“He said that?”
“He did. And he was right. Because the next year you were up there without a care in the world, front and center.” She bends her head to kiss my temple. “You were brave back then and you’ll be brave today. I know it. I love you, sweet girl.”
I take in a breath, exhale beneath the covers as I wonder if she’ll feel the same way when I’m done with my testimony. “Love you, too.”
We lie there in a cocoon of warmth and silence until the aroma of coffee wafts up the stairs, until Dad calls out that we need to start getting ready. We don’t want to be late.
Mom makes thermoses of coffee for her and Dad, one with green tea for me. Even my father looks like he has trouble eating this morning. He chews each bite of toast for a ridiculously long time. I manage two bites of a cereal bar and am genuinely surprised when it doesn’t come right back up.
We drive into the city with the soothing voices of NPR as our soundtrack. The cold, gray expressway matches the cold, gray skyline, as if all of Chicago is observing Donovan’s trial.
I look down at my phone, at the text from Phil telling me to kick some judicial ass, at the email Sara-Kate sent last night that says she loves me and knows I’ll do awesome. There’s even a text from Ruthie, sent late last night, telling me to call her if I needed to talk.
Nothing from Hosea, of course. I haven’t talked to him or seen him since the dance. I haven’t talked to anyone since winter formal. Opening statements were Monday, and my parents let me stay home because we knew I’d be called either the second or third day and it’s not like I could concentrate much on schoolwork anyway.
When I told Phil about Hosea, I think he was more annoyed than anything else—that he didn’t know we were hooking up, that it seemed like I didn’t trust him enough to keep my secret. Sara-Kate could have easily gone the “I told you so” route, but that’s not her style. She said she was sorry things ended so badly, and I knew she meant it.
If I close my eyes and think very hard, I can still feel his arms around me in the science lab. I can feel his warm lips pressing against mine, remember the way his heart beat steady and strong against my chest.
The reporters and photographers are stationed outside the courthouse because nobody can stand to miss a moment of this. We get a few looks as we walk up the steps; a few of the reporters shuffle over after they see photographers snapping pictures of us, figure we must be at least marginally important.
My parents shield me from them, and Donovan’s lawyer meets us on the front steps of the courthouse. Graham McMillan. He’s supposedly one of the best prosecuting attorneys in the Midwest. Some reports say he’s the best in the nation. Before I saw him on the news, talking about the case in a press conference, I expected him to be tall and imposing, gruff-voiced and fierce. But he’s short and has a baby face with chubby cheeks, and when I met him a few weeks before the trial, his eyes disappeared into half-moons when he smiled, when he shook my hand and said it was nice to meet me.
We didn’t talk much yesterday; there was a chance I could be called but I wasn’t, so I spent the day sitting in the hallway outside the courtroom, doing homework and listening to music and almost wishing I was inside so I could get it over with.
But this morning he’s clearly waiting for me, stops pacing as soon as he sees us. He greets my parents, then says he needs to steal me away before the trial starts. They hug and kiss me, say they’ll see me inside.
McMillan and I walk through the halls of the courthouse. Sterile and stately and old.
We ride the elevator up to another floor. It’s quiet. I think we might be the only people up here this early. McMillan walks to a machine that dispenses hot drinks and buys me a tea. I’m not thirsty but I hold on to the steaming paper cup and watch him pay for his coffee.
We blow on the tops of our drinks as we walk. I follow him until we reach one of the hard wooden benches at the end of the corridor, perch on its cool, worn edge.
McMillan takes a sip of coffee and grimaces. He looks at me. “Are you ready for this?”
I look down into my tea but I don’t drink from it. “Not really.”
“Just remember to take your time. Remember what we went over before—all you have to do is talk about that morning.” He leans forward with his elbows on his knees. “I’m going to ask you some questions about the last time you saw Donovan, and then about how well you knew the defendant.”
The defendant.
I haven’t seen him in person yet, but you can’t turn on the TV or open the newspaper without seeing his face. He’s cleaned up for the trial. Shaved the bushy beard he had when they found him with Donovan so he looks more like he did when I used to know him. Younger. Friendly. He was wearing a suit the last two days, with a tie and all. I’d never even seen him in a button-down shirt.
The first day we drove out to the park, he asked if I’d ever had a boyfriend. I looked at him shyly as I said no, as I wondered if he’d think I was a baby for being so inexperienced and turn the car around. But he just looked over and smiled. Rested his hand on my knee as he said he was glad, because I was special and he wanted to be my first.
I didn’t know what to say to him, so I’d said nothing. Sex had always been so far away and suddenly it was in the car with us. Or the concept, anyway.
“Would that be okay, Pretty Theo?” he said, trailing his fingers lightly up and down my knee. “If your first time was with me?”
I knew I had to say something then, so I whispered yes. I wasn’t sure exactly what I wanted, but I was equally excited and frightened as I thought of the illustrations in the book Donovan and I had looked at so long ago.
You’d have to keep it a secret, though. Some people would say we shouldn’t be together, but they don’t know how mature you are for your age. They don’t know you like I do. Can you keep a secret, Theo?
His fingers moved up my leg, traveled to the inside of my thigh. His touch sent a tingling sensation through my entire body, even through the fabric of my jeans.
Yes.
My stomach twists when I think about seeing him. In probably less than an hour. I wonder if I’ll feel different when we’re finally in the same place again. I wonder if I’ll be able to talk at all just knowing those amber eyes are across the room.
“Pretend you’re talking to me instead of the jury,” McMillan says, looking at me with his kind but serious eyes. “That it’s just you and me, like right now.”
I nod, take a couple of sips of tea. It’s bland, almost bitter, but I keep drinking. Drinking means I’m not talking, not tempted to tell him there’s a little part I may have left out when we met a few weeks ago.
McMillan is still looking at me. I swallow, and then I open my mouth, think the words might dribble out like tea running down my chin, but nothing. Just silence and nothing. So I close my mouth and nod again for good measure. Yes, I know what to do once I get in there. No, you don’t have to worry about me, Mr. McMillan.
“I’d better go check in with the Pratts, but is there anything you want to go over before we head back down?”
He stands, holding on to his phone with one hand and the bad coffee with the other. He looks down at me with those half-moon eyes and this is my chance.
I look at his hand wrapped around the coffee cup. He’s wearing a wedding band: plain, smooth gold. I wonder if he has children. If so, how many? Does he have a girl? What would he think if his daughter got up on the witness stand and told everyone that her ex-boyfriend was the guy on trial?