Page 8 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

“We can always take the day off, you know!” she says brightly. “Hang by your building’s pool. Go antiquing. What’s the point of having a million vacation days if you never use them?”

I consider this with a sigh. “Maybe after –”

“After you make partner,” she drones. “I know, I know. But I’m holding you to it! After it’s official we’re taking a real vacation – one that requires an Out of Office that doesn’t include your cell number and an assurance that you can be reached at any time. You can’t keep putting off your actual life, you know.”

I raise my eyebrows at her in an expression that says, Wanna bet? She gives me a narrowed glare of disapproval.

“A real vacation,” I concede, rolling my eyes for emphasis. “It’s a deal.”

“Good, because I could really use one,” she says, propping her chin in her hand in a way that smushes up one side of her face. Her bright eyes are shadowy and tired as she smiles. Her day always starts at three-thirty – in the morning –, and by the time I pop through she’s almost halfway to quitting time. This workload would maybe be fine if all that precious energy was being poured into her dream of having her own place, but at present she’s stuck running this place – and running every single detail, right down to the number of blackberries in each artfully crafted made-with-love-by-Meg tart, by the overbearing owner.

I know Meg well enough to know that her bake shop would look nothing like this. No exposed brick walls or industrial lighting or metal countertops. No, Meg’s place would be vintage and cozy, like settling into your grandmother’s 1950s kitchen. It would be mismatched tables and colorful chairs, with yellow walls and the best breakfast pastries you’ve ever eaten in your entire life. You know she knows how to make biscotti? Who the hell makes biscotti? I want this dream for her almost as much as she wants me to find the love of my life. Both seem a little too much like a pipe dream at present.

“You think it’s close?” she yawns. “The partnership, I mean.”

I smile, licking blackberry compote off my fingers.

“So close I can taste it.”

***

The view from the top floor offices of Freeman, Maxwell, and Lewis is one of my favorite in the entire city. In the early morning, the sky is a bright blue blanket over the muddy expanse of the Mississippi. It’s one of the first things I noticed when I became an intern, the way that these offices were sleek and bright and modern, unlike the droves of firms out in the suburbs, still holding onto their dark curtains and plush carpet and heavy mahogany furniture.

This morning, as soon as I get off the elevator, I can sense that there’s a palpable buzz. An anxious thrum starts up in my chest, like standing too close to a speaker at a concert. It vibrates through me with bone-shuddering certainty.

They read the article.

I lift my chin with steely determination, cruising past the cluster of cubicles where the interns are chatting over morning coffee. The sound of my heels sends them scattering, as if none of them wants to be the one I spot first. This is also unusual. Interns love me. I’m firm, but I’m not fear-inspiring, unless you’re particularly underperforming.

“Yolanda,” I say, catching her as she’s about to round the corner.

“Heidi,” she smiles. “Good morning.”

“You ready to talk about those briefings?”

I don’t miss it. She looks nervous, flitty. Like she’s got a secret.

“Yes but, um,” she clears her throat, lowering her voice. “Mr. Lewis wants to see you.”

This obviously isn’t the secret I expected.

“He’s here early,” I say, trying to keep all emotion from my tone.

“They’re in the boardroom,” she nods.

They? That anxious thrum turns into a rush, booming in my chest like heart-stopping bass.

“Who all, exactly?”

“Um, I think it’s Mr. Maxwell? And he brought someone with him.”

The boom turns to a thunderous roar. Erving Maxwell has not set foot in these offices for at least six months. I’d heard he was close to retirement. His retirement, actually, is the reason the firm is even considering another partner. His being here is either really good news or – given the timing, with that stupid article – really not good news.

“Thank you, Yolanda.”

She couldn’t look more grateful as she turns to go. I take a deep breath and smooth my skirt. I’m so glad I wore my power heels today. They’re pointy and black with a bright floral print – like they serve an equal purpose of looking fashionable and also boasting a heel I could use to defend myself against an attacker if necessary – which I found at my Auntie Lena’s vintage shop, Nine Lives. I can always count on her to set aside the stuff she thinks I’ll love, and these were no exception.

“They look like you,” she’d said with a wink. “Pretty and powerful.”

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