Chapter 9
NINE
Jenna
I’m stabbing a forkful of arugula when Isla gives me the look—the one that says she knows I’m hiding something juicy.
And well—I am. She owns a sports podcast with ninety thousand rabid listeners who would sacrifice their firstborns for insider Colton King gossip.
And here I am, sitting on the nuclear codes.
He’s not just my client, he’s practically living in my office, bleeding into my nights and weekends, consuming my every waking thought at this point.
Since he was so nice to me, I can’t stop thinking about him.
It was easier when I thought he’ was a jerk.
I’ve been dodging her texts for two weeks now, and this guilt-lunch at my mother’s was the best I could scrape together. We typically meet once a week, but Colton’s case is consuming all of my free time at the moment. That’s why we’re eating some salad and roasted chicken with my mom right now.
Mom’s kitchen feels smaller every time I visit: the scratched Formica table wobbles when I lean my elbows on it, and no matter how many Glade plug-ins she buys, the place still smells a bit like cat litter. But that’s what I call home.
Isla sits across from me, knees drawn up onto the chair like a goblin child, though, technically, she’s a twenty-seven-year-old woman with a driver’s license, two degrees, and what might be the world’s most committed relationship with dry shampoo.
She’s three inches shorter than I am, but with enough bleach blonde hair to register as a small celestial event.
Also, I’m content that her voice could shatter a pint glass at thirty paces.
“Did you guys hear the latest episode? We got ten hate mails and a marriage proposal—same guy, I think. How’s that for listener engagement?” Isla says.
My mother, who has never figured out if she’s allowed to laugh at the juicy stuff she hears on The Dirty Jersey podcast, does a nervous titter and then pushes a bowl of off-brand ranch dressing toward Isla with the kind of maternal resignation that comes from knowing that her daughter’s best friend will never, ever eat anything without a dip.
Jenna’s like the second daughter she never had.
We’ve known each other since kindergarten and have been inseparable since then.
“It’s because you keep daring your audience to send nudes,” I say, a forkful of arugula hovering somewhere between my mouth and the existential void. “Statistically, at least one man in New Jersey lives for that sort of feedback loop.”
“That is the spirit,” Isla grins and then in a dead-on imitation of her own podcast cohost, launches into: “‘Dear Isla, you godless harpy, I hope you get canceled so hard your uterus explodes—’” She breaks character long enough to shovel three leaves and an entire cherry tomato into her face.
“I mean, it’s original, I’ll give him that. ”
“You’re the one being original. Without you, that podcast wouldn’t even be half as funny.
” I side-eye the tomato massacre and glance at my mother, who is gently stroking the head of her cat, nestled comfortably in her lap, as she picks at her salad.
She looks exactly like me, just older and with the demure posture of a woman who once aspired to be a nun and still hasn’t totally come to terms with the fact that she ended up a receptionist at the hospital, raising a daughter who negotiates with divorcees for a living and a son who sells home gym equipment out of his trunk. (Not a euphemism.)
Isla breaks the silence. “You’re looking extra murdery today, Jen. Who pissed in your hummus?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” I mutter, but the truth is she probably already does. If you want to hide something from Isla, you’d have better luck taping it to your forehead and lighting it on fire.
She does her thing where she narrows her eyes and gets conspiratorial. “You know, if you ever want to tell me what’s actually happening at that Soul-Devouring Law Firm, I could make a killer Patreon series out of it. Call it Law and Disorder. First episode: The Junior Partner Who Snapped.”
“She’s not going to snap, Isla,” my mother says, her first entry into the conversation, which somehow carries the gentle command of a kindergarten teacher. “She just needs a break from all those…” She waves her hand vaguely.
“Masochists?” Isla offers.
“Clients,” my mom corrects, but she’s smiling.
I try to keep my face neutral but it’s a lost cause.
“It’s just work, guys. There’s nothing—” I hesitate, a mental flicker: Colton King, hockey legend and my latest cautionary tale, in my living room.
Livy’s eyes, too serious for a six-year-old.
A bandaged hand that made my own palm ache. “There’s nothing new.”
Isla snorts. “Liar. You get this weird twitch under your left eye when you’re about to withhold. Oh my god!” She leans forward, her blue eyes narrowing as if they could shoot daggers at me. “You’re sitting on a good one, aren’t you?”
I cave. Or maybe I just want someone to tell me that the world hasn’t completely gone off the rails, and I’m not the only adult who googles Colton King’s Wikipedia.
I only did that once, though. “I have a client. Big case. High-profile. If I mess it up, it’s career kryptonite.
And… it will all be over the news soon…”
Isla leans in, eyes way too big with mischief. “Tell me everything.”
Mom raises her eyebrows. “Is this another one of those cases where you can’t talk about it until it’s over and then you get angry e-mails from people with two last names?”
I sigh, because she’s right, and also because the cat has finally settled and is emitting snore-puffs. “Something like that.”
“Whatever happened to your last client? The one who only communicated via Bitmoji?” Isla asks, chewing.
“Won the moral high ground. She’s considering a memoir.”
“Ugh, same,” Isla says, and then—without missing a beat—launches into a tangent about how podcasts are the memoirs of the illiterate, and how she plans to market herself as ‘audiobook-ready’ to get in on the next wave of influencer gold.
Mom is packing up the leftovers and places a foil-wrapped parcel of something that could be banana bread or chicken into a tote bag and does it with such resigned affection that I feel bad.
She’s always been my soft place to fall—even when I fall face-first into the same mistake a thousand times in a row.
Isla leans across the table again, nearly knocking over her water glass.
“If it’s going public anyway, what’s the harm in a little preview?
Come on, Jennerator!” She dares to wiggle her eyebrows.
Damn. My best friend is annoying. But she’s a journalist that makes her bread and butter with gossip. Of course, she is nosy.
Mom touches my wrist. “Would you get in trouble, dear? For telling us before the press finds out?”
“I know that face,” Isla says. “It’s the face of someone dying to overshare.”
I look around, like maybe Mom’s fat cat or her countless plastic flowers are going to come to my rescue. No such luck. Isla’s the kind of person who can outwait the DMV. I sigh and square up for some emotional battle. “Why are you this annoying, again?”
“Because you’re my best friend and you have been dodging me for two straight weeks, not counting that one time you butt-dialed me at 2 a.m. and just kept whispering ‘kill me now’ for ten minutes.”
“That was a conference call,” I lie.
“Sure. You never take a lunch break unless it’s code red, and your mother had to bribe you with banana bread to even show up. So, who is he? Or she? Or them?”
God she’s relentless. If she ever wants to quit podcasting, I could get her a job at the CIA.
I keep playing coy for about two seconds, then give up, because Isla’s not wrong—the only thing worse than my job is being haunted by my own secrets.
And I need someone to talk to about this mess. “Fine. I’m representing Colton King.”
She doesn’t even process it at first, just blinks and tilts her head like a confused retriever.
Then, the shriek. I have never seen a fork actually ricochet out of someone’s hand, but Isla makes it happen, narrowly missing my hand.
“Oh my god! Oh my god, oh my god, OH MY GOD! You have to be kidding me. THE Colton King?”
“I don’t think there’s another one,” I say, regretting every life decision that led me to this exact moment.
She clutches her chest like she’s going into cardiac arrest. “He’s like the hottest thing in any league of leagues. And also, a terrifying man-giant.” Her eyes get wild. “Are you…is this a custody case? A divorce? Please tell me there’s a sex tape.”
Sometimes I can’t tell if I’m impressed by her ability to cram so many words into a short span or if I’m simply terrified. “It’s a custody thing,” I admit, and her face falls for a nanosecond before bouncing back even harder.
“YES. So much drama. So much trauma. I knew it—I knew you were hiding a nuclear bomb of gossip from me. Is he as scary-hot in person? Like, do you have to stand on a chair just to talk to him?”
“I’m not even up to his shoulder,” I say, which is technically true, but exaggerating for Isla is like putting a single marshmallow in a mug of cocoa—you know she’ll add the rest herself.
She claps her hands and then does the most deranged fan-girl pantomime I’ve ever seen, complete with swooning. “Please tell me you’re going to be on Page Six by tomorrow. Please.”
I shrug but can’t hold back a grin. “If this goes how I think, probably yes.”
She squeals again, then grabs my phone out of my hand.
“Let’s take a selfie. I want to remember the exact moment before your life explodes.
” She holds the phone up, angling us so both our faces fit in the shot.
Her hair looks perfect. I look like someone who hasn’t slept in three weeks. “Say ‘restraining order!’” she crows.
“You’re an idiot,” I mumble, but the corners of my mouth betray me again. Even Mom chuckles.
She tucks the phone back into my hand, then sobers up for a second, which in Isla-time feels like an eternity. “You’re okay, though, right? I know you love the high-wire cases, but—”
“I’m fine,” I say, but she’s probably not buying it.
She pokes me in the arm. “You don’t have to be fine, you know. You can just be. That’s allowed. Even for you, Iron Lady.”
I bristle at the nickname, but also feel weirdly grateful. Sometimes it takes Isla-level ridiculousness to remind me I’m still a person, not just a legal meat grinder or Matthew’s punching bag.
“You know what this means right?” Isla says. “This calls for an emergency wardrobe intervention.”
“Excuse me?”
“Page Six is going to ship you with Hockey God the second they spot you. Those vultures will dissect every stitch you’re wearing.” She gestures at my gray blazer. “Your Brooks Brothers collection isn’t going to cut it.”
I glance down at my court-appropriate attire. “These are Tahari.”
“Exactly my point. We need something that says, ‘I can destroy you in court while looking fabulous doing it.’” She flips her blonde hair and all I can do is roll my eyes at her.
“I don’t think I’ll have time to shop. This case is wild, believe me.”
“Oh, I bet it is,” she says and bites her underlip. “God, please, ask him if I can do an interview one day. Please.”
“Okay, wild cat, for now you don’t say a word to anyone. When it’s media official, you’re the first with the spicy details, okay? I try to do what I can.”
She sighs. “Okay.”
My phone chirps, and I realize with a jolt that I haven’t checked it for nearly half an hour.
Shit. Something about Isla’s hurricane-force personality always pulls me completely out of my orbit.
As predicted, I have thirty-six unread e-mails, four missed calls from the firm, and one e-mail from Colton:
Let me know when we are allowed to talk.
—C
I type back, “We’ll need to prep ASAP. I’ll call you in an hour.
” Then, out of habit, I scroll through a few tabloid sites just to see if the story’s broken yet.
Nothing. But the clock is ticking. The court’s set the emergency hearing.
Three days from now. The judge granted temporary custody to Colton until then, but we’ll need to pull more all-nighters to be ready.
Mom’s forehead creases. “Honey, you’ve gone white as a sheet. What’s wrong?”
“Yep. Total ghost mode,” Isla adds.
But I’m already on my feet, snatching Mom’s tote with the banana bread or chicken leftover or whatever. “Duty calls. I’ll update you both later!” I call over my shoulder, half-jogging toward the door, keys already jangling in my hand.
Isla’s loud voice follows me out the door, something about emergency online shopping and outfits she’ll deliver to my doorstep that will “make the hockey god sweat in his penalty box.”
I pretend not to hear.