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I don’t want to lie to him. I won’t lie to him. “You feel me fretting with you over this case,” I say, which is true. It’s why I can’t tell him about the baby now. I stroke his jaw. “I know how much pressure you put on yourself but you always win.”
“Always winning becomes expected,” he says, “and I want to live up to that expectation, but that, too, becomes more pressure.” It’s a confession I know that he would share with no one but me. “I feel that pressure,” he adds.
“Added to by the fact that you and Cole are now partners and neither of you have ever lost a case. You don’t want to blow that track record for the firm.”
He presses his hands to the desk on either side of me and looks skyward before fixing me in a turbulent stare. “It shouldn’t be about my record. It should be about my client.”
“It is,” I say, pressing my hand to his chest, his heart thundering beneath my palm. “It is about your client. Your perfect record staying perfect is about your client. It means you win this one, for her and you. And the firm. You pick your cases well, but if they aren’t a challenge, anyone could win. They can’t, but you can.”
He cups my head and kisses me. “I love you for believing that, sweetheart, especially since I know you’d call me on a poor performance.”
“There will be no poor performance,” I say. “That’s not you.”
He settles his hands on his hips. “You’re right. I’m going to win. I’m going to go make sure the team knows that. Do you want me to bring you your computer before I get started with them?”
“No. I’ll grab it and say hello to Lori and Cole.”
He heads for the door and I grab his arm, laughing as I wipe lipstick from his cheek. “You just love wearing my lipstick.”
“I love wearing you,” he teases, winking at me before he opens the office door.
We head into the kitchen where Lori and Cole are talking in hushed voices. “Hey you guys,” I greet, joining them at the island to scoop up my computer. “I can’t stay. In light of the leaked phone call, I’m off to rework my column for tomorrow.”
Lori’s eyes go wide and she shoves her brown hair out of her eyes, pressing her hands on the counter. “What are you going to write? What’s the angle?”
Cole motions to Reese and the two of them step out of the room. “You know I never know until I write it. Any thoughts?”
“You know that I don’t like to mess with your creative process, not unless you need me.”
Do I need her? Yes. I need to talk, but not about my work, about the baby, only I can’t. I’ve already told Lauren and Royce about the baby. I adore Lori. She’s such a good friend, but it feels like a betrayal to Reese to tell yet another person about the baby. And Lori and Cole are like me and Reese. They tell each other everything. I’m not having Cole know about this and Reese be in the dark.
“I’m good,” I say, and the truth is, I am. I’m in love. I’m married to my best friend and we’re having a baby. “I’ll join you guys to strategize in a few.”
I hurry away and return to the office, another smile playing on my lips as I think about me on that desk, and Reese on top of me. I sit behind that very desk and begin to edit my column. My new beginning reads: By now, most of you have heard or read the transcript of the leaked phone call between Dana Warren and her boyfriend. The interesting part of this call to me wasn’t that Dana wanted her father dead. It’s that she was willing to walk away from the money. The question becomes, who was afraid she really would?
I frown and delete everything I just wrote. I can’t put the boyfriend on edge and risk turning him against Dana. Reese already told me that he needs him on his side. I start again: By now, most of you have heard or read the transcript of the leaked phone call between Dana Warren and her boyfriend. I’ve dissected this conversation, and I don’t believe any of us can put it into context until we learn more but I was struck by one detail: She was willing to walk away from the money and yet we’re to believe she killed for the money? Those two things contradict each other to such a point that I’ve written them down, as hot points I want addressed in the trial.
I read that passage again and decide I like it. I leave my closing statement as it was, along with my challenge issued to my readers to follow the trial objectively and with me. I send my updated version of my column to my editor and then I sit there and replay Reese’s question: Why do we feel off?
I decide this question is a big problem. Once I tell him about the pregnancy, what if he thinks back to today, and worries that I was feeling regret of some sort? An idea strikes me. I know how to wipe out any worries he might have later and I put that plan in place. I pull up a new document and I type: Our parenthood journey begins—a journal and gift for my husband and our unborn child.
The first few lines read: Today, I woke up to the man I love. It was only moments after he left the house, the day before a major trial, that I realized I didn’t start my period. Even before I went to the store and bought a test, I knew I was pregnant. I also knew that I had a decision to make. Do I tell my husband, my protective, amazing husband, that I was pregnant right away, as I wanted to, or wait until after opening statements or even the trial itself?
I go on to detail everything I can think of and then some. The calls to the doctor, the visit to see Lauren and Royce, my fear about not being sick, my fear of how he’d worry, the moment he’d come into the kitchen a few minutes ago, and made me want to tell him right then, only to share the trial challenges. When I’m done, I close the document and my MacBook. I’m going to document every day and every thought I have right up until the moment I tell him about the pregnancy. He’s going to know I wanted to tell him. He’s going to know how much I love him. I won’t let this go any other way.
Chapter forty-five
Reese
Two hours after fucking my wife on the desk in our apartment, I’m standing in the living room with Elsa and Richard both sitting on the couch, all of us frustrated. Running fingers through my hair, I crumple up a sheet of paper with yet another version of my opening on it, letting it pile up with the other ten versions.
Cat enters the room, and I know she’s what I need, and not just because she’s become my confidant and my best friend. Something is wrong with her and us. I have no idea what is going on with my wife, but I know her. She internalizes and frets but she talks to me and yet whatever this is, she doesn’t want to tell me and I know why. Tomorrow is my opening statement and she doesn’t want to distract me, but not knowing what’s bothering her is driving me crazy.
“What’s this?” Cat asks, rounding the couch to stand in the middle of the crumpled paper pile I’ve created.
“Behold,” Elsa says. “Ten excellent opening statements that he hates.”
“Three of them were shit,” Richard says, loosening his tie. “Is it time for pizza yet? Because we’re going to need fuel.”
