Chapter 6 #2
The question hangs between us, unanswered but revealing.
Someone else was supposed to occupy my seat tonight, which doesn’t sit well with me.
The server materializes, all starched elegance and deference to Minji.
They exchange a few words in rapid Japanese, which I process at an elementary ‘Konnichiwa’ level, but it’s clear she’s ordering for both of us.
The server bows and disappears, and Minji sits back, hands folded, studying me the same way I assumed she would scrutinize witness testimony in deposition rooms.
I go with honesty. “You expecting someone else tonight, Minji? I’d hate to be the rebound for a sushi reservation.”
She lets the barest ghost of a smile slip. “A strategic substitution. You were the next most logical choice.”
I laugh. “You’re the only person I know who could make that sound like an insult and a compliment.”
She shifts, uncrossing then recrossing her legs, like she’s alternating between attack and retreat. “That’s an elite skill to have.”
I lift my glass, studying her over the rim. “So, about these boundaries you mentioned. Are we talking basic workplace etiquette, or specific clauses about underwear sightings and audiobook eavesdropping?”
The sake warms my throat while a flush creeps up her neck to her cheeks. That perfect composure of hers—cracked, just slightly.
“First,” she ignores my attempt at humor, “professional boundaries remain intact. No barging into meetings, no client interruptions, no questions while I’m working.”
“Fair enough.” I nod, leaning in. “What do I get in exchange?”
Her eyebrows arch. “This isn’t some contractual arrangement with mutual considerations, Mr. Singleton.”
“Isn’t it though?” I mirror her formality. “You need my cooperation. I need your expertise. Sounds like the definition of quid pro quo to me.”
The chef appears beside our table, presenting the first course with a slight bow. Slices of tuna rest on the plate like rose petals, each glistening under the amber light. Once he’s gone, Minji leans forward, her voice dropping to a confidential tone.
“My second non-negotiable: personal matters remain off-limits. That includes my history, romantic entanglements, and anything not directly related to divorce proceedings.”
I pick up my chopsticks and select a piece of fatty tuna. “That’s going to be difficult. The best characters are shaped by their pasts.”
“Aaron.” She says my name like she’s testing its weight on her tongue—not dismissing me as she did in her office but acknowledging me as someone worth addressing. The sound of it sends a current through me. “I’m a person with boundaries.”
Aren’t we all.
I concede with a nod, watching her lift a glistening piece of tuna to her lips. “What if I promise to disguise any details? Different names, locations, circumstances? Though if we’re being honest, my manuscript is already complete—I’m just adding texture to characters based on my editor’s notes.”
Her chopsticks pause midair. I catch the microscopic furrow between her brows, the slight tightening around her mouth—subtle shifts most would miss, but I’ve made a career of noticing these things, the tiny facial telegraphs that betray inner thoughts.
The consideration flickers across her face, then extinguishes just as quickly.
“Rule number three,” she declares, bypassing my question entirely. “Nothing between us appears in your work. Not disguised, not reimagined. Nothing.”
The phrasing catches my attention, she’s anticipating something between us worth writing about.
I reach for my sake cup. “That’s quite a demand. Most writers mine real life for material.”
“Those are my terms,” she says, voice crisp as the nori beneath her fingertips.
The chef slides a new dish between us—uni perched on rice like tiny golden sunsets.
I watch Minji’s eyelids flutter closed as she takes her first bite.
This woman is still as gorgeous as the first day I saw her.
Minji’s looks are mesmerizing as she’s always been.
The high cheekbones that catch the light at just the right angle, giving her face a sculpted elegance that no amount of contouring could replicate.
Her warm brown eyes are what I’ve always found most striking—slightly monolid with an upward tilt at the corners that gives her a perpetually knowing look, like she’s privy to secrets the rest of us haven’t discovered yet.
When she’s amused, those eyes narrow just slightly, a subtle crinkle at the corners.
I’ve always been drawn to the perfect symmetry of her features—the straight bridge of her nose, the defined curve of her jawline, the way her full lips press together when she’s considering something important.
She has a single beauty mark, almost imperceptible, just below her left eye that I used to trace with my thumb when we’d lie in bed talking about nothing and everything.
The soft glow of the restaurant lighting softens her features, highlighting the natural flush across her cheeks that deepens when she catches me staring.
“What?” she asks, dabbing the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “Is there something on my face?”
I smile, caught in the act. “Just appreciating the view.”
Her eyebrows arch slightly—another feature I’ve always found captivating, the way they frame her expressions so perfectly. “The view? I’m not a landscape, Aaron.”
“No,” I agree. “You’re far more complex and interesting.”
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. It’s that almost-smile that gets me every time—the one that suggests Minji Lee might actually be enjoying herself despite her best efforts not to. “So, back to what I was saying. My terms…”
“I’ll play by your rules, but with one stipulation.”
Her chopsticks click against the ceramic as she sets them down. “Go on.”
“No lawyer-speak when I ask about your cases or divorce strategies. I need your genuine perspective, not what the Bar Association recommends you say.”
She tilts her head. “It’s fiction you’re writing, Aaron. Does authenticity really matter?”
“The most convincing fiction is anchored in reality.” My voice drops as I lean closer. “Readers can smell fabrication a mile away. I swear my readers might have built-in detectors for bullshit.”
“So, these novels of yours, are they drawn from life?”
“From emotional truths,” I clarify. “I may not have lived every scene, but I know the undertow: wanting someone to really see you, the fear of being fully known. How love can be both medicine and poison.”
“Which wins out more often? The healing or the harm?”
“In my books? Healing sells better.” I meet her eyes. “In reality? The jury’s still out.”
“Have you always dissected things this way?”
For someone who doesn’t want me to probe into her business, she’s certainly interested in mine. “I’ve always been observant,” I continue, “but isn’t this breaking rule number one?”
Her lips curve into something close to a smile. “It’s not breaking rule number one when the information is readily available. Anyone who reads your About Me page will know.”
“So you have read my bio?”
“Research.” She pauses. “Know thy enemy and all that.”
I laugh, the sound genuine enough to make a nearby diner glance our way. “Is that what I am? Your enemy?”
“Not an enemy,” she concedes, selecting another piece of sushi with deliberate care. “More like… an occupying force.”
“That’s harsh.”
“Is it? You’ve invaded my space, my routine. You’ve seen me—” She cuts herself off, that flush returning to her cheeks.
“In your bra,” I finish for her, keeping my voice low. “And believe me, the image is seared into my memory.” Along with the other thousands of memories I have of you from our college days.
She shoots me a warning glance, but there’s something else beneath it—a flicker of heat that makes my pulse quicken.
“Inappropriate,” she murmurs, but the word lacks conviction.
“We’ve established that already.” I hold her gaze. “But tell me something, Minji—why did you really invite me to dinner?”
The question hangs between us, weighted with possibilities. She takes another sip of sake, buying time. I’ve noticed she does this when formulating her thoughts and constructing her responses, with the same precision she likely applies to legal briefs.
“Like I said, I had a reservation.” Her tone is measured, giving nothing away.
“And the person who was supposed to join you?”
She hesitates, then sighs. “A client canceled.”
“Lucky me.” I raise my glass in a small toast. “Though I suspect I’m a poor substitute for whatever billionaire was going to foot this bill.”
“The firm pays,” she says simply. “Client dinners are a business expense.”
“And this?” I gesture between us. “What kind of expense is this?”
“This will still be considered a business expense. You are technically a client to the firm.”
“Even if we know each other?”
“We do not know each other.” Her eyebrows come together. “We don’t… right?”
I want to make my intentions clear, but I also want her to remember me on her own. I lean in, elbows on the table, feeling the pulse in my wrists thump a warning. “I feel like I know you better than you think, but do you think you know me from somewhere?”
“Read that you went to Columbia. I also attended university there, so perhaps you and I crossed paths before.”
My heart actually skips, at the thought of her probably remembering me. I set my glass down. “Yeah, I graduated in 2013. English undergrad.”
She frowns slightly and then she subtly shakes her head.
As if I’m not the person she shared a bed with for two months back then.
How could she forget me? Was I that shitty in bed?
I almost say her college nickname but decide against it at the last second.
That’s not how I want her to remember. It needs to be her idea, her memory surfacing and filling in the blanks, not a crumb I drop carelessly on the table.
Instead, I let the moment hover. I’ve made a career on patience.
“Enough about the past. How about this?” She sets down her chopsticks. “Let’s get through this dinner, and you can ask me whatever you want about divorce law. Not my personal history, not my… preferences. The rest is yours for the taking.”
“That’s a dangerous offer.”
She meets my gaze so evenly I nearly forget which one of us is supposed to be playing defense. “I don’t make idle threats or promises, Mr. Singleton.”
I decide to push a little, just for fun. “Are you seeing anyone right now?” The question is out before decorum can intercept it, and I don’t regret a single syllable.
She gives me a cool, polite smile. “Are you asking as research or as a personal inquiry?”
I grin, letting the implication float between us. “Both.”
Her hand drums once, lightly, on the edge of the table—fidgeting, a tell, though I doubt she even knows she’s doing it. “I don’t date.” She says it so plainly, so flatly, there’s no edge to catch and untangle.
“But you used to.”
This time the pause is longer. Her eyes flick to the mirrored wall, catching our joint reflection. “Past performance isn’t always predictive of future results. How about we get back on topic here? Divorce law.”
I let her redirect me. For the next hour, Minji holds the floor, fielding my questions and hypothetical scenarios with the cool self-assurance of a star witness.
She’s more animated when she talks shop; she’ll lean forward, neglect her sake, and gesture with two fingers when punctuating a legal point.
She’s as unbeatable as I remember, but there’s nuance now—an almost poetic, measured cadence to her arguments, as if she’s found a way to make even the cruelties of divorce sound inevitable and, sometimes, even humane.
“Do you ever root for reconciliation? Or do you always want the cleanest split possible?” She gives me a look, half-exasperated, half-respectful. “It’s not my job to root for anything except what’s best for my client. I’m not a couple’s therapist.”
“Cynical.”
“You say cynical, I say I’m realistic,” she shrugs.
“So, what about you and love? Clean splits, or do you leave messes behind?”
“I try not to leave anything behind. That’s the point of being good at your job.” Of course, she wouldn’t answer about herself. So, I leave it at that. Man, she is one tough nut to crack.
After the bill’s paid—her card trumps mine, saying it’s a company expense—we step back onto the sidewalk. We walk side by side for a few blocks and she mumbles, “Don’t ruin this with commentary.” So, I don’t. I match her, stride for stride, in silence.
At the crosswalk, I finally break the silence. “If you change your mind about hating romance, you know where to find me.”
She glances sideways, lips pinched. “I never said I hated romance.”
False. But I let it go.
We part ways on West 4th, no matter how much I offered to take her home, she was not budging, saying she is no damsel in distress.
I’m sure she just doesn’t want me to know where she lives.
I linger at the corner, counting her steps as she disappears into the current of pedestrians.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi—thirty seconds of watching the sharp line of her shoulders grow smaller against the city lights.
Not even a glance over her shoulder. Damn.
I’ve waited a decade already. I can wait three more weeks for her memory to catch up with mine.