Chapter 31
Chapter thirty-one
Ruth
The more I’ve fallen in love with life with Everett, the more I’m falling out of love with law—the one thing I always thought I could count on—and the more terrified I am of where my life is heading.
Being a lawyer is what I’ve wanted to do my whole life.
It’s what I’ve spent years—decades, even—of my thirty-two years working for.
It’s what I’ve spent thousands of pounds on, between tuition fees and books and registrations and external exams. It’s what I’ve studied and achieved qualifications for in two different countries.
It’s what my parents have spent even more time and money on, just to help me make it happen.
And now… am I really about to turn my back on it all?
To fail at the one thing I was supposed to excel at?
To quit, in spite of a secure job with great benefits and compensation, a job that is—for the most part—relatively easy for me?
What does it mean if I do that?
It makes me a failure.
A big, expensive, ungrateful, wasteful failure.
Because everyone around me has given everything to help me get here. Amie and Katy held my hands and supported me through that first year of university. We met Paloma a year later, and she held my hand through just about everything else. They’ve invested almost as much as I have.
What will they see when they look at me, when they find out what I’m doing? What I’m giving up?
And isn’t this exactly what I accused my parents of doing?
It’s not that I’m undervalued, or even underpaid.
Quite the opposite, honestly. Some days, there’s not a whole lot for me to do, and I still earn more than I ever dreamed of.
Trenton Langley respects my worth because I’ve demanded it of them over the years, and they value me—financially speaking—accordingly.
But I’m tired.
I’m tired of working outside of my remit as an IP lawyer.
I’m tired of working only to make rich men richer.
I’m tired of cleaning up messes that shouldn’t be my problem.
I’m tired of advising on the best course of action to avoid libel suits after a rich, white man said something inappropriate to the wrong people.
I’m just so angry at the world lately. Angry that people think it’s okay to say such blatantly untruthful, hateful, horrible things, and I’m even more angry that there are people who agree with them.
Who want those people in power. I’m angry, and I’m tired of being angry, and I’m tired of always being the one who has to pick up the pieces.
I’m tired of putting on a smile.
I deal with intellectual property, for Christ’s sake. And I’m good at it.
Even though I spend half of my time threatening innocent people with cease-and-desist letters and injunctions for infringements they haven’t made. For infringements we’ve made on their brand assets, and used our wealth and status to gaslight them.
I’m damn good at my job.
But I don’t know if it’s enough anymore.
A week after fighting with my brother and my best friend, and only a day after getting home from an impromptu trip to Texas, I wake up with the kind of oppressive, full-body headache I haven’t experienced since my early teens.
It’s worse than a tequila hangover, and I send a quick email from my phone to excuse myself from work before wrapping up in my duvet and rolling over again.
I sleep until sometime in the afternoon, when I wake to the sound of my phone buzzing on my bedside table.
When I check the screen, there are messages from Amie, Paloma, and Everett, and then, as if he knew my phone were in my hand, my brother’s face fills the screen.
It buzzes and stops almost immediately as I jab a finger at the cancel call button.
Minutes later, it buzzes again with a voicemail notification, and I can’t help myself.
My brother’s voice fills the room as I play the message on speakerphone.
“Come on, Roo. Don’t be like this, please.
” He pauses, and I imagine him sighing, rubbing a hand over the beard he’s started to grow out now he’s left the army.
It was surprisingly soft when he kissed me on the cheek a week or two ago, and I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the memory of his fresh, eucalyptus-scented shampoo and the bright, woodsy cologne he’s worn since his late teens.
“We both love you, Rooey. Please call me.”
The line between love and hate is thin. I’ve always believed you can’t hate someone without loving them too.
Amie and Everett were right when they tried to talk me down, but there’s still so much anger and pain in my heart.
I can’t bring myself to be calm and talk to my brother right now, or to Katy.
I miss them desperately, but I don’t trust myself not to push them even further away.
And right now, I just want to scream.
I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.
I hate me.
I put my phone into do not disturb mode, silencing all calls, just as one more missed call notification flashes up. I listen to the last voicemail.
“I miss you, Roo. Don’t let this ruin us.”
I miss you, too.