There’s not much to see in the foyer. I live in a typical city town house, at least in this neighborhood: narrow and vertical, three stories. Other than a small back room, the only things on the ground level are the foyer and staircase. Which, for the record, was murder when I had one knee that didn’t work.
“You want a tour, or do you want to hit it?”
“Let’s hit it,” she says. “I can have a tour later. If you play your cards right.”
Nice. Dangle a carrot in front of the man. Well played.
“Remember, all I can do is walk,” I remind her.
“I’ll try to slow down for you.”
Nice again. This one is going to keep me on my toes.
We head east and then cut up north to Ash, which will take us to the lakefront. It’s not quite as hot today, and the brisk lake winds provide even more relief. The sun is high, the birds are chirping, I’m getting a good sweat, the beach is filled with volleyball players, the promenade with runners and bikers and skateboarders, my knee doesn’t hurt at all, and I’m walking with a woman who gives men whiplash. The world is in balance. For another ninety minutes, that is.
“You thought I’d be pissed off that you left last night,” she says to me between breaths. We’re doing a decent pace for a walk.
“I wasn’t sure. I said I’d stay and I didn’t.”
“I don’t smother people,” she says. “That’s not how I roll.”
“That’s not how you roll, huh?”
“Not how I roll.” She’s rolling along quite well right now, I have to say. I’m tempted to tell her to slow down, but then I’d be admitting I can’t keep up, and that’s not how I roll.
We stop about two miles down, close to where we started our walk along the beach last night. We sit for a moment on one of the steps down to the beach.
“Is this okay for you?” she asks.
“Sure, great.”
“Don’t be a guy. You had knee surgery. It’s okay to say it hurts or we need to slow down or whatever.”
Actually, it feels better than I expected, so I get up and start the walk back home. She hops back up and joins me again.
“You are such a guy,” she says.
I’d argue if I could. The hike back is just as enjoyable. I miss adrenaline and sweat as much as I miss mobility. It’s nice to know I’ve turned a corner.
When we get back to my town house, we walk in silently and head up the stairs. The tour isn’t much of one. We skip the second floor, a typical open-floor layout of kitchen and great room, and head straight up to the bedroom. She smells like sweat, and her moist, salty skin tastes like it. I ease her out of her running shirt and shorts, leaving only a running bra and undies. All good. She goes to work on me and we saddle up for round two.
It’s better than the first time, as I expected, more familiar and decisive, less hesitant, and I let out a loud moan into her mouth, our teeth clacking, when it’s over. We lie exhausted, panting like animals, for a long time before she suggests a shower is in order. At first, I take it as an insult, but then I realize she’s talking about a shower for two.
When we have carefully ensured each other’s cleanliness-and that would include round number three, thank you-we collapse on the bed. We lie there quietly for a time, Alexa’s breathing dissolving into faint, rhythmic sighs. I ease my arm out from under her and walk to the bathroom. I open the cabinet beneath the sink, reach for the box of allergy medicine, and pop out a pill and chew it up. Then I cup some water out of the sink to swallow the granular remnants.
I rejoin her, trying to ease back into our position, but I awaken her. She adjusts herself so her head is on my chest, her fingers drawing on my abdomen. I close my eyes, and within minutes, the euphoria spreads through my veins.
“So you’re an old-fashioned girl,” I say. I’m wondering in what era they did some of the things we did in that shower.
“I am old-fashioned,” she says into my chest. “I want my man to be happy.”
“So I’m your man, am I?”
“If you’re okay with that. But if you aren’t, no problem. No pressure. Really.” She remains motionless, like she’s holding her breath.
I run my fingers over her back. My eyes dance beneath my eyelids. I am swimming in goodness.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m more than okay.”
24
Shauna
Sunday, June 16
I fish around my desk looking for the transcript. “Where’s the Flynn dep?” I ask.
Bradley John is on the couch in my office reviewing another deposition. He’s been with us over a year now, and is four-plus years removed from law school. He may look like a teenage rock star with that goofy hair, but he works as hard as anyone I know. He works as hard as me.
“I have it on the system,” he says, gesturing to the laptop computer resting beside him. He looks up at me. “But you want a hard copy.”
He knows me well by now. Technology has created a sea change in the practice of law, but when I’m preparing for trial by reviewing deposition transcripts, I want them in my hand, with my notes scribbled in the margins and Post-it tabs sticking out everywhere.
“Jason would have a copy,” I say. I push myself out of my chair. My trial is about three weeks away, and I’m pretty much there in terms of the big-picture prep, but now we’re getting down to the microscopic level, the nuance. “And where is our Mr. Kolarich, I wonder?” I say aloud. Jason hasn’t been in the whole weekend. I know what he’d say: We have plenty of time. But I make mistakes when I rush things, and he probably does, too. We aren’t flying by the seat of our pants in this trial. Rory Arangold’s company is depending on it.
I walk down to his office, where the lights are off and Jason appears to be enjoying his weekend, unlike the rest of us. Now where would the Arangold files be? I dropped all of them in the corner by his fridge-
Oh. There it is. The entire stack of folders. Exactly as I placed them.
Jason hasn’t reviewed a single page.
I dial him on my phone. No answer. “Hey, tough guy,” I say to voice mail, “don’t know if you’re coming in today, Sunday, but I need to schedule a meeting this week with you and Rory Arangold. So hopefully you’ll be prepared by maybe Tuesday?” I think of ending the message there. But I don’t. “If you’re not able to work on this file, if you’re busy with other stuff or whatever, tell me now, Jase. Not the day before trial.”
I punch out and stare at those untouched files. He knows how important this is to me. He knows how nervous I am. Normally, he’d be right here with me, watching my back.
I let out a long sigh. He’ll be there. He’s just doing his typical procrastination. He’ll waltz in and he’ll decimate their expert.
“You okay?” Bradley is standing in the doorway.
“Oh, sure, sure,” I say. “Let’s get back to it.”
25
Shauna
Monday, June 17
I shake hands with my clients, new owners of a single-family home on the city’s northwest side. They are beaming, excited about their new home and their family. He is an accountant and she’s an elementary school teacher with a bun in the oven, their first child, who is scheduled to arrive in this world in about six weeks.
“Thanks for everything, Shauna. This was so easy.”
“Best of luck to you.” I walk them out of the title office, where the house closing took place. House closings are no fun, but once you learn how to do them, they’re easy, and it’s a steady stream of income in small bites that helps the firm keep motoring.
I put them in a cab, the husband in his suit, the wife in her maternity outfit, her stomach protruding, and watch them drive away. Someday, maybe, I think. But, as my mother always gently reminds me, the window is closing.