Chapter 17 #2
I shrug. “I like to read. Sometimes you can use phrases and pretend to be smarter than you are.”
That gets me a real smile—small—but genuine. She settles back against my side, and I cautiously return my arm to her shoulders. This time, it feels less like an emergency comfort and more like a choice.
“I should be at work,” she murmurs after a while. “I missed a meeting.”
I say nothing, letting her talk through it.
“I’ve never called in sick. Not once in four years.” She picks at a loose thread on her skirt. “Even when I had that flu last winter and was running a fever of 102.”
“Maybe today is good day to start then,” I suggest. “Sometimes your body needs rest. Sometimes your mind does.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. “If I call in sick, Benjamin will know something’s wrong.”
“So? People get sick and there’s something wrong. You can admit it. No one’s life is perfect.”
“I don’t need days off.” She says it with such conviction that I almost laugh.
“Believe me, even the Iron Lady needs days off,” I tell her. “Otherwise she breaks, and coming back from that is harder than you’d think, let me tell you.”
She looks up at me, startled. “What did you call me?”
I feel heat rise to my face. “It’s what they call you, no? At the courthouse. Iron Lady.”
“How do you know that?”
“Hockey players talk in locker room. Lawyers talk in the courthouse halls. I listen.”
She laughs, a real laugh this time. “So, I’m courthouse gossip among the jocks now?”
“Only good gossip,” I assure her. “They told me not to mess with you. That you will destroy me with one eyebrow raise.’”
“One eyebrow raise, huh?” She demonstrates, arching a beautiful eyebrow in my direction.
I clutch my chest dramatically. “Yes, like that. It actually hurts just looking at it.”
Her laugh this time is freer, almost childlike. It transforms her face, erasing years of careful composure. She reaches for her phone again, but not to check Matthew’s messages.
“I’m calling in sick,” she announces, dialing before she can change her mind.
I watch as she puts on her professional voice, explaining to someone named Susan that she won’t be in again today. The transformation is impressive—even her posture changes as she speaks.
When she hangs up, she falls back against the bed with a theatrical sigh. “I did it. The world didn’t end.”
“Very brave,” I say with mock seriousness. “Very courageous.”
She elbows me lightly in the ribs. “Don’t make fun of me. This is a big deal.”
“I know.” And I do know. I recognize the weight of breaking a pattern—how it feels both terrifying and freeing at once.
We sit in comfortable silence, her body warm against mine.
“Thank you,” she finally says. “For coming when I called. For dealing with Matthew. For... this.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” She props herself up on her elbows. “Most people would have walked away when I called crying. Especially considering our history.”
I meet her gaze. “That was a long time ago. We were different people.”
“Were we? Or are we just seeing each other clearly for the first time?”
“I guess we are…” I flick her nose. “But I like what I see.”
“Me too.”
Jenna suggests we watch something and order food, and that’s how I end up on her couch with a box of pizza between us and a movie neither of us is really paying attention to.
She eventually changed into something more comfortable—sweats and a loose top—even though she made a whole point about how inappropriate that is around me.
I did try to fix it by telling her that sweats are basically my work uniform.
I’m not sure it helped, but since she did change, I’ll call it a win. I want her to relax, and honestly, she still looks… gorgeous. In that effortless way that somehow makes the situation even worse.
But I don’t usually do this. Junk food isn’t exactly part of an athlete’s routine. Our bodies are our jobs, which means clean eating, discipline, all that fun stuff. But it’s off-season, and like I told her, my brain deserves a break too.
Still, I make sure to sit at a very respectable, definitely intentional, distance from her.
For reasons.
“I haven’t watched anything that wasn’t a deposition video in weeks,” I say, taking a bite of my salami pizza like I haven’t just broken at least three of my own rules.
“That is very sad,” she says. “I could never. I love movies and tv-shows.”
“I can tell, I’ve never seen anyone have each streaming platform there is in the world.”
“Well, because you don’t know normal people.”
“Back to being feisty, huh? I guess that’s a good sign.”
While she navigates through streaming services, I take the opportunity to really look at her apartment.
It’s nicer than I remembered, or maybe I was just too nervous the last time to take it in—high ceilings, large windows, brick walls, good natural light.
But there’s something impersonal about it, like a display in a furniture store.
No photos on walls, no personal touches except for a small shelf of law books and what looks like a college diploma partially hidden behind a tall plant that’s seen better days.
It’s like no one cared to turn this place into home.
We eat and watch a movie she picked—I guess it’s a romcom, something easy to follow even if you don’t pay attention.
I simply nodded when she asked if the one she picked was fine with me.
But there’s an awareness between us… of the space where we touch and don’t touch, of the strange intimacy of watching something together in her apartment with Matthew so recently removed from it.
I’m conscious of my size next to her, trying to make myself smaller, less imposing.
“You can relax,” she says after a few minutes, noticing my stiff posture. “I don’t bite.”
“In a courtroom, you bite very hard,” I reply with a small smile.
She laughs, and it’s a problem how much I like it.
“That’s different,” she says. “That’s work me.”
“Right,” I murmur, like that clears things up, which it absolutely does not.
I shove the pizza box aside and attempt to look casual.
Keyword: attempt. I end up stretched out in a weird half-lounging position, propped up on one elbow like I’ve never encountered a couch before in my life.
It’s deeply embarrassing. I feel like I’m seventeen again, on a first date, except—important distinction—this is not a date.
Which somehow makes it worse.
“It should be work,” she adds, tucking her legs under herself. “But I guess we ruined that. I don’t usually call or text clients. It’s e-mails only.”
“We knew each other before, though,” I point out, because that feels like a valid defense.
She snorts. “I hated you.”
“Harsh.”
“It’s accurate.”
Well, I called her a bitch at some point too. I don’t say that of course.
“And now?” I tilt my head. “You done being a brat?”
“If you’re asking whether I still hate you…” She pretends to think about it, tapping her chin. “Not as much.”
“Fine. I’ll take the win.”
A beat passes. The movie keeps playing. A woman is crying and I have no idea who she is or why she would be crying.
“Colton,” she says eventually, turning toward me. She crosses her arms beneath her chest. It lifts her boobs in a way I really shouldn’t be noticing. “What do you even do to relax? You don’t watch movies, you eat like a nutrition label, and you read. That’s not fun.”
“Reading is fun,” I say.
“Sure. But what do you read?”
I hesitate, which is already incriminating. “Mostly nonfiction. But sometimes… mysteries.”
Her eyes narrow. “Sometimes?”
“Rarely.”
“Wow,” she deadpans. “You’re thrilling.”
I nudge her side. “I just have a lot going on.”
Which is more than true.
I don’t mention the rest. Not the nights spent sitting in my car, stalking my ex. Not the constant angst I feel that she’d leave my baby alone again and again. Not the constant, low-grade tension that never really leaves my body. Not the fact that relaxing hasn’t felt natural in a long time.
I just shrug instead.
“It’s off-season,” I add. “Figured I could pretend to be normal for a bit.”
And somehow the night just… slips into conversation.
One topic turns into another, and suddenly we’re talking about everything—what we like, what we can’t stand, the small, random things that shouldn’t matter but somehow do.
I can’t remember the last time I learned this much about someone without it being a date.
She works too much. Eats way too much junk food. Runs on coffee. Loves Marvel and Disney. Her childhood wasn’t easy, but she doesn’t say it like she wants sympathy. Just… like it’s a fact. And if she could, she’d go to the cinema once a week without fail.
We just keep talking.
Until her voice slows.
Until her head tips slightly toward me.
Until she falls asleep.
And just like that, the night goes quiet.
I stay there a moment longer than I should, listening to her breathe, like moving too soon might break something.
Then my phone buzzes and reality pulls me back. It’s Mom, telling me to come home. God, it got late.
I ease off the couch carefully, making sure not to wake her, grab my things, and lock the door behind me when I leave.
Before I step out, I send her a quick text—telling her the key is in her mailbox.