Page 112 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

“Why do you keep bringing me these things like you’re really leaving?” Yolanda asks, still typing.

I give her an even smile. “Because I am really leaving.”

“What happened?” she asks quietly. Her eyes flit side to side to make sure that no one is eavesdropping, but I know that the cubicle farm gossip mill has been a’churning since my resignation was announced. They have no doubt been speculating on the answer to this very question. I’m both curious and horrified to know what they’ve come up with.

“At some point in your career, you’ll be forced to make hard decisions,” I offer. “This was mine.”

“I meant at the party,” she says, as if it was obvious. Her dark eyes search the shifting landscape of my face for clues. I attempt to arrange my expression into the same neutral mask I’ve been wearing for the past two weeks.

“Erving retired,” I shrug.

“I heard there was… some drama,” she says knowingly.

“Maybe. I left early,” I say noncommittally. Then, “What are people saying?”

She can barely hide her smile. “They’re saying that Quentin and Erving got into a fist fight, and that Quentin filed charges, and that’s why he’s packing up his office.”

“That is… unlikely,” I say. Then, “What do you mean he’s packing up his office?”

She shrugs. “He’s been offloading cases, same as you.”

“Why?”

“I was hoping maybe you knew. But Aaron and Elizabeth have a few theories. They said that they caught Quentin texting some mystery woman last week. Somebody with the code name ‘Bagel Girl’, or ‘Pizza Girl’, or something, if you can believe it.”

My stomach twists. I give her a practiced smile. “No, I cannot believe it. What kind of ridiculous code name is that?”

“I once found out I was in a guy’s phone as ‘Freckle Tits’. It happens,” she says. “Anyway, that’s not important. They’re convinced that something major happened between them. Elizabeth caught a glimpse of a bunch of one-sided text messages, sent unanswered to this Bagel Girl person. And then Aaron said he ran into Quentin at the corner market, and he had that look like someone who had just been dumped. All shadowy eyed, with a vacant stare. He definitely tried to swoop in and invite him for a drink, but Quentin dashed Aaron’s hopes of an end-of-summer fling by saying no.”

“Interesting,” I say, in a tone that I hope insinuates this is not interesting to me at all.

Still, I can’t help but wonder how many messages would be sitting in my inbox if I hadn’t blocked him. I also wonder what they would say. What could he possibly have to say? Even if he is in fact leaving Freeman Maxwell, it all feels too little too late.

“Interesting enough,” Yolanda shrugs. “Elizabeth has theorized it’s a Romeo and Juliet sort of thing, like Quentin and this Pizza Girl got caught up in some sort of family feud and it ripped them apart. Alternately, Aaron thinks that Quentin is secretly trying to sort out his feelings for him. And William thinks that we all owe him twenty bucks, because he called it months ago.”

“Called what, exactly?”

“That Quentin was handed this job on a silver platter, and he was going to manage to fuck it all up somehow. Rich people, right?”

I nod weakly. “Yeah. Right.”

I head back to my desk and grab the last of the binders: Glass v. Russo.

Everyone thinks that the work on a divorce case ends after the judge makes the final decree, but that’s hardly true. There’s a mountain of paperwork to be filed, and that’s assuming that nobody appeals. Given the way that Gigi’s followers have all vilified her for using them – and rightfully so – her follower counts have plummeted, and I can’t see her rallying without a posse. In two more weeks, this whole thing should be final. Unfortunately, I still need some of Teddy’s signatures before then.

I find him in the recording booth at Avid. I slip in while he and Zelda are quietly hovering over the Frankenstein’s monster of a soundboard. They’re both wearing giant, oversized headphones, speaking in that seemingly nonverbal way people do when they’ve been working together for as long as they have. Farkas is perched on the back of Teddy’s chair.

Ungrateful little gremlin, I think fondly, as I meet his yellow stare.

He gives me a slow blink when I take a seat on the rolling stool near the back. Through the window I can see into the live room, which looks more like a living room from the seventies than a professional workspace. It’s all wood paneling and strategically placed rugs. The band is playing with the well-oiled coordination of a group that’s been doing this together for decades. When the music ends, they all grin.

Teddy presses a button, and a red light comes on. “Rock and roll. Let’s run it back?” Before he can follow through, he spots me with a grin. He nudges Zelda with his elbow and then holds up a few fingers to the window. “Actually, let’s take five,” he amends.

We head down the carpeted hallway towards the small kitchen. Teddy slides into his usual chair at the formica table, and I remove the stack of documents from my purse, placing them between us.

“The band sounds great,” I offer. “Anyone I know?”

“The Blinding Lytes,” he says. “You maybe know their big hit from the eighties, ‘Come Cruise Along’?”

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