Chapter 23 Naomi
Chapter twenty-three
Naomi
I sit cross-legged on the hotel bed, laptop balanced on my knees, three contracts tiled neatly across the screen. But my brain refuses to engage, the words sliding right off.
Either you want to give this a shot or you don't.
“Shut up, Silas,” I tell the indemnity clause.
I rub my eyes. This is ridiculous. I'm one of the country's top lawyers. I usually review this kind of contract on four hours of sleep and a vending machine granola bar.
Tonight, I can’t even make it through one paragraph without thinking about a pack with hurt feelings.
My phone buzzes beside me.
Email: Re: Re: Re: Discovery Materials – URGENT
I flip the screen over without opening it.
Buzz.
FRANCHISE SEATTLE – CALL MOVED TO 8:30 AM FRIDAY
Buzz.
Client: Can we get your preliminary notes by Monday?
Normally, this would give me a little thrill as I love challenges.
But right now it just feels like someone's holding my head underwater.
You need to figure out what you want, Naomi. Not just what’s safest.
“Oh, don't you start, Liam,” I tell the bedside lamp.
From my room on the third floor, I can hear somebody massacres the opening chords of “Last Christmas” on a guitar. Voices join in, off-key and enthusiastic. The whole town is out there, gearing up for the festival game like one big, happy family.
And I am in here, still stuck on 7.2(b).
I squint, try to reread the sentence.
“Fuck it,” I breathe.
The laptop snaps shut with a satisfying clap. I swing my legs off the bed and pad to the window. Down on the street, a couple walks past holding hands, tripping on the icy sidewalk and laughing every time they nearly wipe out.
My gaze snags on the suitcase by the desk.
Still open. Half-packed. Clothes folded in precise, accusing stacks. My heels lined up at attention in the corner like they’re ready to march me onto the next flight.
“Right,” I mutter.
I cross the room, yank the top closed, and drag the zipper all the way around.
I stare at it.
My fingers find the zipper pull again.
Unzip. The case gapes back open.
When's the last time you did something just because you wanted to?
“I said shut up, brain.”
But the question just… sits there. Heavy.
Spa day? No, that was networking with a side of cucumber water. Yoga? That was “accidentally” in the same studio as a client’s wife. Every “vacation” since law school has been chosen for its concentration of people I might need in my contacts list. Networking.
All roads lead to billable hours.
The carolers outside switch to “Jingle Bells.” Someone yells the “hey!” part so loudly I can hear it like they're in the next room.
I could be down there. Three flights of stairs and a left turn away.
Instead I’m up here arguing with myself.
A frustrated noise crawls out of my throat. I grab a throw pillow and whack it against the side of the suitcase. Once. Twice. A third time, just because it feels good.
“What would I even offer them,” I ask the suitcase. “Half my attention and the privilege of watching me check email during dinner?”
I can hear it now.
Sorry, can’t make it to your game, I’ve got a deposition in Dallas.
Rain check on that heat? There’s a merger in LA.
I tried dating after my ex. Drinks between conference calls, quick dinners squeezed between closing arguments. Different faces, same expression when they realized my phone would always win.
I couldn’t show up properly then. How could this time be any different?
My phone buzzes again.
I snatch it up, ready to breathe fire at whoever thinks ten p.m. is a great time to—
Mia.
Her text: How are you holding up? I know today wasn’t exactly light and fun.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard.
I’m fine. Heading back to NYC tomorrow.
Delete.
It went great. Completely professional.
Delete.
They’re idiots.
Delete, delete.
I exhale and type: It’s… complicated.
She replies almost immediately.
Mia: Figured. You don’t have to solve it tonight, you know. It’s okay to not have a plan yet. Go with the flow. One step at a time.
I stare at the screen until my eyes blur, then set the phone on the nightstand and throw myself backward on the bed.
The ceiling has little stains that look like a duck. I focus on that, because the alternative is thinking about what I actually want to be flowing toward.
Seriously, what's the next step I want to take?
It’s not like asking myself the question is going to magically conjure an answer. Life doesn’t work like—
Oh.
Oh, apparently it does.
The answer drops into my head so fast I actually sit up.
I want to see them play tomorrow.
It’s so simple it feels stupid. Not move in. Not declare undying love. Not burn my life down.
Just… sit in a rink and watch them do what they were born to do. See Lakeview light up around them. Be there.
I swing my legs off the bed again and cross to the suitcase. It lurks open-mouthed where I left it.
“I heard you,” I tell it.
Then I take the neatly folded blouse on top and, very maturely, fling it onto the chair. My blazer follows. The shoes get relocated to the closet. The travel-size toiletries go back into the bathroom one by one.
By the time I’m done, the suitcase is more empty than full. Not exactly ready to bolt for the airport.
I turn my back on it deliberately, and grab my phone before I can second-guess myself.
Me: I’m staying for the game tomorrow night.