Page 18 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

“Hey asshole,” I offer. “The use of cutesy nicknames is definitely personal, not professional.”

Quentin is not ruffled by this. He beams with a new confidence as he opens the glass front door for me and we head inside.

***

We find Teddy in his office, lying across a worn velvet sofa the color of dried mustard. He has an arm crooked above his head, hand fisted in his black hair. His legs are hooked over one armrest, letting his Vans dangle hopelessly towards the floor. The neck of what is probably a very expensive guitar hangs precariously from his free hand. He looks like he hasn’t shaved in a few days, but as far as I can tell he’s showered much more recently, which is a plus.

Quentin’s gaze drifts to mine with a hint of apprehension. Is this normal?

“Hey, Teddy,” I offer.

From day one, he’s insisted that I call him that. Not Mr. Glass (“that rat bastard who kicked me out at sixteen”) or Theodore (“sends me straight back to Catholic school, sweetheart”), just Teddy (“like the bear”).

“Why are we doing this, Heidi?” he groans. “She said she’d love me forever. Forever. Why’d she change her mind?”

I could tell him that nothing lasts forever. I could also tell him that people change their minds all the time, but not usually because you want them to. I might go as far to explain that girls like Gigi have a ten-second attention span, and their five-year relationship was probably an actual eternity in her mind. I acknowledge that none of this would be helpful.

“Unfortunately I’m an attorney, Teddy, not a marriage counselor.”

Teddy’s head falls toward us now, and his gaze settles on Quentin.

“You brought a friend?”

“Colleague,” I correct. I make the necessary introductions. To my relief, this encourages Teddy to tip himself upright. Quentin immediately wins him over by jumping into an in-depth discussion I can’t follow about some bands I’ve never heard of and albums I don’t remember. I make a mental note to call him out later for being a total fangirl.

“Yeah, I saw you two together the other night,” Teddy remembers. “Maestoso.”

I wonder, considering the amount of booze Teddy consumed, how he remembers anything about that night at all. I feel my face heat as he points between the two of us, like he’s drawing an imaginary line that is irreparably tethering us together, with a grin blossoming on his face.

Quentin gives me the slightest sideways glance, which I do my best to avoid.

“I didn’t realize you were there,” he tells Teddy amiably. “I would’ve said hello.”

“It’s cool, man. Until I saw you two dancing, I was convinced Heidi was spying on me,” he laughs. “I didn’t realize she had a little office romance going on.”

I almost trip on the plush carpet, as if this statement is literally the rug being pulled from under me. I right myself, wiping coffee off my wrist.

“No romance,” I say.

It comes out as an unconvincing cough. I can’t decide if Teddy’s believing this is better or worse than his determining I do in fact have a tail on him, so I don’t offer anything more. He rubs his salt-and-pepper scruff in amusement.

“Ohhh, right. Okay.” He says this theatrically, as if he’s doing this for the sake of a studio audience. Then he stage whispers, “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

I look to Quentin like he’s going to help me out here. He doesn’t.

“So Teddy,” he says, as if they’re old friends, “what are the chances of us getting the two of you in a room together for mediation? None of this needs to go to court.”

“I’ve tried, man. I’ve tried. She won’t listen.”

I’m trying to give Quentin the look that explains, She’s an influencer who loves an audience. She wants to go to court. She’ll never take your meeting. He’s too busy admiring the framed gold and platinum records to notice.

I wonder if he’s also been too busy to delve into the pages upon pages of case notes that detail Gigi’s recent social media campaign, which has pivoted from a fashion-forward guide for all the best music festivals to social justice, particularly centered around women living with emotionally abusive partners. She has avoided mentioning Teddy by name, but she didn’t have to. Every post about emotional hijacking, questioning one’s self-worth, and how to recover after a relationship with a narcissist has nodded to her soon-to-be ex-husband. The few celebs who have come out in support of Teddy were quickly attacked by a tidal wave of commenters, ready to share their stories and shame those who defend “people like him”. The viral hashtag #Glasslighting is also Gigi’s handiwork, and its associated content has been particularly damning.

“You know she cropped me out of all of her pictures?” Teddy laments. “Every single one. It’s like I never existed. God, I feel embarrassed telling you this. I’m a grown man. I sound like a fucking kid.”

Maybe you’re wondering in this scenario who I believe, how I could defend someone who potentially wrecked a young woman’s sense of self and made her question her own reality. I’ve learned over time that it’s not really about who I believe. The truth is a slippery thing. It shifts and warps and rearranges itself based on who’s holding it. Someone could spend a lifetime fishing for it, getting swept up into a cycle in which they realize each catch is yet another of the infinite versions of it, each distinctly different from the last, and yet all shockingly real.

No, I’m not in the business of arguing what’s true or who’s right. I’m only defending, under the law, what’s fair. Based on the facts of the case so far, it only seems fair that we try to salvage what’s left of Teddy’s life, however much of it remains.

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