Chapter 5
Chapter Five
D espite the chaos of last night, this morning I’m at work right on time, coffee in hand, and looking professionally hot, if I do say so myself. Not many people could pull off shorts at work and still manage to look polished, but (a) I can thrift like nobody’s business, and I always find the best diamonds in the rough; (b) Nina is an expert seamstress, and she helps me tailor my clothes to my shape like a pro, so all the lines are clean and chic and everything fits like a glove; (c) it’s July and unusually muggy, even for Chicago, so no one can blame me for wanting to forego heavy trousers; and (d) I have fantastic legs, especially in these strappy heels.
Oh, and if you haven’t caught on by now, I really don’t go for that false modesty thing. I know all my strengths and weaknesses and I don’t understand anyone who doesn’t take an honest account of themselves on a regular basis. You won’t ever hear me bragging about my people skills, but my calves? Excellent.
I glance at my phone on the elevator ride up to the office. I only have one message, from Brian and Connie. Happy birthday, sweetheart! Can we take you out to dinner sometime this week? I close it without responding. No other messages yet. It’s still early in the day, though. I don’t really expect to hear from my sisters until later, but it doesn’t hurt to check.
My coworker Barry is waiting for me at my desk holding a balloon and a cupcake with bright pink frosting. I falter. Oh no. This is bad for a couple reasons. A few months ago I wanted to set up Helen with Barry. That was back when the Bounty Hunter had broken her heart and I was trying my best to help her get over it. I figured, Barry seemed like a nice enough guy, and if they hit it off, they wouldn’t mind me third-wheeling since I was the one who set them up.
But Helen got back together with the Bounty Hunter, and it turns out, Barry? Kind of clingy. I guess he got used to all the extra attention I was giving him when I was trying to get him ready to be worthy of Helen, and now it’s like he thinks I owe him something since things fell through with her. He’s always lingering at my desk, offering me unsolicited shoulder rubs. And sure, I’ve said yes a few times, but only because I get knots in my upper back, not because he has any chance in hell of massaging his way into my pants.
That’s the first reason it’s bad to see Barry at my desk first thing in the morning. The second is that I’m pretty sure he’s holding a birthday balloon.
Dammit! Why do jobs require you to write down your birth date, anyway? I don’t need Susie from HR blabbing her mouth to every Tom, Dick, and Harry about the day I was pulled screaming into this world—not even of my own volition, mind you. I certainly don’t need coworkers who are barely friends cornering me in the bathroom to ask me about my birthday plans, or forcing me into the conference room and handing me a plate of cake I probably won’t eat while I’m publicly humiliated via song.
I haven’t even told Nina and Helen that today’s my birthday. In all our years of friendship, I’ve managed to dodge the question. I suspect Helen thinks it’s a trauma response from being adopted. For the record, it isn’t, but her believing so means she doesn’t insist on making me share the information, and so I don’t correct her on it. I guess the truth is, Helen and Nina are the only people I’d actually want to celebrate the day with, at least the only people in Chicago. But if I told them the day and they forgot about it...
It’s better just to take the possibility off the table entirely. I’m fine celebrating alone in my pajamas with an episode of Full House , anyway.
...Except for the inevitable public display of humiliation that seems to be in the cards today. I sigh as I near Barry, folding my arms to show him I’m not impressed. “What is this?”
“Happy birthday!” Barry beams at me, offering the balloon and cupcake like he expects me to squeal and whoo. He clearly hasn’t been paying attention these last six months if he thinks I’m even capable of making those kinds of noises. “The big two-nine, right?”
“Don’t ask people their age. It’s rude.” I make no move to take the balloon, which frankly I will just release to float up to the ceiling if he tries to force it on me. The cupcake, though, I examine closely. I’m not opposed to sweets on principle, but I am very particular about my sugar consumption. If I’m going to indulge, I’m not just going to eat any crap lying around. It has to be the good stuff.
The packaging indicates it’s likely from some grocery store bakery, though the sticker and price tag have been scratched off. Hmm, could be bad, could be good, depending on the bakery. I open the container to feel the consistency of the cupcake base. A little dry and stiff. Not promising. With my pinky finger, I take the tiniest smidge of the frosting and taste it. Pure confectioners’ sugar, no cream cheese to enrich the flavor and tamp down the blinding sweetness.
I close the lid again and set the cupcake down on my desk. I’ll definitely be throwing it away later, but I won’t do it in front of Barry’s face. (And people say I have no tact!) “Thanks, I guess. Even if it was totally unnecessary.” I glance around at the still mostly empty cubicles. I like to be one of the first people in the office every morning, since the place can’t function without me, but everyone else will be trickling in soon. “Don’t make a big deal about it, okay? I’m not into the whole birthday thing.”
It’s like I’ve told Barry I don’t believe in Santa. I’m sure he was envisioning leading our coworkers in singing happy birthday to me, establishing his claim as my closest office confidant, maybe even trying to get some dating rumors off the ground. His face falls a little, but he rebounds quickly. “We could do something after work? Dinner? My treat?”
“No,” I say flatly, and sit down at my computer.
This should be the universal sign of dismissal, no? But Barry lingers at my cubicle. “Did you hear that Eastman’s coming in today?”
Despite myself, I turn to face him—the news is that surprising. Jay Eastman is one of the partners at the firm, but he mainly deals with international law and is usually off traveling to meet clients, when he isn’t being photographed having dinner with A-list actresses or supermodels. “Eastman? Why?”
Barry seems quite obviously pleased to have my full attention again. “The client we’re meeting with this morning is a pretty big fish, apparently. I guess the partners want to make sure they get in his good graces so he’ll put us on retainer for any future cases.”
There’s a trace of bitterness in Barry’s voice, despite the victory of getting to be the one to share the office gossip, and I can’t blame him. It must be very difficult to be a man moving in the same space as Jay Eastman. He’s not only a legacy lawyer, with a father who was the mayor’s legal advisor and a grandfather who founded one of the most prestigious law firms in Chicago before serving as a judge in the Illinois Supreme Court; but he also has developed a stellar reputation at a surprisingly young age—not even forty yet. Plus, he’s hot. Like, movie-star hot. Like, Brad Pitt in his prime hot.
Successful, intelligent, Ivy-League educated, handsome, and clean-cut. The man is basically my vision board for the foreseeable future, except even I don’t have the confidence to think I could nab a Jay Eastman.
Our client this morning must be a really big deal if they brought in Eastman for this. I was so focused on preparing our pre-trial documents that I hadn’t paid too much attention to who the client himself was. I frowned, trying to scour my memory for any giveaway of why the partners would consider him to be so very special. “Is the client an actor or musician or something? Big Pharma? Silicon Valley guy? Politician?”
Barry seems excited to be able to relay this information to me. Poor little man will gobble up any crumbs I give him. I can have that effect on men. “Do you remember that story a few months ago, about the guy who was, like, the caddy or driver or something for a bunch of finance bros on vacation? They’re all getting wasted, talking to each other like no one else is in the room, assuming this guy must be too stupid to understand what they’re talking about. But he’s been paying attention to everything and knows they’re planning on shorting this chain restaurant called So Ono—kind of like what happened with GameStop a few years ago. So he figures out how to play them at their own game, gives all these Redditors a bunch of tips, and ends up becoming a multimillionaire basically overnight.”
I raise my eyebrows, impressed despite myself. “Wow. Smart guy, huh?”
“That’s not even the best part.” Barry’s eyes are shining; I’m starting to wonder if his excitement is more because he’s fanboying over this client rather than getting to tell me all about it. “He has all this crazy money all of a sudden, but instead of hoarding it and buying a big house in Malibu or whatever you’d expect him to do, he starts giving it away to all these charities. They call him Kimo Hood—you know, like Robin Hood.”
I feel like the wind has been knocked out of me. “ Kimo Hood?” I repeat. It’s not the most common name, after all. Chicago’s a big city, but it can’t possibly be that big.
As if on cue, the elevator door dings open, and out walks Jay Eastman, with our newest client...Kimo Kapono.