Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Teresa
By the time Friday evening settles over the city, I’m already running later than I intended.
Not late, late. Not enough for anyone to be annoyed.
But later than I like, which means I end up standing in front of my bathroom mirror with one earring in, the other still on the counter, trying to decide whether I look like a woman going out to celebrate her friend’s engagement or a woman who has forgotten how to be a person outside of work.
It has been another long week.
A full one. Patient appointments, two court-related evaluations, paperwork that seemed determined to multiply every time I turned around, and one late-night consultation call that dragged me out of bed just as I was drifting off.
By this point, I’m more accustomed to slacks, blouses, and practical shoes than anything fun.
Tonight, though, is not practical.
Tonight is for Nina.
Nina has been one of my closest friends since my fellowship years, and last Sunday her boyfriend proposed on a rooftop in Hoboken with champagne, string lights, and what sounds like an offensively expensive ring.
She has been glowing ever since, which I say with love and only a tiny amount of irritation.
So tonight, the three of us are going out to celebrate. Nina, me, and Camille, who I know will ask at least twenty invasive questions about the proposal, and then pretend she is embarrassed by herself afterward.
By the time I finish getting ready, I feel almost unfamiliar to myself.
I’m wearing a black dress that skims close through the waist and hips before falling to just above my knees. Simple at first glance, but the fabric is soft and fitted in a way that makes it more dramatic once it’s on.
The neckline dips low enough to be flattering without being reckless, and the thin straps leave my shoulders bare. I leave my hair down, dark waves brushed loose over my back and one shoulder, and trade my everyday bag for a smaller black clutch with a gold chain strap.
The heels are black too—strappy, with a narrow heel high enough to change the way I walk the second I put them on. Heels are a bit of a weakness for me. I can only wear practical ones at work, so I like to indulge a bit on nights out, though they don’t happen very often.
When I catch my reflection before leaving, I look taller, sleeker, more polished than I usually do at the end of a workweek.
More woman. Less doctor.
It feels nice, so, despite being a bit late, I walk out of the house in a good mood.
By the time the Uber drops me off at the restaurant—at Nina’s insistence because “no one stays sober at my proposal celebration!”—the sky is a deepening blue, and the outdoor patio is full.
The place sits on a lively corner downtown, one of those restaurants that manages to feel festive without being too chaotic.
Strings of warm lights are draped overhead, casting a soft gold glow across the patio.
Planters overflow at the edges of the seating area, and at the far end, beneath a small awning, a three-piece band is playing live music—guitar, upright bass, and a woman with a smoky voice doing jazz standards with enough energy to keep the whole place humming.
It’s crowded in the best possible way. Glasses clinking. People laughing. Servers weaving between tables with trays balanced high. The air smells like grilled seafood, garlic, citrus, and summer, even though it’s not quite summer yet.
Nina waves the second she spots me.
“There she is,” she says as I reach the table. “You look hot. Annoying.”
Camille turns in her chair and puts a hand over her chest. “Wow. Okay. Teresa came to remind us all that even professionals can let those babies out to breathe every once in a while.”
I laugh and lean down to hug them both. “My boobs appreciate it.”
“So do half the people here,” Camille says. “Sit down. We ordered a bottle already.”
Nina shoves her left hand halfway into my face before I’ve even settled into my chair. “Did you look at it in the light yet?”
“I have now,” I say.
The ring catches the patio lights and throws them back. It is, in fact, offensively expensive.
And even though we’ve both seen it multiple times already, we do the obligatory ooh-ing and ahh-ing over it.
“Oh my God,” Camille says for what is probably the eighth time tonight. “I’m still not over it.”
“I hope not,” Nina says, beaming.
A server appears, and we all place our orders. The band drifts into a slower song. Around us, the whole patio seems bouncy, bright with Friday-night energy, and for the first time all week, I feel myself unclench a little.
This is good, I think. This is what normal people do.
I listen as Nina retells the proposal story, this time with hand gestures and additional detail. Camille interrupts every few seconds to demand specifics.
“What exactly did he say before he got on one knee?”
“Where exactly was the photographer hiding?”
“Did you ugly cry immediately or only after the ring?”
“I did not ugly cry,” Nina says.
“You ugly cry at allergy commercials.”
“It was elegant crying.”
I laugh into my wine.
And for a while, it’s easy. The conversation rolls from the proposal to wedding ideas to whether Nina will become one of those terrifying women who suddenly care about napkin fabric and imported peonies.
The food comes—charred octopus for the table, crisp truffle fries, pasta with shrimp and lemon for me—and the music shifts livelier as the patio fills even more.
I’m having a good time.
A really good time.
Enough that when Camille says, “Teresa, if you ever get married, I need at least six months to emotionally prepare,” I actually smile instead of dodging the question with my usual clinical efficiency.
“That would require me to date someone first.”
“A minor detail,” Nina says.
“It is not a minor detail. It is, in fact, the central detail.”
Camille lifts her glass. “To Teresa. Beautiful, brilliant, emotionally unavailable.”
“I am not emotionally unavailable.”
Both of them just look at me.
I sigh. “Fine. Selective.”
They laugh, and I do too.
With the wine warm in my chest and music drifting through the evening air and my friends grinning across the table at me, something small and uneasy tugs at me.
I turn and look around and see nothing. Try to shrug it off. But the feeling stays with me.
At first, I think it’s just the crowd.
There are a lot of people on the patio. A lot of movement. A lot of faces turning, servers passing, couples arriving, chairs scraping, shadows shifting at the edge of the sidewalk. It would be easy to mistake all of that for something it isn’t.
Still, twice within ten minutes, I glance up for no good reason except the distinct feeling that someone is looking at me.
The first time, I find nothing. Just a man at the bar laughing too loudly and a woman near the hostess stand checking her phone.
The second time, I catch a table of four women in bright dresses taking a group selfie.
No one is watching me.
I take another sip of wine and tell myself to settle down.
Maybe it’s because I’m dressed up and out somewhere busier than my usual routine. Maybe I’m just aware of myself in a way I haven’t been for a while—the dress, the heels, the attention that comes with looking like I made an effort.
The heels really are good, though.
I stretch one leg slightly beneath the table, glancing down for a second. Thin black straps cross over my foot and circle my ankle, elegant and sexy under the tablecloth. My calves ache a little already, which is the price of vanity, and I accept it.
“You okay?” Nina asks.
I look up. “Of course. Why?”
“You keep scanning the crowd.”
Do I?
I hadn’t realized it was noticeable.
I force a small smile. “Occupational hazard.”
Camille points a fry at me. “That is your answer for everything weird.”
“It’s often true.”
“You think someone here is plotting a felony over burrata?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Nina studies me for a second longer, then her expression eases. “You sure?”
“Yes,” I say, and mostly I mean it.
Because I don’t know what this is.
I only know that the feeling persists. That strange prickling awareness between my shoulder blades. Not fear, exactly. Not enough for that. Just the repeated, stubborn sense that attention keeps landing on me from somewhere I can’t identify.
It’s not the first time either. I’ve been feeling like this for weeks.
At first, I brushed it off as part of the job. Of course, I work with violent offenders all day, every day. But I’ve been doing it for years, and I can’t recall feeling like this any other time.
The band starts another song, faster this time, and applause breaks out across the patio as people get up and dance.
A breeze moves through, lifting my hair off my shoulders and carrying the smell of citrus and grilled meat and someone’s expensive cologne from a nearby table.
Candlelight flickers in the little glass holder between us.
Nina is talking about venues now, and Camille is already campaigning for a live band and an open bar, and I make myself listen.
Make myself laugh in the right places. Make myself stay in the moment.
I am here with my friends.
It is Friday evening.
I am wearing a dress and heels instead of work clothes.
I am eating good food, drinking wine, and celebrating something happy.
Nothing is wrong.
Even so, a few minutes later, I glance toward the street again.
The patio railing separates us from the sidewalk, where people keep passing in loose groups, silhouettes moving through the wash of light from nearby storefronts. Cars roll by slowly due to the crowd, music pulsing faintly from one of them before it turns the corner and disappears.
There is nothing there.
And yet my skin doesn’t get the message.
By dessert, I’ve decided I’m being ridiculous.
That has to be the answer.