23. Kennedy
23
KENNEDY
I sashay to the train with my head held high, mentally composing the beginnings of my farewell note. Maybe, just maybe, this could be the release I’ve needed all along. Yes, I’m still a little upset, but only because Cade knows how to push my buttons. I mean, all of them.
Fact is, I’ve been feeding the beast. By letting on that I find him to be as irresistible as I do, I have created a monster. A dark, handsome, sexy monster, mind you, but a monster nonetheless.
When is it time to put the beast back in the cage, though? Not when he dodges my questions, nope. It’s when he starts preaching about law school and my potential—and then has the audacity to kiss me. That’s when I unleash my inner Godzilla. The kind that makes any other beast look like a soft, cuddly kitten.
The subway car sways and clatters through the labyrinth of tunnels beneath New York City, but I snagged a seat, so I’m blissfully exempt from being jostled by fellow straphangers who have to stand. I rummage through my purse and pull out my blue notepad and a pen. It’s time to jot down that hypothetical farewell note.
I start writing.
Hi “Lawyer,”
Ha! I giggle to myself as I write. The quotations marks around “Lawyer” emphasize my playful skepticism about his title. It’s not every day you get to poke fun at someone’s professional identity, especially “The Assassin” himself .
As your ex, I have to be honest: You’re the worst lawyer ever.
Are you certain you passed the bar? Because it’s hard to tell. You seem to have missed some crucial lessons.
Your communication skills are a joke—honestly, laughable. Dumping overtime on everyone? That’s not leadership, it’s bad lawyering. And your lousy attitude? Doesn’t help. Oh, and the ridiculous expectation that I’ll bring you coffee? Hilarious.
Congrats, though, on proving that some things never change.
The words flow from my pen. It’s such a release of frustration built up over weeks of biting my tongue.
Impressive as your courtroom skills or so-called razor-sharp mind may be, your true genius lies in making every interaction into an endurance test—a gift matched only by your extraordinary talent of making everyone around you utterly miserable. Bravo.
I gain steam as I write.
By the way, those panties on your desk? Let me clear up that mystery for you. They weren’t some desperate attempt to get your attention. They were the result of a lost bet after a tipsy night in with my roommate, followed by a little room mix-up. But if you were half the lawyer you claim to be, you would’ve figured that out without jumping to your usual egotistical conclusions.
I pause, happily chewing on the end of my pen as memories flood back. I shake my head, chuckling softly at the absurdity of it all.
And about that phone call you overheard, yes, I did say I’m sorry I can’t sleep with you again. Because I actually value my sanity and self-respect.
Let’s face it, even though you’ve redefined what it means to be a terrible lawyer (seriously, it’s impressive), you’re not that hot. Not anymore.
With every word, another weight lifts from my chest.
Having said all that, I want to take a moment to thank you. Working with you has been a real eye-opener. I’ve learned more about what not to do in a legal career than I ever thought possible. You’ve set a new standard. One I’ll make sure to avoid at all costs.
But hey, since we’re on the topic of boundaries ... let’s talk about what’s none of your business: my weekend plans.
Not like you care, anyway.
I’m on a roll.
So, here’s the deal: I’m done working overtime for a boss who clearly can’t distinguish personal boundaries from professional ones and doesn’t have the faintest idea of how to communicate.
Consider this my official notice. I quit.
Yep, you read that right, Lawzilla.
Maybe you can use the extra time to brush up on your legal skills. Or at least learn to pay your staff better.
It’s not that he pays me poorly. In fact, he pays much more than scumbag Sneed did. But it’s still enjoyable to write all this down, anyway.
Wishing you luck. You’ll need it!
Your unappreciated paralegal (who’s perfectly content with her rank and has absolutely no desire to follow in your lawyerly footsteps thank you very much),
Kennedy Hayes
P.S. Remember to keep those secrets locked up tighter than your office door.
P.P.S. And if you ever need a refresher, it’s right here. Not that you’d ever confess to needing it. You’re too busy twisting facts in court, right?
Ha! Perfect!
I snap the notepad shut, feeling lighter than I have in months. Ah, the sweet, sweet release. It feels damn good—no, scratch that—it feels absolutely incredible to have all those thoughts out.
My roomie was right. It may not be the textbook definition of an orgasm, but that doesn’t matter to me. Orgasms are overrated anyway. Well, maybe not according to Harper, but hey, I’ll take clarity over climax any day.
At least for now, that is. Or until the next revelation hits.
The train slows to a stop, and wearing a satisfied smile, I tuck the notepad back into my purse and rise.