CHAPTER 4
TREY
Tuesday belonged to Howard.
Trey taught a morning seminar, met with two students, argued with a dean about clinic funding and spent forty minutes reviewing a brief that should have taken fifteen.
At noon Simone Baptiste walked into his office without knocking.
“You look domestic.”
Trey looked up.
Simone set a file on his desk.
Rain followed them through Washington in a fine mist that never quite became a storm.
By the time Trey parked, beads of water had gathered along the shoulders of his coat and Paula's curls had begun to react to the damp air.
She complained about it while smiling, which told him the complaint was mostly ceremonial.
Inside, heat rushed over them with the smell of roasted garlic, wine, and wet wool from other diners' coats.
Trey liked these ordinary transitions with her—the few minutes between one obligation and the next, when neither of them was performing competence for anybody else.
“What does domestic look like?”
“You have Tupperware.”
“My mother gives me food.”
“That is not your mother’s Tupperware.”
Trey glanced at the container Paula had packed that morning.
Simone smiled.
“There she is.”
“Good afternoon, Simone.”
She sat.
History made Simone easy in his life. A few dates years ago. A possibility that never became a relationship. Professional trust. Friendship. She had been one of the few people who understood the line with Paula while it still existed.
“How is she?”
“Busy.”
“Grant?”
Trey gave her a look.
“Fine. Don’t tell me.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“I know.”
Simone opened the file.
They worked for an hour.
When they finished, she capped her pen.
“You’re happy.”
Trey leaned back.
“Everybody keeps saying that.”
“Because you are.”
He did not deny it.
Simone smiled. “Good.”
“No warning?”
“About what?”
“You usually have one.”
“I gave you warnings for three years.”
“True.”
She stood.
At the door she turned.
“Don’t become so good at taking care of her that you forget she likes taking care of herself.”
Trey stared.
Simone shrugged. “I know you.”
Then she left.
Trey looked at Paula’s container.
Apparently the entire city had opinions.
That evening Paula met him after class.
She stood outside his building in a camel coat, phone pressed to her ear.
“No. Tomorrow morning,” she said. “If they want a response tonight, tell them I’m reviewing.”
She hung up.
Trey held out a hand.
Paula looked at it.
Then took it.
They walked.
No destination.
Just campus, evening air and the first cold edge of fall.
Students passed them. A few greeted Trey. One recognized Paula from the prior year and smiled.
“Counselor Kelly.”
Paula grinned. “See? I like that.”
Trey squeezed her hand.
“You earned it.”
They stopped at a small restaurant and sat near the window.
Halfway through dinner, Paula’s phone lit.
She turned it facedown.
Trey said nothing.
“Don’t praise me.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I’m allowed thoughts.”
“Debatable.”
He smiled.
After dinner they walked back toward his car.
Paula stopped beneath a streetlamp.
“Trey.”
“Yes?”
“I want to talk about the other thing.”
He knew.
“Okay.”
“Not tonight. Like… properly.”
“Okay.”
She looked annoyed. “Why are you so calm?”
“What response would you prefer?”
“I don’t know. Nervousness.”
“I’m not nervous about talking to you.”
“About sex?”
“Especially about sex.”
Paula stared.
He smiled.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
She rolled her eyes.
Then became serious.
“I want more.”
Trey’s humor disappeared.
“More what?”
“Intensity.”
He waited.
“I like when you tell me what to do,” she said. “Sometimes.”
“Sometimes matters.”
“I know.”
“I need specifics.”
“I knew you were going to turn this into a deposition.”
“Terms matter.”
Paula’s eyes narrowed.
“Terms and conditions?”
Trey paused.
Then smiled slowly.
“Exactly.”
She laughed.
But the phrase stayed between them.
Terms and conditions.
Not ownership.
Not assumption.
Agreement.
Choice.
Trust.
Trey opened the car door for her.
“Friday.”
“What’s Friday?”
“We talk.”
“Where?”
“My house.”
Paula slid into the seat.
“Are there going to be forms?”
“No.”
“Charts?”
“No.”
“A PowerPoint?”
“Get in the car, PK.”
She laughed all the way home.