Thirteen
Alexander
The office is quiet at three in the afternoon.
Too quiet, which in legal parlance is the point at which disaster is either imminent or already in motion, and you just haven’t read the right email yet.
The floor-to-ceiling windows slice the town into rectangular segments.
The river, concrete, the bruised sliver of sky.
I should be doing contract review, and technically, I am.
The document is open on my screen. I’ve highlighted six clauses in the last hour and annotated two of them with the kind of notes that mean nothing to anyone but me: “Could be sharper,” “Ambiguous on force majeure,” “Get rid of this shit.”
I still can’t stop thinking about Harper.
It’s been over a month since Adrian called me on my obsession. I have since tried to relegate her to the back of my mind. I haven’t even opened her Instagram since Sunday, which in my opinion is as good as getting a chip for sobriety. It’s pathetic. And yet, that doesn't make it any less true.
I re-read a sentence twice before realizing I’m not reading at all.
I glance at my phone. There are three notifications, none of them hers.
The last time I had this little self-control, I was twenty-three and decided I could drink a fifth of bourbon before my brother’s rehearsal dinner and still deliver a speech.
The knock at my door is more of a warning than a courtesy. It’s Adrian, which is surprising as he usually just waltzes in. Everyone else at Burnes & Associates either opens the door and starts talking or waits to be called in like supplicants at a Roman court.
He’s carrying a portfolio and a look that, after six years, I recognize as the danger warning sign that it is. I glance at the clock. “Shouldn’t you be at the mediation?”
He sits, ignoring the comment. The portfolio lands on my desk with a soft thud. “They rescheduled for Thursday. Something about one of the principals coming down with a ‘migraine,’” air quotes included. “I told them to call you if they wanted to negotiate in bad faith.”
I flip the portfolio open. It’s the Thompson file. I already know what’s inside, but I pretend to skim it anyway. “Anything urgent?”
“Nothing that can’t wait.” He settles back, crosses his legs, and watches me with far too much focus. He doesn’t say anything right away. He lets the silence fill the office, which puts me on edge.
I close the portfolio. “What is it you need Adrian?”
He doesn’t smile. “So, completely unrelated question.”
I give him my full attention. Equal parts intrigued and concerned.
He says, “Do you remember that woman you mentioned a while back? The one you met at Lola’s.”
I keep my face neutral, but my stomach reacts like he’s slammed me with a deposition subpoena.
“Harper,” I say. I can’t help but confirm, though my stomach is almost in full revolt as I wait to hear what this is about.
“Yes. Harper,” he says, voice so flat it’s even more worrying. “And you haven’t heard from her since?”
Now I frown. “Not directly, I told you before that I only had her socials.”
He nods again, but this time it’s a prelude. “Luca called me this morning. He said that Harper needed to find you. Apparently, she mentioned in passing that she once slept with an Alexander, who was a lawyer. That was all he needed to ask me if I knew an Alexander that's a lawyer.”
I feel heat prick up the back of my neck. “Did you tell him?”
He raises an eyebrow. “That I knew you? Yes. But I think he already suspected.” He leans in, elbows on his knees. “He’s worried. About her.”
He’s worried? Has something else happened? I squeeze my hands together to stop myself from shaking the answers from him.
“Is she okay?” He just shrugs like its nothing.
“I can’t answer that for her.” He pauses for a beat. “But she needs to find you.”
I think my heart stills for a beat. I have a clashing feeling of hope and dread at the same time. Hope that she wants to see me, and dread that something is wrong.
I say, “Why?”
He spreads his hands. “I can’t tell you that. Only pass on her number and ask that you call her. As well as pass on a message from Luca. That if you didn’t call her, he would find you himself.”
I stare at him, a bit confused. “I’m just sitting in my office.”
He smiles, the first sign of genuine humour all day.
“I know. But you’ve heard about Luca. He doesn’t mean physically. He means he’ll do whatever it takes to get your attention. Some kind of digital dragnet, or a large, flamboyant sign over the building. You don’t want to risk it.”
I rub my thumb over the edge of the pen. “Did he say if she was in trouble?”
“Not exactly. She just needs to talk to you.”
I can tell that he is torn about telling me more. We aren’t exactly ‘friends’ but I would like to think we could be. I guess I can’t fault him for protecting her privacy.
I ask, “You think I should call her?”
He doesn’t answer immediately as he seems to mull my words over.
“I think you should.”
Adrian stands after that, collects the file, leaves a slip of paper on my desk and heads for the door. He pauses, hand on the knob.
“Whatever you think this is,” he says, “I don’t think it’s a bad thing. I just think it’s important that you talk to her.” The door clicks behind him and I sit for a long time, staring into space and contemplating what she could need from me.
It takes me more time than I care to admit to open my phone. I type the number from the paper into it. I try to make a list of the worst-case scenarios, but all the outcomes circle back to the same point. That it’s not about me. It’s about whatever happened to her.
I could call. I could text. I take the cowards way and decide that I am not ready to hear her voice again just yet, worried my obsession will flair back into full force.
I open a new message and type, “Hi. This is Alexander.” I delete it. Type, “I heard you were looking for me.” Delete that, too.
Eventually I give up on saying something smart and just type something easy. My hand is shaking, which is absurd. I have argued in front of courtrooms. I have never been nervous, not like this.
Hi. This is Alexander. Sorry for texting so late. Your friend Luca is terrifying.
I send it before I can triple guess myself. I try to distract myself by tidying the office, by reviewing the mediation notes. Nothing works. In the end, I give up and I panic after I press send and decide to add a follow up.
He says you wanted to talk. . I hope you’re okay.
I try not to hold my breath as I wait for her response.
Hi. I’m okay. Are you?
I stare at the message, it's so… ordinary. How is it though, that after everything, she is the one asking if I am okay? It stings a bit that it’s so formal, but it also feels like a tiny lifeline. I tap out a reply, slower this time.
Honestly? Not really. But I’d like to see you again.
I put the phone down and wait for the next reply, breathing as slowly as I can, counting the seconds in between.
I don’t know what will happen next.
But I do know this, if she needs anything, I will be there.
I want to see her again. Not for answers, not even for closure. Just to know that she is, in fact, okay. That what we did, didn’t hurt her further.
I close my eyes and think about the night we met. I let it play, one frame at a time, every detail exact. The sound of her laugh. The way her hair fell. The shape of her shoulder under my hand. For a moment, I can almost convince myself it wasn’t a mistake.
Then the phone vibrates again.
I look at the screen, the name glowing, and I smile, just a little.
Maybe this is what it means to be alive.