People are filtering into the Corcoran room for opening remarks. But I need to call Richard. If I don’t, he’ll assume I’m ignoring him and be on the phone with his lawyer within the hour.
Outside counsel.
Once a prick, always a prick.
“Alicia?” Christine repeats.
“It’s fine. It’s Richard.”
Concern etches her eyes—she’s one of the few who stayed close through the divorce. She understands.
“Just more of the same,” I say, speaking the truth. He expected that his lawyers would win him full custody, and he’s never let it drop. Stella has been choosing to spend more time with me recently, and I swear that’s getting under his skin as well.
I meet Christine’s worried eyes, and while I’d love to unload on a friend, a public forum isn’t the place. “Will you save me a seat? I’m going to call him before he gets his lawyer involved.”
Her eyes widen. “That bad?”
Through the open door I can see someone milling around the podium. Most of the seats are filled.
“How many years has it been since your divorce?”
Too many for him to still be threatening lawyers, but I’m too worked up to speak, so I set my coffee cup down on a tray and breathe deeply.
This is my punishment for marrying a narcissistic, egotistical man-child.
“I’m going to go—” I gesture with my head in the opposite direction of the assembly. “Save me a seat?”
“You got it.” She pulls out her phone and taps on it, “You know what? Let’s do a private lunch. I’m going to get us a table at Bourbon Steak. We don’t need to do the group lunch thing.” She’s talking about lunch at the hotel restaurant, and under normal circumstances, I’d tell her not to bother, that we should network, but I’m not feeling particularly up for sitting at a round twelve-top with polite conversation.
As I exit the conference area I pass a steady stream of professionals gathered off to the side, speaking on phones, often through earbuds. Small high-top tables line the hallway, and most are claimed by professionals tapping away on laptops. It’s difficult to leave the office behind, and little is gained from sitting through opening remarks.
Up ahead, the business center sign catches my eye. Private. Quiet. Perfect. My reputation is critical for my career, and I can’t risk losing my calm in public. A private meeting room is exactly what I require to set Richard in his place.
Behind the glass business center door I spot a line in front of the business center reception desk. I expected it to be empty. Since it’s not, I change direction, away from the business center, moving further down the hall.
I dial Richard.
As it rings, I spot a door cracked open along a narrow hallway that’s to the side of the business center, and I head that way.
The phone is still ringing, and with each unanswered ring, my blood boils. That jerk knew I’d have a busy day, expected that I would drop everything to call him, and now he’s not answering. Classic prick.
It’s a power play. That’s all it is.
I push the door open and realize it’s a small meeting room, but there’s a door that opens onto the deck.
I close the door behind me, ending the call, eyes on the gray sky and the view over the canal. I’ll give him a couple of minutes and call again.
No. I’ll message him. Tell him I called him back. That way there will be a record of my attempt.
The air smells faintly of coffee and carpet cleaner. The hum of the lobby fades.
No, I don’t need to message him. If he wants to play it this way and bring in lawyers, I’ll show them my call record. If he wants to play hardball, he can explain to the judge why he’d send a text like that and then not answer.
My hand finds the door handle to step outside—and I freeze.
A coffee cup, overturned on the carpet. Dark liquid spreading across beige fibers.
And beside it, a hand.