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“You are worse than a lawyer. You’re a bad person.”
I wait for him to deny it. But he doesn’t.
Before he can, the elevator lurches back into movement at the same time that the intercom crackles and the voice says, “Hey, looks like we got power again.”
Neither Martin nor I respond. Instead, we both turn to pick up our belongings and ride down to the lobby in silence. I’m tempted to say something else when I step out of the elevator, but when I turn back to do so, the doors are already closing.
The last time I see him, Martin is looking at the floor, his hands tucked in his pockets, his shoulders slumped.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think something I said got to him.
But that can’t be possible.
So why do I feel like I should apologize?
Shit.
This is why I hate being in a grouchy mood. I end up saying and doing things I shouldn’t.
Did I, with all my training, really just tell a man he was a bad person?
Seriously?
God, I can just imagine what my professors would say. Or my advisor.
I know better! I’m supposed to take a nonjudgmental stance on things like this. I’m supposed to assume positive intention.
I should apologize. I will.
Definitely.
But it’s not like I’m ever going to see him again.
four
MARTIN
It takes me a couple of weeks to learn Trinity’s whole story. It probably should have taken longer—since there are laws about client confidentiality for a reason—but it’s amazing what people will say when they think you don’t know who they’re talking about, and you seem uninterested. A little time Googling her family and a few evenings hanging around in the right bars gave me enough information to piece the story together.
It helps that her father was something of a local legend—one of the first celebrity chefs to dominate the local foodie scene. His restaurant—Embarcado—was regularly featured on travel shows and Best of Austin lists. I’d eaten there countless times. His sudden death left the family-run restaurant in flux. The restaurant was run by a third-party management company while the case was in probate, but now that it’s out of probate, Trinity’s sister, Savanah, has been fired as head chef and is out of work.
The probate battle was just as messy as Trinity had described, possibly worse. Her sister’s lawyer was a joke, her brother’s lawyer a ruthless shark. No wonder Trinity hates lawyers.
The bigger question though is why I care at all.
I’m not sentimental. I’m not thin-skinned. I’m not easily offended.
And yet …
And yet I can’t shake off the words of one annoying little candy striper.
Yeah, yeah … she’s not a candy striper. She’s a grad student. Studying somatic therapy. Yeah, I looked it up. Whatever.
It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what she does or what she thinks of me. She’s too young for me either way. And clearly not the least bit interested in me, despite how amazing her ass looked while she was in downward dog. Despite that she seems to always smell like cinnamon and home. Despite my urge to rub my nose along her neck and suss out if it’s her clothes that smell like cookies or if it’s just her scent. All of which is a moot point, since I’ll probably never see her again.
Still, now that I know how fucked up her situation is, it’s knowledge I can’t unlearn.
Her finances are fucked. Possibly for the rest of her life. And not just hers, either. Her mom’s and her sister’s as well. All because her father was too narcissistic or self-centered or whatever to get his shit together. I don’t practice family law, but I know this kind of thing happens all the time.
