Chapter 20 David
Aweek after I'd dropped off files at Emma's clinic, my dad called.
"Coffee?" he said. "I'm in town for the afternoon."
"Hey, Dad."
He looked up and smiled. "David. You look good."
"Thanks." I sat down across from him. "What brings you into the city?"
"Your mother wanted me to pick up something from that kitchen store she likes. The one that charges forty dollars for a wooden spoon." He scoffed, then folded his newspaper. "But I also wanted to check in. See how you're doing."
I ordered a coffee from the server who appeared at our table while Dad got a refill.
"I'm good," I said. "Busy. Just took on three new cases this week."
"All pro bono?"
"Two pro bono, one paid. The paid one is funding the other two, so it works out."
He nodded, studying me. "You seem different. Better."
I thought about that. "Maybe. I don't know. Things are just... better than they were."
"Good." He took a sip of his coffee. "Your mother will be glad to hear it."
We talked about his work, about my brother's new job in Seattle, about whether I was coming home for Thanksgiving. Normal things.
Then he set down his mug and looked at me.
"I ran into Linda Peterson at the grocery store yesterday."
My chest tightened. "Oh?"
"Your mother had mentioned running into her last month, but I hadn't seen her myself in a while." He paused. "We chatted for a bit. Asked about each other's kids."
I waited.
"She mentioned Emma's doing well. Working a lot, thriving at the clinic." Another pause. "Said she and that young man she was seeing—Connor, I think?—broke up a few weeks ago."
The café noise faded to white noise.
"They broke up?"
"That's what Linda said. Apparently it was mutual. They just weren't right for each other." Dad's eyes were steady on mine. "She said Emma seems happy. Content. Focusing on her work."
I stared at my coffee cup.
Emma was single.
Had been for weeks now. Three weeks, maybe more, depending on when exactly it had happened.
"David." My dad's voice pulled me back. "I'm not telling you this to pressure you into anything. I just thought you should know."
"Yeah." My voice came out rough. "Thanks."
"What you do with that information is up to you." He leaned back in his chair. "But son, you've spent three years becoming someone worth forgiving. At some point, you have to let yourself try."
The words hung between us.
I thought about Emma in her office last week.
The way she'd laughed at my stupid joke.
The moment before she'd remembered to be distant, when we'd just been two people talking.
I thought about nine months of professional emails, of boundaries carefully maintained, of wanting to reach out and stopping myself every single time.
I thought about spending the rest of my life wondering what she would have said if I'd just asked.
"What if she says no?"
"Then she says no, and you move on." He shrugged. "But what if she says yes?"
Marcus had asked me the same thing a week ago. Now my dad. Two people who knew me, who'd watched me rebuild myself, both saying the same thing.
Maybe they were right.
Or maybe I was just looking for permission to do what I'd wanted to do for three years.
"I don't want to pressure her," I said. "Or make her uncomfortable. We've finally found this... professional equilibrium. I don't want to mess that up."
"Are you happy with professional equilibrium?"
"No."
"Then maybe it's time to risk it."
We finished our coffee. Dad paid, waving off my attempt to split the check. We walked out to the parking lot together.
"I already had my shot," I said as we reached his car. "And I blew it. Spectacularly."
Dad stopped, his hand on the door handle. He turned to look at me.
"Yes," he said. "You did."
The bluntness of it stung, but I nodded. He wasn't wrong.
"But David." He let go of the handle, faced me fully.
"That was three years ago. You were a different person then.
Selfish, ambitious in all the wrong ways, making terrible decisions.
" He paused. "You're not that person anymore.
So maybe the question isn't whether you deserve another shot.
Maybe it's whether the person you are now deserves a chance to try. "
I didn't have an answer to that.
"Think about it," he said, unlocking his car. "But don't think too long."
I watched him drive away, then sat in my own car for a long time.
Emma was single.
Three weeks, maybe more. Long enough that showing up now wouldn't be pouncing on a fresh breakup. Long enough that she'd had time to process, to adjust, to be okay on her own.
But not so long that I could keep using it as an excuse to wait.
I pulled out my phone and stared at it.
I could text her. Keep it casual. Hey, I was wondering if you'd want to grab coffee sometime. Just to talk.
Or I could email. More professional. Less intrusive. Give her space to think about it before responding.
Or I could do nothing. Keep things exactly as they were. Safe. Predictable. Professional.
And completely dishonest about what I actually wanted.
I opened my email and started typing.
Emma,
I know this might be unwelcome, and I'll completely understand if you'd rather not. But I was wondering if you'd be willing to grab coffee with me sometime. Not about a case. Just to talk.
I'm not trying to pressure you or make things awkward between us. If you're not interested, just say no and we'll keep things exactly as they are. But I'd really like the chance to sit down with you. If you're open to it.
David
I read it five times. Deleted the last paragraph. Added it back. Changed "unwelcome" to "unexpected." Changed it back.
Finally, I just hit send before I could overthink it anymore.
The email whooshed away.
My heart was pounding like I'd just run a marathon.
I set my phone on the passenger seat and started the car. I had a client meeting in an hour. Work to do. A life to live that didn't revolve around whether Emma Peterson would agree to have coffee with me.
But I checked my phone at every red light on the drive back to my office.
Nothing.
She was probably working. Or with a patient. Or hadn't seen the email yet. Or had seen it and was trying to figure out how to say no gently.
I forced myself to put my phone in my desk drawer when I got to the office.
The client meeting went fine. I drafted a motion for another case. Responded to emails from three potential new clients. Busy work.
I checked my phone at 3 PM.
Nothing.
At 5 PM.
Nothing.
At 7 PM, when I was closing up the office, I checked one more time.
One new email.
From Emma.
My hand shook slightly as I opened it.
David,
Okay. Saturday at 10 AM. The coffee shop on 5th Street.
Emma
I read it three times.
She'd said yes.
She'd actually said yes.
I sat down at my desk and just breathed for a minute.
Saturday. Three days from now. I had three days to figure out what to say, how to say it, how to tell her everything I needed to tell her without overwhelming her or asking for more than she could give.
Three days to prepare for the most important conversation of my life.
I closed my email and headed home.
For the first time in three years, I let myself hope.