Page 71 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

“Hm. Yeah. I’ve heard that one before. As a divorce attorney, I’d expect you to be a little more original,” I say. “I thought you were trying to avoid her?”

“I was. I am. I’m…” he sighs. “Fuck. I dunno. I’m sorry.”

“Why would you be? Honestly, I’m the one who should be sorry.”

Sorry for trusting him. For letting him see me cry. For practically begging him to kiss me.

“This is in direct violation of our agreement,” I tell him. “The partners won’t keep secrets, I think you said.”

“This isn’t my secret to tell,” he says, exasperated.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means…” he drags a hand across his face, groaning in a way that sounds more like a growl, low and guttural. “You’re right. You were right. We’ve got rules for a reason. Let’s just call it a night.”

He’s in flip flops, palming his keys, his lips still swollen from making out with me.

“Can you, uh, lock up? When you leave?”

“You’re gonna go see her?” I ask incredulously. “Just like that?”

I hate how jealous I sound when I say it.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I am.”

I let out a humorless laugh. Of course he is. It’s not like we have any obligations to each other, beyond getting through this case. Making out with him on his couch? Definitely not a social contract. Nothing more than a passing, physical need.

A mistake.

I snag my laptop off the coffee table and shove it into my purse. It annoys me how much of a hurry he seems to be in. Enough that he would leave me here, in his apartment. A woman he just felt up and abruptly abandoned – for another woman. I sensed it when we first met, and now it seems to ring true: this guy’s got some fucking nerve.

I’m trying to locate my shoes. Meanwhile, he’s opening the door behind me.

“Hey asshole,” I call after him. “You might wanna pick up a new toothbrush on your way back.”

He gives me one last glance, and I realize I haven’t seen him look quite like this since the morning we declared ourselves adversaries. Tight jawed. Closed off. Resigned. After all this, I have to wonder if we’re back there. If, even with guardrails, we were always doomed to be at odds.

Quentin’s dark blue eyes hold mine for a moment. It’s a hopeful moment, one in which I'm convinced he might say something that – somehow – that will negate everything that I’m feeling. Fix everything that just happened.

Eventually he nods. His hand slips away from the doorknob, leaving it awkwardly ajar as he disappears into the hall.

19.

“I hear we’re going to trial,” Jeanine-the-journalist says over the hands-free speaker in my SUV.

I glance at Kamille in the passenger seat. We’re on our way to Meg’s, where periodically we work on “life skills” like baking (and eating) large amounts of cookies. Supposedly today we’re going to make strudel, since Meg recently found out we’ve only ever eaten the toaster variety. She’s on a mission to prove to us how life-changing fresh pastry can be. I could probably use a little life changing, right about now. Avoiding Quentin for the past couple of weeks has taken years off my life.

“Where’d you hear that?” I question.

“C’mon,” Jeanine says. I can hear her grinning on the other end of the line. “I’d love exclusive media access. Interviews. Official comments. This will work out for both of us. It’ll help you control the flow of information.”

“Have you seen the internet lately? The dam has broken, assuming there ever was one. There’s no controlling this.”

With a trial date set, Gigi has upped her social media campaign. The hashtag #FreeFarkas is the latest thorn in my side. If I know anything, I know Teddy will fight to the death over that damn cat. I’ve got my work cut out for me.

In the midst of this, we’ve spent countless hours digging through financials, collecting depositions, and trying to track down Teddy’s first wife. I’m half convinced she doesn’t exist. Maybe she moved to Mexico City and became an expat. Maybe she’s living off the grid somewhere in Montana. She certainly isn’t responding to any of our attempts at contact, and even Angela hasn’t been able to sniff out a trail on where she might be. In the meantime, Teddy’s losing business. A few bands have pulled out of upcoming recordings. One disappeared with an album halfway finished, which has Teddy’s business attorneys working double-time, feeding us information that we’re supposed to translate into damages. They’re expecting more to follow.

“Which is why you need someone to tell the real story. Offer an official narrative,” she insists. “Plus, I feel like we work pretty well together. Weren’t you happy with the profile piece?”

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