12. Sawyer
Sawyer
It’s just a class. I’ve been in plenty of classes before. I may have dressed in a shirt Mom would call a blouse, and ironed my jeans, but this is no different than any classes I took a few years ago.
Stop making a huge deal.
I pull into the community college lot, and double-check which building my first class is in, trying to find a spot as close as I can. The sun is scorching today, and there’s not a cloud in sight to dull its full wrath.
Lucky for me, the place is pretty dead with it being summer, and I find one right near the entrance. I grab my backpack and water bottle and get out of the car before I change my mind.
This place looks the same as it did years ago. The same brick buildings, the same faded signage, the same vending machines that steal your money. It’s all so familiar, it’s jarring.
I was young and falling apart last time I walked this campus, and now I’m older and still falling apart just in a different way. I’m nothing if not predictable.
I think about the irony of it the entire way to my second story classroom, where I find a seat in the back by the window.
There’s already a few students in here. None of them dressed as formal as me.
And why would they be? It’s a million degrees outside and I chose jeans and a dry-clean only blouse.
The room fills over the next ten minutes. Most people look to be around my age or older and that helps my chest loosen. There’s another blouse wearer…but she’s at least forty. Whatever, it’s still oddly comforting.
The instructor is a small woman, maybe five feet tops, with short curly hair and reading glasses around her neck. She has this resilient energy that I clock right away, like she’s seen and survived some shit.
She writes her name on the whiteboard in capital letters, IRENE LANEY, then turns and tells us that she practiced family law for twelve years before she burned out and decided she’d rather teach people how to fight than keep fighting herself.
I like her immediately.
She spends the first twenty minutes on an overview.
Things like what a paralegal does, what the program covers, what it doesn’t.
I take notes on my laptop. Then she starts walking us through different areas of law with a PowerPoint presentation, touching on each type with a few bullet points.
Criminal, civil, corporate, personal injury.
“Wrongful death,” she says, her tone casual as she clicks to the next slide.
“Most people hear that and think of slips and falls or surgeries gone wrong, but wrongful death is everywhere. A defective product. A negligent driver. A structure that wasn’t built to code.
” She pauses and looks around the room. “Some of you may have seen a case like this in the news recently. The Wonder World accident upstate earlier this summer is actually a textbook example of how wrongful death claims intersect with corporate negligence when a third party is—”
I don’t hear the rest.
There’s a sound in my ears, like someone’s flipped on a white noise machine.
And this low steady pressure behind my eyes is the same feeling I get right before a migraine is about to destroy my entire day.
I stare at the slide projected on the board and I’m aware that I’m frozen, that I’m breathing too fast, that I’m squeezing my hands together tight.
But I can’t force myself to stop.
She doesn’t know I’m a survivor of that accident. She can’t know. It’s just a class and she’s teaching. She’s not being cruel…
Someone taps my arm.
I flinch but turn and find the woman next to me watching me with kind eyes, her brows drawn just a touch.
She looks a few years older than me or maybe she just comes across as having her shit together at first glance.
Her hair is dark and curly, and she has olive skin, a Roman-looking nose, and the thickest natural eyelashes I’ve ever seen.
And of course she’s not wearing a frilly blouse.
She’s actually wearing black scrub pants and a hoodie, which I’d guess is covering a scrub top.
She mouths, Are you okay?
I exhale, realizing I probably look completely out of it to have a random stranger notice and reach out.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Sorry.”
She shakes her head like I have nothing to apologize for. I turn back to the lecture just as Irene hands a stack of papers to a student in the front to pass out. And suddenly, a green Jolly Rancher appears on my desk.
I look back and find her nudging toward it with her chin. “It’ll help.”
I unwrap it and stick it in my mouth, giving her a tight smile.
It does help.
She turns back to pay attention and I try to do the same.
I get most of the second half of the lecture. Lots of useful information about criminal versus civil cases. Why family law is more difficult than you’d imagine. Irene has a lot to say on that.
The Wonder World comment is still a low hum in the back of my mind, but it’s manageable.
By the time the Jolly Rancher is no more than a sliver on my tongue, Irene’s saying she’ll see us on Thursday and to log in for our first assignment. I pack up my laptop and move toward the door. My desk neighbor stops behind me and taps my shoulder.
“I’m Gianna.” She extends a hand and I shake it. “But everyone calls me Gia. Want to grab a coffee before the next class?”
I stare at her for five solid seconds, taken aback. It’s just been so long since someone’s been this upfront and friendly toward me, that I’ve forgotten how to be social.
“Hi.” I clear my throat. “Sawyer. I’m—” I wave at her. Why the hell did wave at her? “Sure. I’d like that.”
She nods with a smile, ignoring my social ineptitude, and I lead the way toward the small Starbucks in the student center.
“I’m surprised I still remember where it is,” I say, trying to avoid awkward silences.
“Were you a student here before?”
We turn down a hallway lined with framed photos of important alumni and staff. “Yeah, but it’s been a few years.”
“Nice,” she says. “I moved here a few months ago from the city. Still getting used to it.”
And that’s why she doesn’t know I’m a pariah.
I gesture toward her scrubs. “Are you a nurse?”
Her brows crinkle, but then she sees where I’m looking. “Oh, the scrubs. No. Not really. I’m a caregiver for this rich old lady in town. She prefers that I wear scrubs and I don’t put up a fight. I’d rather not change bedpans in my own clothes.”
“I’d feel the same way,” I say with a small laugh.
She nods toward my outfit. “You’d definitely want scrubs if you dress like that everyday.”
My face heats. Why the hell did I pick this outfit?
“Oh—I—uh, actually—”
“I’m messing with you,” she says, nudging my shoulder with hers. “You must be sweating, though.”
“I really am.”
“There’s a bathroom on the way if you want to ditch the blouse.”
“Sadly, I don’t have anything under it.”
“Ah.” She considers this. “Guess you’re shit out of luck.”
I laugh again, and it’s easier this time. I think the first one loosened the knots in my chest.
The Starbucks is mostly empty, just a bored barista and a guy half asleep over his laptop in the corner. We order iced coffees and find a spot at the counter along the window, our cups between us.
“So what brought you back?” Gia asks.
I think about how to answer that. The honest version is too long and complicated. She doesn’t need to know about the accident and Owen and my family history. “Needed a new direction,” I finally say. “Law’s always pulled at me. This felt like the least terrifying entry point.”
She nods, and I’m grateful she doesn’t ask for more.
“I picked paralegal because my last old lady got really sick and I watched her family steamroll each other over her estate. I wished I could have done more to help carry out her wishes. Plus, I figure if I’m going to be in the room for all the conversations, I might as well know what they’re talking about. ”
“That makes a ton of sense.”
She leans in. “And I’m tired of wiping asses.”
“Yeah,” I say with a laugh. “I’d have to get paid an exorbitant amount of money to do that unless it was for someone I loved. Like, I mean loved A LOT.”
Gia points at me. “Exactly. And Miriam is lovely, but she’s not that lovely.”
“Miriam’s the woman you work for?”
“Miriam is eighty-three, has a PhD in art history, and an opinion about everything.” She pauses to take a sip. “I actually do love her a lot. But the ass wiping still requires compensation.”
I’m laughing again. It keeps catching me off guard, how easy it comes out around her.
She stirs her coffee with the straw. “What do you do? Besides this.”
“Front desk at the Ashford Inn.”
“Hotel work is brutal,” she says. “People are their worst selves when they travel.”
“You get used to it.” I wrap both hands around my cup. “Or maybe you just get very good at smiling through the bullshit. I don’t know which is worse.”
She nods in agreement. “How long have you worked there?”
“Too long,” I say. “But hopefully not forever.”
She raises her iced coffee like a toast. “To hopefully not forever.”
I tap mine against hers.
I make it through the entire week without a single disaster, which at this point in my life qualifies as a victory.
Four classes down. Notes taken, reading done, one case summary submitted before the deadline. When I finally close my laptop on Thursday night, I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time. Pride.
Gia texts me around nine, and it takes me a moment to stop cheese grinning. It’s been so long since I’ve had someone text me besides the person I’m trying to forget.
Gia: Miriam had her kids over today and I was able to leave there earlier than I thought.
Below the message she sends a meme image of this little creature-looking thing with a huge smile and its arms extended wide. I can just picture her laughing as she sent it.
Me: Yesss! That’s amazing!
Gia: Want to grab drinks tomorrow to celebrate our first week? I’m out of work at six.
That sounds so nice, I almost text my boss right this second to call out. But unfortunately, I won’t be able to eat or buy gas to drive anywhere if I don’t work.
Me: I wish I could! Have a shift tomorrow…weekends are the worst too.
Gia: Oh man…next time!
She sends a sad face emoji and I send one back and mean it more than she knows.
The next afternoon, I iron my work button-down shirt, which I only do when I’m trying to feel like I have my shit together, and head in.
It’s a slow shift, and I’m dying. Okay, maybe that’s dramatic.
When it’s busy, it’s physically demanding, but the hours fly by.
Slow means I’m standing at the desk with nothing to do but answer the occasional question and I find myself, repeatedly and against my will, glancing at the coffee station.
I hate that I keep doing that.
He’s not there and he’s not going to be there. I told him not to contact me and apparently Knox Aldrich, for once in his life, is listening. Why can’t I get that through my thick skull?
I chastise myself while I double-check the sugar packets and stirrers for the third time today. Still full, of course.
The next two hours are uneventful enough that I start reorganizing the key card drawer just to have something to do with my hands. I’m halfway through when the door opens.
A guy walks in—maybe thirty-ish years old.
He’s got a guitar case in one hand and a duffel over his shoulder.
His hair’s dark and past his chin, and his hands are covered in thick silver rings.
I take in his faded jeans, hugging thick thighs, and a worn in leather jacket unzipped over a black shirt.
He doesn’t look like Ashford at all.
That’s the first thing I notice.
The second is that his gaze is lingering on me longer than socially conventional.
And I don’t hate it.
I pull up his reservation, Cody Chambers, and go through the standard questions.
Room preferences, parking, anything he needs sent up.
He answers all of it without looking away from my face, which isn’t something hotel guests usually do.
They’re normally barely looking up from their phones, or continuing the conversation with whoever they walked in with.
I process his card and hand it back. Our fingers brush and I feel it everywhere.
Must just be static or something. Happens all the time.
“Is there a good place to eat nearby?” he asks, leaning an arm on the counter. “Not a chain.”
“Main Street Tavern. They do burgers. Beer. It’s—yeah, it’s good.” I slide his room key across the counter and swallow hard. “Or Marcello’s is good for pizza and pasta.”
“What would you pick?”
I roll my lip between my teeth. “I don’t know…I don’t really eat in town much.”
The corner of his mouth pulls up. “Humor me.”
He’s holding eye contact and weirdly it doesn’t feel aggressive…more like decisive. Like he’s the type of guy that takes his time with people and wants to genuinely hear what they have to say. I notice his brown eyes have specks of green in them and I can’t look away.
“Marcello’s,” I finally say. “The tavern’s loud and the menu hasn’t changed since 2010, which is either charming or depressing depending on your mood.” I pause as soon as I feel my cheeks heat. “I don’t know why I know that much about a bar I don’t go to or why I’m telling you all this.”
He smiles at me, and it doesn’t feel like a joke I’m not in on. It reaches his eyes.
“I like it,” he says. “Most people just point me toward the nearest Applebee’s and call it a day.”
“That would be a crime.”
“It really would.” He tilts his head. “So Marcello’s.”
“Marcello’s,” I confirm, and stop myself from rambling on about their homemade garlic knots or that it’s been family run for fifty years.
He picks up his guitar case and slings his duffel back over his shoulder. “What time do you get off?”
I know I should deflect. Rational Sawyer would give him some lie, tell him to have a great stay and send him on his way.
I glance toward the coffee station again and remember how I cried for days after seeing Knox last time.
How I’m trying to start fresh and that includes meeting new people.
And if those new people happen to be attractive, muscular musicians then so be it.
“Ten,” I say steadier than I feel. I can’t let on that I’m trying not to vomit from nerves.
“Is there a decent bar open late?”
“Yeah, but it’s a few minutes outside of town.” I straighten a stack of papers on the desk that don’t need straightening. “The Hideaway. It’s a dive bar.”
“Perfect, I’ll meet you here at ten.” His eyes stay on me, as he extends his hand. “I’m Cody, by the way.”
I smile because I already knew his name. He told me when he checked in.
His hand is calloused and strong and I try not to think of how it would feel dragging along my skin. “I’m Sawyer…and sure. I’ll get a drink with you.”
I watch him get onto the elevator and when the doors close behind him, I turn back to my desk. The phone rings and I grab it, smiling when I say, “Good evening! Ashford Inn.” My Fuck Knox Aldrich campaign is starting to get good.