5. Xavier
5
XAVIER
W hen Grayson pitched the emotional abuse angle for our counterclaim, my stomach dropped. Not because I didn’t think it would work, but because I knew it would.
Someone who’s been in this business as long as I have, who came into it for the fucked up reasons I did, can spot the hallmarks of abuse from a mile away. And when you’re really good, like I am, you can distinguish between the different types just by observing the person who survived it.
When it’s physical, the client exhibits a heart breaking kind of hypervigilance, alarmingly aware of every move you make, flinching when you reach out to shake their hand, shrinking when you come near them to make themselves a smaller target.
When it’s financial, it’s more subtle. The client does odd things, like offering explanations you didn’t ask for, and don’t need, about every purchase, no matter how big or small. They berate themselves for buying a new outfit for court, call a cup of coffee a splurge and carry around cash to hide purchases from partners who monitor their bank accounts too closely.
And when it’s emotional, the client wears the abuse like a second skin. It manifests in self-deprecating thoughts and nasty comments they aim at themselves and no one else. It lives behind their eyes, stealing light and joy as the abuser’s words poison them from the inside out, shredding their self-esteem, robbing them of every morsel of their self-worth until they’re nothing but an empty shell of internalized hatred and negativity.
The moment Grayson walked into my office, I knew she fell into the latter category. With any other client, I would have immediately latched on to that, skillfully, but maybe a little tactlessly, convincing them to use it in their counterclaim. With any other client, I wouldn’t have spent days trying to find a new angle to spare them the pain of reliving the abuse. With any other client, I wouldn’t have gone home sick to my stomach and flirting with the idea of murder on the day she sat down and told me the full story, raw and unfiltered in her recounting of the years of manipulation that started in high school when that fucking scumbag fucked her in secret but refused to love her out loud.
My hand turns into a fist at the thought, and a renewed sense of hatred for Brian Lucas surges through me. I want to destroy him, not just legally, because I will do that, but physically. No, biologically, I want to rid the planet of his existence, wipe his DNA from humanity’s ledger, obliterate his essence from the cosmos so that when Grayson looks up at the sky, it’s all new. An entire world for her to thrive in that’s untouched by him. I close my eyes and push out a breath through my nose as I move forward in the short line for popcorn, exhaling all the anger I can’t do anything with, and inhaling the soothing scent of melted butter and salt.
The movie theater on a random weekday in the middle of the afternoon is my favorite place to be when the thoughts in my head get to be too much. Lately, that’s more often than not. Ever since seeing Brian towering over Grayson in the courthouse parking lot a few weeks ago, I’ve been here once a week, using popcorn and the guaranteed happily ever afters of movies I won’t ever admit to watching to distract myself from the things out of my control. I had thought filing the counterclaim today would help quiet my mind, but I was wrong. As soon as Mara texted to say that everything had been submitted, my mind started to race. Thoughts of all the ways Brian might retaliate against Grayson making it impossible for me to focus for the rest of the day.
“I knew you’d be back,” Jada, the theater employee who’s always working when I come in, says when I make it to the concession stand. “What are we seeing today?”
One of my favorite things about The Reel—the boutique, Black owned, theater that plays a mix of old and new movies—is that they still do ticketed sales. I love the feeling of holding the paper in your hand, of having something tangible to remember the experience by. I don’t know how or why, but it always makes it feel more real to me.
“The Sanaa Lathan double feature,” I tell her, holding up the ticket as proof.
She nods her approval. “Love and Basketball and Brown Sugar, good choice. And what food items are we pairing our movies with?”
“My usual.”
“Medium classic popcorn and a small coke,” she recites, tapping the computer screen in front of her to ring me up.
“Classic is so boring,” a soft, husky voice says from behind me. I turn in surprise, recognizing the sultry lilt before I even see Grayson’s face. Her posture is relaxed, her heart-shaped face free of makeup and her curves hidden by the oversized, black hoodie she’s wearing that’s more for comfort than fashion. She’s paired it with soft, black leggings and a pair of sneakers that effortlessly contribute to the monochromatic look I’ve come to expect from her.
Usually, I never feel weird about coming to the movies in my work clothes because no one but Jada is ever around to judge me, but standing in front of Grayson, who looks so casual and relaxed, makes me a bit self conscious because some sick part of me wants to look like I belong with her. Shaking that thought off, I search for a response that will strike the same playful chord her opener did.
I tilt my head to the side and give her a half smile. “I think you pronounced amazing wrong.”
Her laugh is a soft sprinkle of warmth and humor that hits me right in the gut. “No, words like amazing are reserved for popcorn flavors like churro or truffle Parmesan.”
“She’s not wrong,” Jada chirps.
I throw her a wounded look over my shoulder. “Oh, so you’re just going to turn on me like that?”
Jada holds up both hands in mock surrender and takes a step back from the register. “Don’t shoot. I mean, no shade to the classic, but the churro is superb. A fan favorite, if you will.”
“Sure, but popcorn is supposed to be savory, not sweet.”
“The churro is both,” Grayson says, stepping up beside me so the smell of popcorn in my nostrils has now been replaced with the sweet, spicy notes of her perfume. Vanilla, lavender, ginger and coco. I turn the words over in my head again and again, using them to ground me and quell my reaction to her proximity. We haven’t been this close in weeks, not since I toed the line of appropriateness when I touched her in the parking lot, and I don’t quite know what to do with my hands because they want to touch her again.
This time just for the pleasure of it, not to protect but to feel, to explore.
Because that’s completely appropriate.
Once again, I have to force myself out of my head and into reality where Grayson is now leaning on the counter, chatting with Jada like they’re old friends. For all I know, they could be. It occurs to me then that I know nothing about Grayson outside her relationship with Brian and the few snippets of herself she’s shared about her mom, aunts, and cousins. I don’t know what she likes to do for fun or how she relaxes after a hard day. All I know are her hardships and ugly truths, and what I want is the quiet whisper of the things that bring her joy.
“Can I get a coke and a medium popcorn as well? Half churro, half truffle Parm,” she says, reaching into her purse to dig out her card.
I place a staying hand over hers, putting an end to her search. “I got it.”
“Oh, no, Xavier, I can’t let you—” she protests, but it’s too late because I’ve already tapped my card against the reader. Jada smirks as she leaves the counter to fix our orders, and we move over to the side to wait for them.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I pluck napkins from the holder in front of us, enough for two people with three different kinds of popcorn between us, and Grayson grabs straws for our drinks. It doesn’t escape my notice that we came here separately but have both silently accepted that we’ll be going through the rest of this experience together.
“Do you come here a lot?” I ask, immediately cringing at the way the question sounds like a cheesy pick up line.
The corners of Grayson’s eyes crease, and she tries to fight it, but soon a laugh that’s completely at my expense passes between her lips. I like her laugh. I like her laugh a lot.
“Yeah, I heard it as soon as it came out of my mouth,” I tell her, chuckling along with her.
“ Come here often? ” She giggles at her awful attempt to emulate my voice, and I shake my head, enjoying seeing her this silly, this free.
“It was a genuine question.”
“I know. I know. And I’m awful for laughing. I’m sorry.”
“You know? I don’t think you are.”
She presses her lips together and pushes out several calming breaths through her nose. “Okay, okay. I’m done now.”
I arch a brow. “You sure?”
She nods, wiping a tear from her eye before meeting my gaze. “Sorry. I really needed a laugh after therapy today.”
The first time she mentioned she was seeing a therapist to me, there was a bit of shame wrapped around the letters of the word. It’s not there today, though, and I’m glad about that, glad to know that she isn’t judging herself for needing help to heal.
My shoulders rise and fall in a show of genuine nonchalance. “You don’t have to apologize, Hart. I’m happy to be a source of amusement for you, especially after a grueling therapy session.”
Something like confusion, and maybe genuine wonder, passes behind her eyes, and I can’t tell if it’s because of the way I’ve just used her last name or because of how mildly I’ve reacted to her laughing at me. After hearing all about how her future ex-husband had no problem making her the butt of his jokes but hated being the subject of hers, I know chances are it’s the latter. I don’t get to confirm whether my assumption is correct before Jada appears with our popcorn and drinks, though.
“Half churro, half truffle Parm,” she announces, sliding the tub towards Grayson. “And a classic,” she adds, aiming the second tub in my direction. Before Grayson can move, I scoop both of them up in my hands.
She gives me a playful roll of her eyes. “I guess I’ll get the drinks.”
“Enjoy, you two,” Jada singsongs, skipping back over to the register after giving Grayson the drinks.
With our items in hand, Grayson and I leave the lobby and begin making our way down the short hallway to the left that houses the smaller showing rooms.
“You are seeing the double feature, right?” I ask, slowing my strides so she doesn’t have to run to keep up with me. Grayson isn’t a short woman, and her legs are model long, but they’re still not as long as mine.
“Oh, yeah. I couldn’t pass up a chance to see my two favorite Sanaa movies in one sitting. That woman is so fine.”
“And has been fine my whole life,” I add, stepping back as we approach the theater door so she can go in first because I don’t want her to feel obligated to sit next to me. Apparently, like me, she’s here to decompress and relax, and I don’t want to impose.
“Right?! Every time I see her, she just looks better and better.”
I hum my agreement, trying and failing not to notice the way her hips sway as she gracefully maneuvers up the stairs, climbing to the top row, which is where I prefer to sit.
“I always like to sit in the middle,” Grayson explains, stopping right in the center of the row. She turns and looks up at me, auburn eyes bright and happy. “Is that okay with you?”
I should say no. I should hand over her popcorn, take my drink, and retreat to a different row, or maybe even a different theater, so that it doesn’t feel like I’m on a date with a client, but I don’t. I just stare at her for a moment, learning what joy looks like when it’s etched into her perfect features, and then I nod.
“Yeah, that’s good with me.”
We share popcorn and laughs; I hold Grayson’s hand when she gets emotional during the scene where Monica plays Quincy for his heart, and when both movies are over, and I know I should let her go, I ask her to share a meal with me. That’s how we end up in a booth in the back of the small diner a few doors down from The Reel.
Grayson’s knees bumping mine under the table.
My eyes trained on her face.
The food on my plate gone cold because I can’t stop looking at her long enough to eat.
“Just admit it, you liked the churro popcorn,” she teases, wiggling her brows at me.
“It was good,” I concede. “But it’s not better than the classic.”
“Okay, now you’re just flat out lying. Your hand was in my popcorn more than it was in yours.”
She’s not wrong. The cinnamon and sugar mixture on top of the already superior combination of butter and salt had caught me off guard. I tried it because she insisted, but I wasn’t expecting to like it, to keep going back for more, to playfully fight Grayson off when her fingers intertwined with mine as we both vied for the same kernel.
I shrug. “I was just helping you out, since you had two different flavors to eat.”
Her nose scrunches with disbelief. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”
“Are you sure you don’t want a box for you food, sweetheart?” Our waitress asks when she returns to the table with my card, two copies of the receipt and a pen.
I take everything from her and give her a smile. “Yes, ma’am, I’m sure. Thank you.”
“He’s all full off of churro popcorn,” Grayson tells her, which makes me laugh. Our server clearly doesn’t get the joke, and she gives us both a weird look as she walks away.
“Well, it’s official. We can never show our faces here again,” she murmurs, watching the older woman as she shuffles back to the kitchen.
Heaving a sigh, I purse my lips to feign disappointment as I sign the receipt. “Yeah, I think we’ll probably have to take your stand-up act on the road. Surely, we’ll find someone out there who understands jokes about varying popcorn flavors. We might need to tap into our connections in the movie theater circuit.”
Grayson snorts a laugh and watches me rise from my side of the booth. When I’m on my feet, I offer her my hand, which she takes without a bit of hesitation, allowing me to hold on to her until we’re out of the diner and back on the sidewalk.
“Where’d you park?” I look to the left and right, scanning the cars lining the road for any sign of her SUV and coming up empty.
She hooks a thumb over her shoulder, indicating the opposite direction from where I left my car. “A few blocks over.”
“Alright, let’s go.”
Her lips part, everything about her expression saying she’s about to say something like ‘you don’t have to do that,’ but I shake my head. “Remember what I told you at the courthouse, Hart? No more treks to your car alone.”
She tosses her head back and groans, spinning on her heel to face the direction we need to go. “Ugh, fine.”
We fall into step, and I place my hands in my pockets while Grayson folds her arms against her body to brace herself against the chilly, February wind whipping around us.
“Mara texted to say you guys have filed the counterclaim,” she says. “What happens next?”
The question about her case serves as a harsh, unwelcome reminder of the reality of who we are to each other. My reaction to it is so strong I almost give in to the urge to ask her if we can talk about this later, but I don’t.
“Next, the judge will ask us to do mediation to see if things can be sorted outside of court.”
“Brian won’t go for that. Not after he reads the counterclaim.”
“I know.”
“So we’ll have a failed mediation, and then what?”
I glance at her, studying the stoic lines of her profile. “Then we’ll go to trial.”
Grayson presses her lips together and nods slowly. I’ve noticed that’s what she does when she’s processing information. “And how long will that take?”
“There are a lot of factors at play when it comes to setting a trial date. The number of cases on the judge’s docket. The temperature of his coffee the morning of the ask, whether he won his weekly poker game the night before. I’m hoping Bernard will throw some of his weight around and get the process expedited in an attempt to fuck with us.”
As we approach her car, her steps slow, and she pulls out her keys. “Why would you want him to do that? Wouldn’t it be better for us if we had more time?”
“Yeah, but it’ll be better for you if you’re free of him sooner rather than later.”
It’s a quiet, urgent confession that leaves me in a whisper and washes over Grayson in a soft wave. Several emotions skate across her features, and before I can catalog or name them, she’s crashing into me. Her body soft and insistent as it sinks into mine. I wrap her in my arms, desperate to hold her, to grasp this fleeting moment that I know will end too soon.
“Thank you,” she whispers, rising up on her tiptoes to press a gentle kiss to my cheek. I don’t get the chance to respond, or react, because she’s gone just as quickly as she came. I watch her rush to her car, missing the heat of her, wishing in that moment I’d been anything or anyone but her lawyer because then I could have kissed her back.