Chapter Forty-Two
I went home and stayed in bed for two days, watching old episodes of The West Wing on my laptop. I felt empty.
I spent February as close to a hermit as someone living in New York could be.
Emilie had texted that she was staying in London, “maybe for just a month, maybe forever,” but she finally promised to FaceTime me when she was ready to talk.
Connor and Gillian were spending weekends at a rental upstate.
Caroline was the only person I saw consistently.
She knocked on my door every Saturday morning and faithfully dragged me out for a frigid walk through the farmers market.
It was late February when I reached the episode where Josh throws snowballs at Donna’s window. When she finally comes down, he gives her his jacket and tells her with the sincerest look on his face, “You look amazing.”
It was snowing. I’d left the window open, and the prewar radiator was working overtime.
My unmade bed was the only reasonably warm spot.
There were unwashed mugs with old tea bags everywhere and used Kleenexes next to dying plants.
I was unapologetically leaning into the cliché fog of heartbreak.
I hadn’t allowed myself to drink since the night I met Pete, the sober bartender.
I paused the episode and stared at Bradley Whitford’s earnest face. Without thinking, I pulled my phone out from under the pillows.
I wish I’d had the guts to send this so much sooner, but I didn’t know if you wanted to hear from me. I still don’t know if you do. But I need you to know that I am sorry. For everything. I wonder constantly how your mom is doing, and if you’re okay.
I sent it and waited for my heart rate to slow back to normal. I knew there was a chance he would never respond, and the idea of “us” would keep fading. There would be other people in our lives. But I needed him to know, even if it was just this once.
I was falling in love with you too.
I was in bed reading when Andie called. We hadn’t seen each other since the sentencing hearing last month, the week after the book launch.
The sentencing had gone off with much less fanfare than when she pleaded guilty.
She stood bravely between us as the judge delivered the sentence, grabbing my hand tightly at the very last minute.
In what felt like a storybook ending to the first case of my legal career, the judge sentenced her to one thousand hours of community service.
Eddie let out an uncharacteristic whoop. She wasn’t going to prison.
“They. Green-lit. The. Movie,” she punctuated breathlessly through the phone the second I picked up.
I sat up straighter, propping the pillows behind me. “You’re kidding. He finished the script?”
“Yes. And it’s brilliant. The dialogue he wrote for Eddie’s character is pure magic. I couldn’t put it down.”
I smiled into the phone. “What happens now?”
“We’re making a movie!” I could hear her jumping up and down.
“Holy shit. You wrote the book that’s becoming George Brenner’s next movie.”
“We did it. I’m able to be in New York this weekend to celebrate because of you and Eddie. You better be free tomorrow night.”
“You’re here this weekend?”
“I’m at the Soho House. Leah got me a room.”
“Wow. Where’s dinner?”
“Right here. I’m afraid if I leave, they won’t let me back in.”
“Ha. That’s like ten minutes from my apartment, so that works for me. I don’t travel well these days.”
“Dinner tomorrow at seven then,” she said and hung up.
I sank back down under the covers, uneasy at the idea of being out in the world.
But by morning, something had shifted. For the first time since the investigation began, I woke up feeling a spark of energy. I had plans.
Before heading downstairs to meet Caroline, I flipped through my closet, hunting for something that seemed appropriate for dinner at the Soho House.
I was searching for my keys under a pile of unread mail when Caroline texted to say she’d gone on a “pretty good” date the night before and wasn’t going to be back in time for our farmers market run.
I sighed. I was out of coffee, and while I was finally giving my liver a break, my caffeine addiction had me in a death grip.
I walked to the coffee shop on Jane Street and ordered my usual latte to go, unbuttoning the top few buttons of my coat and loosening my scarf. When had it started to feel like spring?
While waiting for my latte, I checked my emails and was surprised to see an email from Frank Trustman, asking if we could have lunch that week to discuss a thought he had.
“Dinner and a lunch, who are you,” I muttered to myself.
I walked down to Sandro on Bleecker and found a simple black jumpsuit with lightly ruffled sleeves and lace across the front.
I emailed Frank back as I waited to check out. Are you free Wednesday?
Later that night, I walked up Ninth Avenue, passing the door to the Soho House twice before my eye finally caught the covert placard.
“Name,” a woman with a blond bob said flatly.
“Samantha DeFiore. I’m a guest of Andie Reese,” I added, my neck immediately taxed from trying to make eye contact. She barely glanced at the list as she waved me into the tiny elevator behind her.
The doors opened to a dimly lit restaurant. I spotted Andie right away, reading something on her phone. She looked relaxed, as if we were two old friends just meeting up for dinner.
“I know you,” she said, pitching her readers onto the table and giving me a tight hug. “You’re the woman from that New York Post headline.”
“Most cringeworthy headline ever. Even for the Post.”
“You gave me my freedom, and I made you an indicted celebrity.”
“Something like that.” I grinned. “It’s really good to see you. You look happy,” I said honestly.
“No joke, I’m living the most vanilla chapter of my life, and I’ve never been happier.”
I laughed. “Vanilla. With every actress in Hollywood trying to play you.”
She sighed. “Exactly. I’m getting a second chance. Thanks to you and Eddie. And George.”
“Did you tell Eddie about the movie getting green-lit?”
“Oh yeah. It was like telling my dad I invested in some annuity bonds that performed well. ‘Andie, well done. You’ve been making excellent choices lately.’”
“That’s a scary good impression.”
“I know. Should I play myself?”
She handed me the wine list. “I don’t want to be a buzzkill, but I’m not drinking. You, however, should order the most expensive Bordeaux in Eddie’s honor.”
I smiled. “He loves a good Bordeaux.” I set the wine list down. The room felt unexpectedly private, with plush sofas and coffee tables separating dining tables. “I haven’t had a drink since January. Seems we’re in for a reasonable tab.”
“There’s a forty-five-dollar burger on the menu.”
“Very reasonable. Why aren’t you drinking? Did you have a bad bottle of 1942?”
“There are no bad bottles of 1942.” She stretched the linen napkin across her lap. “I just wanted a little clarity. After the come-down of it all.”
“I’m right there with you. We’re living oddly parallel lives.”
It was what I’d felt from the beginning.
She smiled. “Except you were the one saving me instead of needing to be saved. Saint Samantha.”
I sank back into the velvet chair. “There’s nothing saintly about what I do. It’s not like I gave up everything to work for Legal Aid or become a public defender.”
Andie shot me a sideways glance. “I never had a safety net until I met you and Eddie. You guys made me feel like there was more to me than just some person accused of breaking the law. Maybe you don’t see yourself the way that I do, but I’m so grateful Eddie chose you out of every other associate who would have killed to work on this. ”
I pursed my lips. “You know he called me the ‘deadpan’ girl?”
“What does that even mean?”
“He said I struck him as someone who could deadpan salacious details.”
“I weirdly know exactly what he meant.”
She poured Pellegrino into my glass. “You’re not just a good lawyer, Sam. You have layers. And believe me, they’re going to trip you up sometimes. But they’re also going to keep moving you forward.”
I smiled faintly at the memory of waking up to Eddie’s call the night after the Lincoln Center gala, tired and hungover, but happy. All my dreams coming true.
“Could you tell I was hungover the first morning we met?”
“Nope. I just remember how focused and eager you seemed.”
“I didn’t even know about the meeting until that morning.
I’d gone to this charity gala the night before.
My officemate, Charlie, came with me. We had a blast. I went to bed feeling like I was walking on air.
And then I woke up to Eddie calling me at 7:30, and I had to pull it together. ” I chuckled. “And here we are.”
“I always had a feeling there was something with Charlie. Just from the way you talked about him.”
My eyes landed on the wine list, and I wished for something to take the edge off. “There was. Not anymore, but yeah.”
I told her everything, starting with the gala and ending with Charlie leaving New York. My messages to him that had gone unanswered.
“I’ve basically been a recluse for the last month with nothing but time to think about how much I fucked things up. I don’t even feel like I love my job anymore.”
She looked at me squarely. “I’m sure it’s gotten you this far, but have you ever thought about not being so hard on yourself?”
“Nope.”
She sighed and rested the tip of her tongue against her upper lip.
“Look—I know how important your career is to you, but you’re putting the same unrealistic expectations on a job as other people put on a relationship. There are going to be ups and downs. It’s the commitment to it being more good than bad that makes it worthwhile.”
“I know. But I can’t stop thinking that I’m doing it all out of order. I’m out there in the ocean, but I never learned how to swim.”
“That’s the flaw in your solution. Progress doesn’t have to be linear. There’s no order of life experience to check off.”
She squeezed my hand. “I know you think it’s easier to cut off everything except your ambition.
But you should stop that. Now that you’re here, doing this, it’s time to own your life—including your excuses—and cut yourself some slack.
Figure out what balance looks like. You’re a human being.
Lean into it. Your own personal soft launch. ”
She sat back proudly. “I nailed it, didn’t I?”
I smiled self-consciously. “They should really teach more practical attorney-client boundaries in law school. Rule number one: Your client is not your therapist.”
“I’m not your client anymore.”
“Thank God.”
She handed me a glass of water. “So. What’s it been like without my frantic calls?”