Chapter 8
Tuesday evening, there’s a Harvard Law social at Bowery Line—a trendy bar not far from Midtown and the Financial District. I debate not attending right up until I enter the industrial, dimly lit space, beleaguered from a busy weekend in the Hamptons.
Naomi Gallagher, my closest classmate for the past three years, is the main reason I’m here.
Despite us living in the same city again, the only time we’ve seen each other since graduation was at the bar exam.
Naomi spent the first half of the summer home in North Carolina to study.
Now that the exam is behind us, she’s back to start her judicial clerkship in the Eastern District.
My phone buzzes while I’m standing in line to check in.
The text is from Naomi, letting me know she’s stuck in traffic.
She’s driving since her boyfriend, Nathan, is flying in tonight for a visit, so she can pick him up from the airport later.
They’ve been together since middle school and successfully navigated a long-distance relationship since they were eighteen.
I truly have no concept of what that must be like—growing and changing and staying with someone.
The more time that’s passed since my breakup with Carson, the harder it is to ignore how little our relationship impacted my life.
I sigh, pulling the elastic out of my hair and running a hand through it.
When I reach the front of the line, I give my name and scribble Rory on one of the provided name tags.
There’s another line for the bar, so I skip that in favor of heading toward the section of tables with signs indicating they’ve been reserved for this event.
I pause to look at a couple of the photographs displayed on the exposed brick wall. They’re all scenes around the city—kids playing in the spray of a malfunctioning fire hydrant, pigeons perched on an overflowing trash can in Central Park, a woman smoking and swinging her legs on a fire escape.
“Hey, Rory.”
I spin to see Clay Hardmann. He was a year ahead of me, so we only shared one seminar, but we worked on law review together.
“Hey, Clay.” I smile back, cataloging the changes to his appearance in the past year.
His hair is trimmed shorter, and he’s wearing a navy suit instead of the jeans and a sweater or T-shirt—depending on the season—he wore on campus. I think he’s gotten new glasses too.
“How have you been? How’s the DA’s office?”
“Not making much of a dent in my loans.” He grimaces, stealing a sip from the beer bottle in his left hand. “Aside from that, I love it. How’s the other side?”
“I love it.”
He nods. “I’d say it’d be fun to go up against each other, but I have a feeling you’d make me regret it.”
“Who, me?” I ask innocently.
“Yeah, you. I pity the prosecutors who think they’re dealing with a sweet blonde and get bitten by a shark.”
I shrug a shoulder. “Each case is a chess match. Your opponent matters as much as the pieces do.”
“Exactly my point. You—”
“Florence!”
I still, the natural smile that appeared during my conversation with Clay slipping.
What is Flynn doing here? Most Big Law associates start in September.
I figured he’d be somewhere in Europe, sunning on a yacht with a few models, enjoying the rest of his summer.
Him being in New York is unexpected. Him attending an event related to academics? Shocking.
I turn my head slowly, searching the bar for a figure that’s extremely easy to find. Flynn draws attention everywhere he goes. Also, he’s the tallest guy here.
Even more surprising than him being at Bowery Line? He’s walking straight toward me.
To his credit—and my annoyance, especially when he used my government name—Flynn always acknowledged me on campus. But those were accidental run-ins. Having a class in the same building or passing each other on a path. He never sought me out, and I have no clue why or when that changed.
I frown as Flynn nears, loosening his tie as he walks. The top two buttons of his shirt are open, showing off a sliver of tan skin.
When he reaches us, an arm is slung around my shoulders, pulling me against the firm chest I was just admiring. I glance up, stunned by the sudden, casual contact.
Flynn whispers, “Sorry I’m late. I’ll make it up to you later,” loudly enough for everyone in the immediate vicinity to overhear.
“Good to see you, Rory,” Clay says, departing with an uncomfortable smile.
“You too,” I call after Clay, then step out of Flynn’s hold and spin to face him. “What are you doing?” I hiss.
“Helping you out. As we discussed on Friday.”
“What are you—” I’m interrupted by a guy by the bar shouting his name.
“I’ll be right back,” he tells me.
“Don’t you dare. People will assume we’re here together.”
“No one’s thinking that—yet.” He strolls away, calling, “White or red, baby?” over his shoulder as he heads for his buddies by the bar.
As soon as everyone stops staring, I’m going to murder him.
An hour later, Flynn is still alive. Too many witnesses. Plus, it would technically be premeditated.
“This was in Croatia,” he says. “Cape Town was the summer before.”
My phone buzzes. I discreetly slide it off the table to check the latest message.
Naomi: You and Flynn Parks?!?!
Naomi: Why didn’t you tell me?
I glance at my friend, sitting across and diagonal from me.
We haven’t had a chance to talk alone since she arrived.
The crowd around Flynn has steadily grown, and there are no signs of that changing anytime soon.
He has a rapt audience that came over to hear about his first day at Locke, Grey, and Lee LLP—the prestigious firm where he apparently started yesterday—and has stuck around to hear about his world travels.
Naomi’s typing on her phone.
A second later, mine buzzes with a third message.
Naomi: How’s the sex?
Under the table, Flynn’s knee bumps against mine.
The air-conditioning is at full blast. But it feels like the back of my neck is directly beneath a heater.
I have no idea how to reply to Naomi’s message.
Why I haven’t already corrected her wrong assumption about why I’m sitting next to the guy I’ve always maintained I couldn’t stand, sipping from a chilled glass he carried over to me, like we are a couple.
A fourth message comes through.
Naomi: Nathan landed early. I’ve gotta run. Dinner SOON! I want all the details.
I text back as she stands.
Rory: Say hi to Nathan.
Rory: And definitely on dinner.
Naomi stands, excuse me-ing her way through the gathered crowd.
A woman with a blonde bob snags her open seat, her gaze not shifting from Flynn the entire time.
I don’t recognize her. Don’t recognize most of the people around us actually.
I spent most of law school in the library or at my brownstone, neither of which were social hubs.
I have no easy exit from this situation, however.
These tables have bench seats, so Flynn is literally blocking me in.
By the time he’s moved on to another story, my bladder has given me an excuse to tap his arm.
He stops talking immediately, glancing over, meaning everyone is looking at the interruption—me.
“I need to use the restroom,” I announce awkwardly, hyperaware of all the gazes aimed my way.
Flynn slides out without comment, allowing me to scoot out and stand.
“Thanks.”
As soon as I’m a few feet from the table, I release a breath I didn’t realize I had been holding. Now that Naomi has left, I should go too. She was the main reason I came. But if I depart right after her, Flynn will assume he chased me off.
There’s another line for the women’s room, so I pull out my phone to check my emails.
“Rory!”
I look up, then left, squashing a sigh when I see who called my name.
Colleen Edwards was one of my class’s co-presidents.
She’s sweet yet intrusive, an endless machine of collecting and disseminating information.
I’m not surprised she’s here; she probably organized the event.
I’m even less thrilled about seeing the two women she’s standing with—Kristin and Chelsea.
Both were in my Civil Procedure course during 1L.
We became fast friends, forming a study group to prep for the first exam.
Until I was cold-called during a lecture.
They found out my last name and made a lot of assumptions about my acceptance.
I slip my phone back into my purse before I walk over. “Hey, Colleen. Kristin. Chelsea.”
“Hi, Rory,” Chelsea replies first, her gaze on the tote bag Wren gave me for graduation.
“I heard you’re working as a public defender?” Kristin questions. “That’s so … philanthropic.”
“You’re making the rest of us look greedy,” Chelsea adds, her tone artificially sweet.
“Where are you guys working?” I ask.
Kristin and Chelsea list off prominent firms. Colleen is clerking, like Naomi, at the state level rather than a federal court.
The passive-aggressive comments continue.
“You look tired. The office must be understaffed.”
“I’m so glad I won’t have to commute until the fall. You must have a private car.”
I respond to the swipes politely. The staff I work with is fantastic, and most subway cars have air-conditioning.
Treat others how you want to be treated, is how I was raised.
This is hardly the first time someone has made derisive assumptions about my wealth.
I’m spoiled or greedy, indulged or lazy.
There’s no acclimation process to being born rich.
It’s normal until you realize it isn’t. And then people want what you’ll share, or they want to judge you for it.
Very few have fallen into a third category—viewing me separate from my net worth.
I say goodbye to the girls and turn back toward the bathrooms. Flynn is leaning against one of the concrete pillars spaced throughout the building. He’s looking toward the bar, not at me, but he’s close enough to have overheard the entire conversation.
I march up to him. “What are you—”
His eyes cut to mine. “Be meaner.”
I swallow hard. He was listening.
I lower my voice. “I’ll ask for your advice when I want—oh, wait. I’ll never want your advice.”
Rather than look offended or amused, Flynn tilts his head. “See? You don’t take my bullshit. Why didn’t you tell those girls to fuck off? Oh”—he pretends to have a realization—“I get it. You’re antifeminist. I can handle your contempt because I’m a big, strong—”
“Bye, Flynn.” I continue walking. Toward the exit, not the restrooms. I’ll pee at home.
He keeps pace easily. “Tonight was fun.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“I was.”
“What are you even doing here?” I grumble.
“I’m a proud alumnus. I bleed crimson.”
“So does everyone.”
“Thanks for the biology lesson. Speaking of, how is our sex life? Some of my friends might ask too.”
I immediately regret not replying in all caps to Naomi—AWFUL. Flynn seemed totally absorbed in sharing his adventures. But I should have known he’d spy over my shoulder.
“No one will.”
“Clay did.”
I stop walking. “What?”
“Well, he was a little more subtle than that. Technically, he asked if we were dating.”
“What’d you say?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck you, Flynn.” I resume walking.
Again, he keeps up easily. “You learned that one fast.”
I’m too angry to retort. Everything—everything—is a fucking game to him.
“Come on. You can’t really be mad. You can do way better than some Harvard douche.”
I pause, poking his chest with my pointer finger. “You’re a Harvard douche. And, in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t exactly have a lot of other options lining up.”
I’ve been on one date since Carson cheated. The conversation was bad, and the sex was worse. Clay is cute, smart, and has flirted with me in the past. If I had been single in law school, I think something would have happened between us sooner.
“Quality is more important than quantity.”
I scoff. “Well, I don’t have either.”
“He walked off as soon as I came over, Rory. That’s not who you’re looking for.”
“He was trying to be respectful.”
“There’s a thin line between respect and cowardice.”
“That’s not a saying.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
Law school wasn’t Flynn’s choice. But I can’t help but think it was a perfect fit for him. His confidence is a skill, so disarming that it overwhelms your own perception.
I’m viewing the earlier interaction with Clay entirely differently. He did walk away as soon as Flynn came over. To give me a moment alone with the guy he assumed I was dating? Clay could have asked me directly if Flynn was my boyfriend.
“And if he’s so respectful,” Flynn continues, “why was he checking out your ass when you walked to the bathroom?”
“He wasn’t.” I don’t actually know he wasn’t, but contrarian seems like the right tone.
“He’s not the right guy, Florence.”
I point at my name tag, where Rory is plainly spelled out. “I know you know that no one calls me by my full name.”
Flynn smirks. “I know that you know that I know that.”
From the outside, it probably looks like we’re having some cute lovers’ spat.
“Bye, Flynn.”
This time, he doesn’t follow me. I make it all the way outside.
“You and Flynn aren’t leaving together?”
I glance at Clay, who’s standing left of the door by a bus stop. “Uh, no. We’re headed in different directions.”
He nods. “Literally or figuratively?”
“Literally. He lives on the Upper West Side.”
Another nod. “You know his reputation, right?”
I blink rapidly. “Excuse me?”
“You’re so …” Clay pauses to think of the right adjective, allowing me plenty of time to fill in the blank. Bland? Proper? Rigid? He settles on, “Upstanding. Just be careful. Don’t take it personally if he … moves on quickly. I know lots of other girls he’s done the same to.”
A nondescript gray sedan pulls up in front of the bar.
“Good to see you, Rory,” Clay adds, then climbs inside.
I stare after the red taillights as they move down the street. He might have framed it as concern for me, but I heard his real message loud and clear. I’m too prosaic for Flynn Parks.
“Be meaner.”
“I’m suggesting we pretend to be engaged.”
I might not have wanted Flynn’s advice. But I’m pretty sure I’m going to take it.