Chapter 46.
46.
Public Opinion (n., phrase)
the collective judgment, attitudes, and perceptions of the general public regarding a particular issue, event, individual, or organization
the real jury
T here’s a collective hum of enthusiasm as we pile into the vans and head back to the Singer Suites. They are excited it’s over. Anxious to get back to their real lives. But as I ride in silence beside Damon, I can’t help the sinking feeling in my gut that my time with him is ending. When he looks over and offers a small smile—big for him—it feels conciliatory. By the end of this quickly disappearing day, our... whatever it is... will be over. I almost wish we were perpetual jurors, full-time courtroom decision-makers, so I could wake up every day and sit beside him in that jury box forevermore.
Thirty minutes later, George taps at my open hotel room door. “For you,” he says, holding up a freezer-sized plastic bag. “Thank you,” I say, retrieving the bag, immediately pulling my phone from it and holding down the power button.
“You’re the most subdued one so far. That number ten next door practically tackled me when he saw his stuff,” George muses.
“It was kinda nice actually, being cut off.”
George smiles, the wispy hairs of his mustache jutting out over his upper lip. “You’re not the first person to tell me that,” he says, before giving me a nod and heading out.
After a quick review of my text messages to determine there’s nothing urgent, I open Google and type in Margot’s name, where I am assaulted with pictures and stories. There are myriad articles and posts, most of which, unsurprisingly, view Margot, and now the jury, negatively. They’re saying she bought her way out of it. They’re saying jury members fed into the hype.
The link I click first is a video of Margot standing outside the courtroom, addressing reporters. It must have happened right after the verdict and our subsequent bathroom run-in as we were headed to the hotel.
Margot stands, razor-straight, flanked by Durrant Hammerstead and his team. People shout and clamor to take pictures. She is poised, seemingly basking in her moment. She speaks into the row of microphones, instantly silencing the crowd.
She thanks the court, talks about looking ahead to the new normal with her children, asks for privacy. Before she has finished, reporters and paparazzi are hurling more questions. “If you didn’t do it, who did? Was it Gloria Pembrooke?” “Are you dating anyone?” “What will the Malibu Menace do next?” “Will you return for season eight of Authentic Moms ?” “Who are you dating?” “Do you believe Joe died of natural causes?” “Will you comment on the affairs?” “Who do you want to date?”The barrage of questions keeps coming, even as she is ushered down the courthouse steps and whisked away in a black town car.
As I place a folded sweater into my suitcase, there’s a knock at my open door. Damon leans against it, left foot crossed over his right ankle. His fingers curl over the top of the doorframe, and it’s an all-too-similar stance to the one he struck the night we spent together. He’s wearing a royal-blue L.A. Rams sweatshirt that makes him look both incredibly sexy and familiarly boyish at once. Just seeing him leaning in my doorway makes me wish there could be one more day—or night, specifically—in this bubble. But it’s more than just the sex, of course. It’s him . All of him.
“Hey,” he says, remaining stationed against the door. He twirls an origami animal, this one a bear, I think, then sets it on the dresser.
“Hey,” I say back. My first inclination is to whisper, to usher him in hurriedly and close the door behind him. But we don’t have to sneak around anymore. And now that we don’t have to, there’s nothing we have to sneak around for. The irony of it leaves me wounded.
“Need any help?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I think I’ve got it.” He watches as I struggle to close my suitcase and then comes over to help. He zips it easily and lifts it with one hand to the ground. There’s no packing left to distract us.
“Right, well...” He reaches into his back pocket, pulls a folded paper from it, and holds it out in front of him. “For you.”
I take the paper from his hand. When I look up at him in question, he breaks our eye contact.
“Don’t read it now,” he says, pressing his fingers into his front jeans pockets. “Later. It’s just a final jury duty note. Seemed like an appropriate send-off, to write one more.”
I attempt to swallow the mass that has accumulated in my throat. “Thanks,” I say, tucking the note and origami bear into the side pocket of my tote on the dresser. We stand at the foot of the bed, inches apart, silently staring at each other. There’s so much to say, but also, nothing to say.
I want to tell him the other night was the best one of my life.
I want to tell him he’s velvet as a person—textured but smooth, soft against my skin and heart—
But I don’t know how to do this in the real world.
I know he doesn’t, either.
I’m about to open my mouth to speak, but our past and present stop me. I know we wouldn’t work anywhere but here. Not with all our baggage. We can’t seem to stop hurting each other. His words from the presidential suite just last night shadow my desires. I don’t ever want him to hurt again.
“Can I get your number?” he asks as if he’s never had it before, as if we didn’t exchange hundreds of thousands of texts and GIFs throughout our once friendship.
I sigh. “You don’t have to do this,” I say.
He squares up across me. “Do what?”
“Pretend like this is something. I get it.”
“What do you get?”
“I get that this was just a temporary thing.” I motion back and forth between him and me in the short distance between us. “You don’t have to get my number.”
“I want your number,” he says. His blue-green eyes twitch once, and I almost believe him. I want to give it to him. Part of me says we can be friends. But I know I’d never be satisfied with that. And pretending would keep me in this unfulfilled place.
“Look, let’s just call this what it was. A nice, in-the-moment distraction from the case, and an opportunity for some closure on what happened all those years ago.”
His eyebrow twitches up, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he is disappointed. He opens his mouth to respond, and I lean forward, wanting to know what he has to say. He pauses.
The conflict of us is palpable. Past versus present. Hurt versus longing. Reality versus hope. Head versus heart.
Before he can get any words out, Cam arrives at the door and steps in. “Can you believe we’re finally outta here?” He taps the backside of his left hand against Damon’s chest playfully.
Damon doesn’t take his eyes off me, even as Cam looks back and forth between us.
“Am I interrupting?” he asks.
Damon clears his throat. “No, man, you’re not,” he says stiffly, breaking our stare. The grimness of his face before he looks away leaves me gutted. “Why wait? We should get going,” Damon says to Cam.
“Definitely. See ya, Syd,” Cam says, though we’ve not exchanged contact information, so I doubt it.
“See ya,” I say anyway.
We are taken in the two shuttles back to the courthouse, where my car is still parked in the underground garage. For one of the only times, Damon and I don’t sit together on the ride. I don’t quite know whose decision it was—Damon climbed into the shuttle, and though we made brief eye contact, I moved my bag off the seat so Tamra, ahead of him in line and eyeing the open seat beside me, could take it.
We exit the shuttles in the courthouse garage to avoid any remaining bystanders or paparazzi.
“Goodbye, dear.” Tamra hugs me warmly—so tight and genuine that I don’t want her to let go. “Give that baby a kiss for me,” she adds, cupping my wrist. I think of Gen and how much I want to see her.
“I will. I’m so glad you can get back to your grandbabies now.”
She smiles, her eyes more watery than usual. I try to imagine loving something so much that the sheer mention of it brings tears to my eyes.
I think to exchange numbers with her. The reality is, I would likely never reach out. We have such different lives. And she’s busy with her family. But still...
“Tamra,” I say, “would you want to exchange numbers? Maybe grab coffee or something sometime?”
She smiles, her eyes still full. “I was going to ask you the same thing but figured you wouldn’t be interested in an old lady like me.”
“Let’s make sure we actually do it. Get together, I mean.” I enter her number in my phone and text her so she has mine.
We hug again, this one a bit fuller than the first.
I say quick goodbyes to the others, including Cam again. I thank Xavier for being a truly excellent foreperson, all the while keeping account of where Damon is, who he’s talking to—ensuring he hasn’t slipped out.
Soon, the group has dwindled to just a few, and Damon and I find each other, as though it were inevitable.