13. Nick
For the firsttime in a long time, Nick had things to do. He wasn’t hiding in a coffee shop or his car, keeping his joblessness from his roommate. Evan probably wouldn’t even care, but it was the principle of the thing. Evan was busy, Evan had friends, and Evan was increasingly invading Nick’s psyche simply by existing.
But Nick wasn’t thinking about how goofy Evan had been the previous evening or how genuinely grateful he’d been that morning. He had other things to focus on, like meeting with the prosecutor on Sydney’s case, whom he’d spent the past week corresponding with through email. Nick arrived early then spent fifteen minutes sitting in the waiting room, which was spartan compared to the sleek corporate firms he’d always worked for. Prosecutorial work was for people who didn’t have to pay off student loans, while someone like Nick, who’d finished law school with a six-figure debt, couldn’t afford to be a do-gooder.
At least he didn’t have that anchor around his neck anymore—living with Ben for nearly a decade had allowed him to pay down the loan faster than if he’d gone it alone. Ben had been good about that sort of thing. He’d been into the idea of a proper partnership even before they’d been able to get married. Nick had bought into the concept because he’d been charmed by Ben and the fact that he was older, established, and running his own life. All of it had appealed to a kid who still felt like he was playing dress-up in his interview suits.
But the promise of that life had been an illusion, and less than a year into the relationship, Nick had begun feeling trapped under the weight of Ben’s kindness. So, in some lower-brain-inspired retaliation against that kindness, he had zeroed in on Ben’s flaws, picking him apart until he became someone who no longer asked for partnership but only inspired pity as he retreated into a shell of the man he’d once been.
Nick had done that. Nick knew he had done that. Hell, he’d even gone to therapy once or twice to try to figure out why he’d gotten so much satisfaction out of grinding Ben under his thumb. The therapist had suggested a couple of things, and Nick had bristled at both, then he’d stopped going.
What did it matter? Ben was fine now. He had Max—someone who loved him for who he was, not in spite of it. Someone who would fight for him, Nick assumed. Show up for him when things got tough, rather than running away and hiding behind divorce papers.
“Mr. Robinson?”
Nick looked up, half expecting to find Ben standing over him. But it was just a kid with a deep voice, sent to lead him to the conference room where the prosecutor was waiting to work out the terms of the deal. As Nick had suspected, upon hearing the full story, the prosecution didn’t particularly want to go to trial against a sixteen-year-old girl on her first offense.
Working out a reasonable plea didn’t take long, and while Sydney would have to agree, Nick was proud of the work he’d done. Ergo, he might throttle her if she didn’t accept. But it would be a professional throttling, not proof that he cared.
The meeting took less time than Nick thought, which meant he was early to his second of three appointments, this one taking place over a meal. True to his word, Larry Benson had agreed to lunch after Nick contacted his assistant. It hadn’t been smooth. There’d been two reschedulings so far, which Nick only slightly resented, but this one, at a downtown restaurant that was fancy but not ostentatious, seemed to be sticking.
The hostess seated Nick among a series of small tables where upper management types were dining on virtuous salads, cutting deals over delicate plates of arugula and ahi tuna. Nick pulled out his phone.
Ten games of solitaire later, Larry’s voice boomed above the well-heeled din. “Nick, hello.”
Nick stood then felt stupid for standing. He extended his hand in greeting. “Hi again. Good to see you.”
“You too. How’s Ben?”
Nick tried not to grimace. It seemed to be a day for Ben remembrances, and he trotted carefully around the truth. “He’s good. Did you talk to him about a commission?” If he had, Nick needed to watch what he said.
“Not yet. My wife—” Larry looked up at the waitress, who’d appeared at his side. “Hello there. The salmon salad and an iced tea. Nick?”
Nick ordered a Cobb salad before changing the subject. “I heard you won the Dickinson case.”
“Ah, that son of a bitch.” Larry shook his head, and Nick feigned interest as he went on for nearly ten minutes about his victory. “I really did think we’d lost the damn thing at one point—it was that day I saw you at the courthouse, actually. I couldn’t wrap my head around anything but tax fraud. How is that little girl, by the way?”
Surprised that Larry remembered, Nick smiled. “Sydney? Oh, she’s fine. Her case was a… minor scuffle. Looks like some community service, no probation. First offense.”
“Ballsy kid, approaching you like that,” Larry grinned just as their salads appeared. “And you have a lot of time to devote to her from what I’ve heard. Liza told me what happened.”
Damn Liza.Nick masked a scowl by shoving a lettuce leaf into his mouth. “I think we’d both agree that McNeely and Lowe wasn’t the right fit.”
“And what is the right fit, do you think?” Larry shifted his weight as he speared a piece of salmon, and it was clear the not-quite-interview had begun. “From what I hear, you’re lousy in front of a judge. You haven’t won a trial case since you left San Francisco.”
“All due respect, but I pride myself on cutting deals that keep my cases from ever going to trial.”
Larry laughed, revealing a half-chewed bite of fish. “You want to know what I think?”
Nick didn’t, but he nodded anyway.
“I think you moved up too fast in your first firm, and you never had time to learn good practice. I remember you—always attached to Ben’s hip or making the rounds. You can climb a ladder, kiddo, but you haven’t figured out how to hang on to those higher rungs.”
A roiling fury mounted in Nick’s gut. Sure, he’d sold one or two jars of snake oil to get ahead, and maybe he’d dropped Ben’s name on occasion. And all right—once Ben was out of the picture, Nick’s career had stalled out. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t capable. Look at the deal I cut for Sydney, for Christ’s sake.
“So I’m guessing you don’t see a place for me at your firm,” Nick said.
“I didn’t say that. In fact, I had my assistant pull the information on some junior roles we’re having trouble filling.”
Junior roles. The back of Nick’s neck prickled as he swallowed a tasteless bite of salad. “Look, I appreciate that, but I can’t start from scratch. I have a mortgage, and I can’t afford to take a step back.”
You could if you kept your roommate, whispered a voice in the back of his head—the same voice that had been projecting weird little fantasies about Evan into his brain all week, if he was being honest. He hated that voice.
“We pay our associates well.” Larry pressed his napkin to his mouth. “And you know our reputation—we work you hard, but you’ll learn a lot, and you’ll grow. Maybe not as quickly as you did before, but you won’t lack for experience.”
“I…” Though Nick knew beggars couldn’t be choosers, he still felt as though he was debasing himself. “Have your assistant send me the information. I’ll take a look and let you know.”
“Wonderful. If you’re interested, we’d be happy to schedule an interview.”
Somehow, it was worse that he wasn’t even being offered the junior job outright—he’d still have to bow and scrape his way through an interview. “Of course. Thank you.”
“Good man. Say, you don’t play golf, do you?”
Nick didn’t, but he sat and listened to Larry rabbit on about the game anyway, a mounting tension stiffening his spine. If this was his penitence for having the gall to climb above his station, he’d simply need to sit there and take it.
* * *
After lunch, still feeling thoroughly demoralized, Nick went to his final stop of the day, which was meeting with Sydney and Donna at the group home to discuss the ins and outs of the plea deal. Sydney, predictably, met the terms of the deal with a groan of teenage disdain, and Nick’s bad mood soured further.
“One hundred hours? Like, actual hours?” she said, stabbing her finger at the paper.
“Syd,” Donna warned.
“That’s a million years! It’s so much!”
“It’s two and a half weeks of full-time work, roughly,” Nick said through gritted teeth. “I already thought about the most efficient schedule. You’ll do three hours after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays then half days on weekends for the next couple months.”
“Doing what exactly?” she asked so sullenly that Nick was half tempted to tear up the deal and stick her attitude in front of a jury.
“Whatever needs the community has for service.”
“Like picking up garbage?” she sneered.
“Maybe,” he said, rolling his eyes right back. “Or painting over graffiti or serving soup at a homeless shelter or a dozen other things that don’t involve a trip to the JDC.”
A huffy little sigh emerged as Sydney’s scowl deepened. Clearly, the threat of the juvenile detention center was enough to deter her. “So, okay, I do this shit. Then what?”
“They’ll seal your record when you turn eighteen, provided you keep out of trouble until then.”
Sydney narrowed her eyes. “Yeah, okay.”
Nick could practically hear the italics in her tone, but then, everything was in italics with this kid. Had he been like that at her age? He didn’t think so. He’d been so desperate to be taken seriously that he’d joined the debate club just so he could wear a tie.
“Look, Sydney, it’s a good deal—as good as you’re likely to get—and I strongly encourage you to take it.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Yes. You do, actually. All I can do is present it to you and tell you what I think the best course of action is.”
“I could make you,” Donna said. “And Ricki would advise the same thing.” Ricki was the group home manager, whom Nick had met on his way into the squat concrete block that held two six-bed dormitories and a common room full of mismatched furniture. “But we’re not going to. You’re sixteen, and you made a grown-up choice when you stole the car, so you can make a grown-up choice about how you want to handle the consequences.”
Sydney frowned, kicking her toe into the thinning carpet. “I’ll take it. I guess,” she muttered after a moment.
Nick smiled, a load lifting from his shoulders. Lunch had sucked, but at least the day wasn’t a total loss. “Wise choice, my friend. I’m still waiting on the official paperwork, and you’ll have to go to court again so a judge can sign off on everything. I’m not going to bore you with the details, but just know that I’m working to make it as painless as possible for you.”
Sydney bit her lip, the attitude dropping. “Thanks, Nick. I, um, I know you’re doing a lot.”
“You’re welcome. And…” He hesitated, worried she was going to reject the next bit out of hand. “Evan and I wanted to know if you’d like to start coming over to take art lessons from him on the afternoons you don’t have community service.”
Sydney blinked. “Huh?”
“You need to keep your nose clean.” Nick reached into his bag and produced the bus pass he had purchased on his way to the house—after clearing it with Donna—and handing it over. “We want you to come over and work on your stuff.”
We. He hadn’t meant to say it, but it was true—Evan wanted her there, and Nick did too. Because if she was there, then she wasn’t getting in trouble, and he had a vested interest in seeing her make it to eighteen without ruining her life.
“Seriously?” She snatched the bus pass, eyes widening. “Holy shit. This is unlimited.”
Donna cleared her throat. “You know that whole Spider-Man deal about power and responsibility, Miss Sydney. This pass will get you to and from all the obligations you’ve put on yourself, including community service when the time comes. Ah—don’t give me that look. This is a gift, but it’s an adult gift. Just like when you got your phone at Christmas. You understand?”
“Yeah,” Sydney muttered, fingering the bus pass with reverence.
“As long as you prove you can be trusted with that freedom, you can keep it. Sort of like the trust Nick and I are placing in you to keep out of trouble. Understood?”
Sydney nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“And if you wanted to say another thank you to Nick, that wouldn’t be the worst thing.”
A slight smile quirked the corners of Sydney’s mouth as she looked up. “Thanks, Nick, for, uh, the plea deal. And the pass.”
“You’re welcome, Syd.” It was the first time he’d used her nickname, and he found that he liked it.
“Why don’t you go start your homework?” said Donna, pointing to Sydney’s backpack. “Nick and I will make sure we have your next steps squared away.”
“Sure. Um, see you later,” she said, grabbing her bag and heading for the hallway that presumably led to the dorms.
Once Sydney was gone, Donna and Nick went over the details of the plea as well as all the things that could go wrong, such as a judge rejecting it or Sydney fucking up the terms.
“I worry, is all,” Nick said, looking around the uncomfortably familiar industrial-gray walls. “She’s here, and these places can be… difficult, depending on the influences of the other kids.”
“I know. But it’s hard to place a kid her age with her record.”
“I get it.” Nick cleared his throat, and something about Donna’s warm, unfussy presence kept him talking. “I was in the system myself. So, ah, yeah. I can relate to the situation.”
Donna studied him, curiosity passing across her features. Then she smiled. “I knew there was something about you I liked. The kids who make it out—they’re tough, but there’s something…” She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter, I suppose. But I’m glad she has you now.”
“I’ll do what I can, but a lot of it’s on her.”
“Mmm. Still, you’re a stabilizing influence.” She raised a brow. “You ever think about fostering, Nick?”
Caught off guard, he stammered, “N-Not. No. I don’t—you, well, no. I was married, but now I’m not, so…”
Donna frowned. That had been a weird thing to say. “You think you can’t because you’re single? That’s not a problem, I promise.”
Nick shook his head, his stomach twisting itself into knots. The truth of it was, he and Ben had debated the merits of adoption early on in their relationship before things went to shit. But Ben hadn’t been all that enthused—he liked being in a couple and wasn’t interested in turning it into a family—so Nick had let the subject drop, and it had lain, dormant, until Donna hauled it out of the dark recesses of his heart like a deep-sea fisherman trawling for whatever terrified him.
“I don’t even have a job!” he blurted. Frantic, he grabbed his briefcase and his coat before getting to his feet. “I have to go. Tell Sydney bye. Sorry. Bye.” He ran from the house as if Donna’s question might be chasing him, and when he reached his car, he laid his head on the steering wheel and muttered a curse.
When he thought about it—when he really thought about it—yeah, Nick had debated fostering, and he’d decided a long time ago that he wasn’t the right man for the job. But back then, he hadn’t met Sydney. No matter how many times he told himself she was just a client, deep down, he knew better.