Chapter 6
Elliot does not ask to see me at his office.
He asks if I want neutral ground.
I choose the back table at a diner two blocks from Geneva's office, because nothing discourages romantic stupidity like fluorescent lighting and a laminated menu.
This is what I tell myself.
Then Elliot walks in wearing a navy sweater under his coat, hair damp from rain, and the diner lights make him look more real instead of less tempting. Annoying. Deeply inconsiderate of him.
He slides into the booth across from me.
"You look like you slept badly."
"You always open with flattery?"
"Only when I am worried. I can do brusque if you prefer."
"I doubt that," I say, because he has the unfortunate calm of a man who thinks before speaking and probably alphabetizes his vitamins.
He sets a folder on the table but does not open it.
"Geneva asked me to review the dissipation categories generally, not your representation. She wants a second family-law read without making me counsel of record."
"So you are here as a consultant."
"And as your friend, if that is allowed."
The word friend should make this safer.
It does not.
"I don't think we have ever been friends," I say.
"We were professionals who respected each other and occasionally complained about expert deadlines."
"That is the foundation of many enduring bonds."
I almost laugh. It catches in my throat and turns into something softer.
Elliot sees it. He does not pounce.
He opens the folder.
We work for an hour.
Apartment retainer. Travel. Jewelry deposit. Furniture. Monthly parking. Dining. Wine. Gifts. One transfer to Sasha's design LLC that makes Elliot's mouth flatten.
"What?" I ask.
"He routed it through a business entity," Elliot says. "That makes him look deliberate."
"He was deliberate."
"I know. I am saying it helps you."
"Nothing about this helps me."
Elliot closes the folder.
"No," he says. "It helps your case."
That distinction should not matter.
It does.
The waitress brings coffee. Elliot moves his spoon out of my way because he has seen me reach for sugar twice and never once commented on it. Grant used to joke in public about how much sugar I used, then smile as if teasing me counted as affection.
It was not affectionate. It was small.
Elliot notices me noticing.
"What?" he asks.
"Nothing."
"Audra."
My name in that voice is a problem. Not because it is pretty. Because it is direct. Because he says it and waits for the answer as if I might actually give one.
"Grant used to mock my coffee," I say.
Elliot looks at the sugar packets.
"That seems like a poor use of everyone's limited time on earth."
I laugh. A real one this time. It surprises me enough that I have to look away.
When I look back, Elliot is not smiling exactly. He is watching me, and he noticed the laugh.
The diner gets too warm.
"Don't," I say.
His hand stills near his coffee.
"Don't what?"
"Look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're glad I laughed."
"I am."
The answer is plain. No apology wrapped around it.
My skin tightens over my ribs.
"I am married."
"Yes."
"My husband has a second life."
"Yes."
"This is a terrible time to become aware of your forearms."
His eyes flicker. Heat, there and gone, controlled so fast I almost miss it.
"I wondered if we were going to discuss that."
"Your forearms?"
"The terrible timing."
I press my fingers to the edge of the table. "We are not discussing anything."
"All right."
"You do that too easily."
"Respect you?"
I hate him a little for that. Not much. Enough to save myself.
We leave the diner under a thin, cold rain. He walks me to the curb where my car is waiting. A cab splashes through a puddle. I step back, and Elliot's hand comes to my elbow, steadying me.
It is barely a touch.
I feel it everywhere.
I turn before sense can catch up. He is close, close enough that I can see the faint line beside his mouth and the rain caught in his hair.
"Audra," he says, and this time his voice is warning, not against me, but for me.
I lift my hand to his coat anyway.
He does not move first.
That is the part that undoes me. He waits. Lets the next inch be mine.
I kiss him.
Once.
It is not gentle. I do not have gentle in me tonight. It is hungry and brief and full of every year I told myself wanting less was maturity.
Elliot's hand closes at my waist, firm for one second.
Then I step back.
"No," I say, breath uneven. "Not yet."
His hand drops immediately.
"Okay."
That is all.
No argument. No wounded pride. No persuasive lean back toward my mouth.
Okay.
The word is so simple it hurts.
"I need to end it first," I say.
"I know."
"I need the choice to be mine."
"It is."
I believe him.
That is the dangerous part.
I get into the car before I do something reckless and call it grief.