Page 9 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

They certainly make me feel pretty-powerful, and powerful is exactly what I’ll need to be if I am about to face whatever is on the other side of that door. I plaster on my courtroom smile – confident, approachable, but not sweet: all lipstick and no teeth.

“Henry,” I say affably before I’m even through the door. “I heard you wanted to…”

My gaze sweeps over Henry Lewis, past Erving Maxwell, and comes to land on a guy in a suit who, with his hair swept back neatly, looks way more like an extra in The Wolf of Wall Street than an American mall-brand model. I feel my face slip.

“See me,” I finish haltingly.

“Quentin,” my boss announces with an oblivious smile, “this is –”

“Heidi,” Quentin says, sitting up straighter. To his credit, he has the decency to look surprised. His handsome face has gone slack. A hint of a blush blooms across his chiseled cheeks, like I just slapped him. I certainly want to.

“You two know each other?” Henry asks.

Quentin’s gaze dances across my features like he isn’t sure how to respond. It’s clear from the way everyone is looking on expectantly that one of us has to.

“Yeah,” I deadpan. “We go way back.”

“Of course you do,” Erving laughs, missing the irony. It’s a mucousy sound, reminiscent of Sith lords. “You can always count on a Maxwell to be well-connected.”

My brain cautiously connects the dots, the way one works to disarm a bomb, but there’s only one obvious piece of this puzzle at present: Quentin’s a Maxwell.

There are plenty of them in Erving’s lineage. His three middle-aged sons are glorified ambulance chasers and shady salesmen always looking for a way into the “family business”, and every few years one of them parades through the firm like he’s planning to acquire an office. For whatever reason, Erving has never given them much more than complimentary coffee, which has never hurt my feelings. They’re arrogant and entitled, the kind of people who have never scraped by on ten-cent packs of ramen noodles, or worn extra layers to avoid a gas bill that would keep them from being able to pay rent all winter, or put exactly two dollars and fifty cents worth of gas in their car and hoped it might get them to work the rest of the week. Silver spoon doesn’t begin to describe it.

I have to assume, since Quentin is sitting here, that he’s just like the rest of them. Even if he isn’t, I have to be careful. If I’m certain of anything, it’s that everyone has a motive.

“Heidi, have a seat,” Henry insists.

I sit, making sure to choose the ergonomic swivel-chair at the head of the table.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” I say, attempting to regain my composure.

“Erving has recently become aware that you’re working Glass v. Russo,” Henry explains. “And he thought you could use some help.”

The elderly man at the table beams like he’s just done me the most gracious of favors. I do my best to conjure up a polite smile.

“Oh, well, thank you, Mr. Maxwell,” I offer. “That’s very generous of you, but I’ve been handling cases on my own for quite some time.”

“Of course you have!” he boasts. “You’re an impressive associate –”

“Senior associate,” I correct.

“-- and you wouldn’t be here if you couldn’t handle yourself. But this is a high profile case. It makes sense to have all of our best people on this.”

The second piece clicks into place: Quentin’s an attorney.

“Of course.” Slowly, I swivel towards the other night’s mystery man. “Quentin, why didn’t you mention you were one of ‘our people’?”

At the sound of his name, he shifts in his seat again. Against his navy suit, his eyes look darker and bluer than they did the other night. His gaze pleads innocence, though his tone remains conversational. He clears his throat.

“I didn’t realize you worked here.”

“Small world, isn’t it?” I say.

“Quentin’s finally back from his self-imposed exile in Austin,” Erving chimes in, chuckling at what is clearly an inside joke. “If we’re lucky, we might convince him to stay.”

Stay.

I take a measured breath before doing the math.

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