.

Of course you don’t, I think.

“And this won’t affect my consideration for the partnership,” I add, eyeing the other two men. It’s not so much a question as a statement. A hope. A dare.

Henry and Erving exchange a loaded look.

“Let’s not worry about that just yet,” Henry breaks in. “We need to get through this case and then –”

“And then?” I prompt.

“It’s really up to the board to decide on all that,” Henry admits, dropping his gaze to the table.

“It’s important that whoever is chosen as senior partner can show that they know how to put aside personal pursuits and do what’s in the best interest of the firm,” Erving adds. He glances meaningfully at his young protege.

I take another breath, attempting to quell the rage rising within me.

“So, just to be clear, you’re going to choose between… us?”

An uncomfortable silence settles around the room. That’s when the last piece clicks into place: Quentin Maxwell is my worst fucking nightmare.

“Why couldn’t you have just been a serial killer?” I mutter.

3.

Relationships end for all kinds of reasons. Given my line of work, I’m intimately familiar with many of them. The couple whose relationship couldn’t survive their being on opposite sides of the last presidential election? I settled it. The woman whose husband didn’t offer to move out of her way while she was vacuuming? Honestly, not the strangest thing I’ve negotiated. The man whose wife didn’t like Moana? Yes, hand to god, an animated family film was actually cited in court documents as the final straw. (But really, who doesn’t like Moana?)

People always assume that someone cheated, but it’s not usually infidelity that breaks people up, it’s all the other stuff. The subtle, everyday deceptions. The inability to communicate one’s needs. The realization that you actually want or need very, very different things. The problem with me and Quentin Maxwell is that we actually want the very same thing. It’s because of this that our relationship is doomed before it can begin.

“How was I supposed to know you were an attorney?” he asks, following me to my office with a self-assured stride.

“Where’d you go to law school? They didn’t teach you the secret handshake?” I say flatly.

“Okay, I’m getting the impression that you think I planned this, which is kind of flattering, I’ll admit, but –”

“Hey, asshole,” I interrupt. “You actually expect me to believe that you showed up here unawares after you picked me out of a crowded restaurant and handed me my favorite drink by chance?”

“Actually? Yes.”

“So not only are you a bad liar, but you’re an idiot, too,” I say. “I haven’t worked my ass off for the past ten years to lose to some patrilineal, nepotistic bullshit. Who are you, anyway? Erving’s long lost nephew?”

“Grandson,” he admits.

“Awesome.”

When we make it to my office, I drop my purse in the armchair in an attempt to deter him from sitting. I sink into place behind my desk and power up my computer.

“I guess you’re here to claim your rightful throne, then?” I continue. “Fulfill some sort of prophecy?”

He leans against the doorframe, taking in the minimalist details of my space. The clear surface of my desk. The potted bird of paradise lurking by the window. The black yoga mat I keep in the corner.

“I’m here to win this case,” he says. “Same as you.”

He’s peering at the single framed photo by my monitor when I step into his line of vision. I pass him a binder that weighs roughly fifteen pounds. He flips it open like it might contain a cease and desist. Or a concealed explosive.

“What’s this?”

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