Page 38 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

I once sang – or attempted to sing – approximately half of “Gin and Juice” at my middle school talent show before being ushered off stage by a horrified teacher who promptly set up a meeting with the principal and my parents.

(No surprise, that completely blew up in my face, mainly because my parents got escorted off the school grounds for verbally assaulting each other during this meeting, which kind of overshadowed my performance.)

There was also that time I drank a five-shot espresso before participating in my first mock trial in law school, and by the time it was my turn to speak I had violent caffeine shakes, a completely full bladder, and a nervous leg jiggle.

(As soon as it was over and the instructor asked how I thought it went, I pulled a complete Forrest-Gump-at-the-White-House and said, “I gotta pee” straight into the tiny microphone, before jetting out of the room. It took me two semesters to live that down.)

I also once let a friend give me kitchen bangs, for god’s sake.

(Really, enough said.)

And yet, sharing my picnic blanket with Quentin Maxwell somehow tops them all.

Why? Why did I let my guard down, in front of half my coworkers and the one man whose current goal in life is to see me lose this promotion?

He could see it written all over my face the moment he set me down and pulled away from our spontaneous embrace. I watched his gaze decipher my features, registered the way his smile faltered, saw him easily translating my wide eyes as holy fucking shit, what have I done. We shuffled up to the makeshift stage like awkward, smiling strangers and posed for photographs with the giant cardboard check made out for ten thousand dollars.

I wore my cubic zirconia smile as I held the cardboard strategically across my bra-less chest and talked about the work that Girls Going Places does in the community. As I did this, I let myself feel high on ideas of what they could do with ten thousand dollars. Quentin and I shook hands. This felt simultaneously awkward and appropriate, serving as an unspoken agreement that we were abandoning any loopholes and returning to the original parameters of our deal, as written.

Shortly thereafter, we drifted our separate ways in the crowd of well-wishers. He got pulled into Erving’s eager circle, and I slipped out sometime after the solo act had launched into the second half of her acoustic set, praying that no one noticed.

Even if they had, though, it’s not like I’ve had enough time to hang around the coffee pot to catch wind of it. Whenever I make it to work the following week, the only thing anyone can talk about is the fact that everyone’s favorite influencer is working a rebrand.

My suspicion is confirmed the moment Gigi Russo steps off the elevator and struts through our office, trailing her attorney. The trendy free spirit has traded her flowy dresses, crop tops, and cut off denim for a business suit that looks straight out of the early nineties, complete with shoulder pads. She looks like she constructed this ensemble the way one might if she were going to a Halloween party as A Mature Adult Woman. Her hair is pulled back in a low bun, and her makeup is purposefully understated. When presented with documents to review, she puts on an oversized pair of wire frame glasses that remind me of an elderly librarian. I guess this is the look of Gigi Russo, divorcee, social justice warrior. I half-expect her to reach into her purse and pull out a Diet Coke with a straw, then pose for a selfie.

I am sitting across the conference room table from her, flanked by Quentin and our in-house stenographer. I know Gigi’s attorney, Mike Murdock, from various encounters over the past few years. As expansive as family law can be, those of us running in these circles seem to overlap from time-to-time. I know that Mike’s in his mid-sixties, lives in the suburbs with his wife Alisha, and that his oldest daughter is currently following in his footsteps and enrolled at Memphis Law. Jerica, I think her name is. I remember him saying she wanted to be a criminal attorney, that she was chasing the thrill of going to trial. At the time Mike had mentioned it to me, he’d laughed.

“In almost every way she’s just like her mom, but that? That’s the one thing I know she got from me. She’s got the instinct to go in for the kill.”

Like Gigi, Mike also loves a spectacle. He wears flashy cufflinks and a crooked smile. He thrives on showmanship. Seeing the two of them sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, I almost feel like I’m on the set of a TV legal drama, speaking to the casting director’s interpretation of a plaintiff and her counsel.

I lead in with my well-rehearsed lines, as if on script.

“Ms. Russo, I am Heidi Krupp and this is Quentin Maxwell. We are attorneys representing Mr. Glass. This is a deposition, in which I will ask you questions and you must answer them truthfully unless your attorney tells you clearly and directly not to answer. Although no judge is present, this is a formal legal proceeding just like testifying in court, and you are under the same legal obligation to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. If you do not understand any of my questions, feel free to say so, and I will rephrase it. Before the deposition can be used in court, you will have the opportunity to read over it and correct any mistakes. Do you understand this?"

“I do.”

“Do you feel physically and mentally able to participate in this conversation today?”

Gigi’s mouth puckers into what I can only describe as a somber pout. She sweeps a non-existent lock of stray hair back into her bun.

“Well, as I’m sure you can understand, I’ve been under a lot of mental and emotional stress lately. This process so far has been…” she blinks, as if fighting back tears. “Well, honestly, it’s de-humanizing, the way that everyone suddenly feels entitled to know intimate details about my personal life.”

Details that she herself has shared with over a million followers, I think, but hey, who’s counting. I keep my expression neutral, impassive.

“Ms. Russo, I’m hearing you say that you’re unable to provide answers to these questions today due to your current mental state?”

Mike shifts in his seat, seemingly moving to make a note, but I notice that his elbow nudges hers ever-so-slightly.

“No,” she says, lifting her chin defiantly, like a child who’s just been told to be brave. “I am, despite everything, physically and mentally ready to do this.”

“Thank you,” I say, giving her my even, court-room smile. “Can you state your full legal name for the record, please?”

“Virginia Marie Russo Glass,” she replies. “But everyone knows me as Gigi Russo. I’ve never used the names Virginia or Glass socially or professionally.”

“What do you do for income, Ms. Russo?”

“I’m an entrepreneur.”

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