Elliot’s approaching, and I’m already feeling bad—
"Good morning, Junebug.”
For both of us—
“Is it just me, or are you looking more beautiful every time I see you?"
Because he’s just been so, um, obvious about his feelings—
"It's just you."
That people have actually started making bets about us.Would they or wouldn’t they? Would she or would he?
"I'll pick you up for dinner at seven."
He's also a big flirt, which is why I don't take anything he says seriously...even if, technically, as an attorney, he's not supposed to lie.
Alan, in the meantime, has stopped arranging exhibit tags by case number, and he’s looking at us with interest because he’s one of those people. “Is that a date?”
"Yes," Elliot says.
"No," I say at the same time. "Mr. Wheeler's just joking, Alan.”
Alan’s face falls. Like I said, he’s one of those people, and judging by his expression, he’s also one of those who’s convinced it’s only a matter of time (and money) before Elliot and I start dating.
Elliot wheels his chair close to my table. "I wasn't joking, though." He gives me his best puppy-eyed look, and a part of me is distracted. Not because it has an effect on me or anything, but I just suddenly remember overhearing some of our interns talking about Elliot’s puppy-eyed look, and I guessthisis it?
The one they can’t resist?
Is it because I’m twice their age that I can, well, resist it?
“I’m always serious with you, Junebug.”
I take my morning's case file out and pretend to study the caption page, even though I've already read it twice on the L.
"Counsel's appearance for the petitioner," I say, in my official-record voice, "is noted."
“Come on, Junebug,” Elliot says cajolingly. “It’s just one date.”
I look at him with exasperation. “How many times—”
He doesn’t even let me finish. “As many times as it takes,” he assures me cheerfully, “to get you to say ‘yes’.”
I can only shake my head. He’s a good man, really. We’ve only known each other for two years, but his life is such an open book unlike—
Strike that, please.
My brain automatically works like a courtroom reporter, striking out every thought I’m not supposed to think. And honestly, it’s been a while since I last thought of him. A really, really long while, and so I wonder...
Why now of all times?
It’s like having someone walk over my grave, but I tell myself it’s nothing. It’s been nothing for eighteen years, and it’s going to stay nothing, too.
The door at the back of the courtroom swings open, and I feel more relieved than I should when Judge Iverson finally makes his appearance, his robe still settling around his shoulders, and his reading glasses pushed up on his forehead.
Mr. Bell calls the room to order. The gallery rises. Alan straightens his tie, and then it begins.
Monday shifts into work mode as my fingers find the keys.