Page 60 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

I see a couple of associates watching, dumbfounded, as their gazes follow the trajectory back to this conference room – directly to me – before quickly diverting.

Eventually, mercifully, the frosted door clicks closed. Then, and only then, do I allow my head to sink into my hands. I release a shaky breath, threading my hands into my hair. I realize it’s not just my breath that’s trembling: it’s my hands, my arms, my bouncing knee. My thoughts are racing, and I can’t seem to slow them down.

Your dad said he doesn’t want you to live with him.

Your dad makes your mom cry, isn’t that true?

Your dad makes you cry, too. That’s not very nice, is it? Aren’t you scared he’ll hurt you, too?

Don’t you want this to all be over?

Don’t you want it to stop?

You just have to tell the judge the truth.

“What the fuck,” I murmur. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the –”

“Heidi?”

My attention snaps up to find Quentin standing in the door. He’s doing that searching stare thing again, and this time I really can’t. I close my eyes, pressing my fingers between my eyebrows as if there might be a reset button there, or at least some secret pressure point that’s going to keep me from imploding. My entire body feels tense, like I’m about to scream until my lungs collapse.

“Quentin,” I say. The sound is barely audible, even to my own ears. “Go away.”

“You’re not okay.” He says it, and it’s not a judgment, just an observation. One that seems, on some level, to quietly concern him.

“I’m fine.”

He ignores this blatant lie. “Do you have any gym clothes here? In your office?”

My chest swells with a breath, and I blink up at him. “Yes. But what does that have to do with –”

“Grab them and meet me at the elevators,” he says.

“No. I can’t. I have…” I fumble for the right word. “Meetings.” God, more meetings. “All afternoon.”

“You’re clear,” he says. “I’ll tell Bernadette something’s come up. With the Glass case. The associates can cover.”

I know when I look at him that he’s lying about the case. Still, he holds my gaze like a lifeline.

“Trust me,” he whispers.

It’s such a big ask. Huge. Impossible. It fills up my chest until I’m sure that I’m actually going to scream. Instead, I swallow.

“Teddy needs us over at the studio,” he says now, loud enough that the eavesdroppers – and I know without seeing them that there are eavesdroppers – can hear. “He said it’s urgent. Can you make it work?”

I narrow my gaze at him. This feels like a trap. Somewhere in my brain, there are big red flashy signs telling me to turn around. DANGER: HIGH CLIFF. I should be mindful of the guardrails. Protective of them.

I make a mental map of all the motions I’ll need to accomplish the thing he’s asking: walking to my office, grabbing my black canvas bag of gym clothes, telling Bernadette where we’re headed with a straight face, somehow managing to not cry. It feels like it’ll take more resolve than I have at the present moment. It also feels like my only option.

I clear my throat, giving him a resolute nod.

“I’ll get my things.”

16.

When I was seven, I testified against my dad in court. I remember his posture more than anything. Slumped and defeated, like any moment he might crumple. He kept his face pressed into his hands the entire time, elbows propped on the table in front of him, so I couldn’t see his expression. To this day I’d swear there were tears in his eyes, though I never actually looked at him.

“Focus on me,” my mom’s attorney had said. “Just like we talked about.”

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