Page 14 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

“There’s no I in team,” he counters.

No, I think, but there’s definitely one in WIN.

“The last thing we want is for the board to think you can’t play well with others,” he says. It makes me feel as much like a little kid as the metaphor might suggest. “Take the help.”

When he leaves, I hook a headphone into one ear, put on a high-intensity playlist, and attempt to focus on work. Instead, I spend forty-five minutes trying to figure out exactly what type of attorney the new young Maxwell is.

I don’t mean his specialty, though it only takes me about five seconds to discover that it is civil, mostly, except for the short period when he dabbled in criminal a few years back. I want to know the kinds of cases he takes. I want to know what people say about him. I want to know, if he wins, how he wins.

As hellbent on victory as I may seem, I’m not interested in winning if it means I have to compromise my integrity. There have admittedly been times in this business that that’s cost me, but I can live with it. I know how much that other feeling – the one that knots in your stomach, that leaves you waking up in the night with your heart pounding and your skin crawling like you’ve done something dirty that you can’t wash off – can cost. I know it definitely doesn’t feel like winning.

Plus, you know what they say, about keeping your enemies closer, and whatnot.

I scan the easy stuff first: a few headshots from corporate sites, his hobbies (he’s a gym junkie like I expected: jiu jitsu and krav maga), and then I stumble down the rabbit hole.

Everyone always thinks to be a great attorney you have to be great at arguing; that isn’t exactly true, although I do enjoy a heated debate. The truth is nobody gets through law school without formidable research skills, so I find out a lot about Quentin in that short amount of time.

I discover that he dropped out of Ole Miss sophomore year and eventually made his way to Texas, where he finished his undergrad and trudged through a law degree that took him five years to complete. I expected to find a lot of big name firms in his background, and I did. He interned with the best of the best. Then he did something very unexpected: he went to work for a low budget, non-profit organization that specialized in domestic violence. This either means he had already burned all his bridges at those big name firms and they didn’t want him as an associate, or… he chose to turn them down.

That isn’t unheard of, exactly, but it isn’t common either.

Who the hell is this guy?

By the time I get on the elevator, I’m still wondering. The deserted, early evening scenery of the office has almost disappeared behind the sliding, mirrored surface when I hear, “Hold the door.”

I scowl as a forearm with a tailored shirt sleeve rolled halfway to the elbow juts into the sensor. The doors slide back open, revealing Quentin. Of course it's Quentin. With the way this week is going, it couldn’t have been anyone else. He clears his throat as he steps inside.

“I thought you left at five,” he says, by way of awkward apology.

“With all the slackers? Not usually.”

It’s mostly a joke. He doesn’t laugh. We attempt to avoid looking at each other, as well as at our reflections, which leaves us both seemingly staring at our shoes. I feel like a jerk.

“How’s it coming with those notes?” I ask.

“Fine,” he says.

“Good,” I nod.

Even without looking at him, his presence seems to envelop me. I can sense that he’s wearing that same, guarded expression that he slipped into that first day in my office. Maybe it sounds ridiculous, but it almost makes me miss the smirky cocktail savant who weaves compelling backstories and schedules romantic dinner dates.

The guy I’m not sure was anything more than an elaborate fabrication.

The guy I need to forget ever attempted to charm me with an interesting excuse for a dance and a drink.

I feel like I don’t breathe again until the elevator doors open on the ground floor. He motions for me to exit first, and I do. I realize with him behind me that it feels impossible to walk normally in this situation. I’m definitely doing an angry, sexy walk, but not on purpose. It’s like my brain only knows how to do regular walking when it’s not being pressured to. Especially not when some jerkoff might be looking at my ass. But if he’s looking… well, I’d like to think I look good.

On the sidewalk, I slide out of my jacket and into my sunglasses, letting the warm breeze carry me along my usual route. I’m at least a block away from the office when I glance over my shoulder, finding Quentin a few paces back. The day has tousled his hair loose from its swept back precision, and he’s got his jacket slung over his shoulder like a frickin’ GQ cover model. He looks away quickly when he sees that I’ve spotted him.

“Are you following me?” I ask loudly.

A few passersby turn to stare at us. I wave them on. They continue to watch Quentin warily as they go, and he stands there with the nothing-to-hide posture of someone being unfairly strip searched. Exasperation clouds his features.

“No, I’m not following you,” he says. “I’m going home.”

“Mmkay,” I say, continuing my trek.

Another block goes by, but before I check, I know he’s still somewhere behind me. It’s like a sixth sense, the kind that tickles the back of your neck like a whisper, telling you to turn around. When I do, he throws up his hands.

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