CHAPTER 21
TREY
The morning after Trey told Paula he loved her, she stole his last clean white T-shirt.
He found her in the kitchen wearing it with black leggings, standing barefoot at the counter while she argued with Danielle on speakerphone.
“No,” Paula said. “I am not giving you a transcript.”
Danielle’s voice filled the kitchen. “I asked one question.”
“You asked seven.”
“I asked whether he said it first.”
Winter sharpened the edges of Washington.
Breath showed in the air. The sidewalks glittered after dark where old snow had melted and frozen again.
Trey kept gloves in the car for Paula because she never remembered hers, then made himself hand them to her without commentary.
She accepted them without accusing him of overplanning.
Progress, he thought, could be embarrassingly specific.
Paula saw Trey and immediately lowered the phone.
Trey opened the refrigerator.
Danielle yelled, “IS THAT HIM?”
Paula closed her eyes.
Trey took out orange juice.
“Good morning, Danielle.”
A beat.
Then Danielle said, “Good morning, Professor Gray.”
Paula covered her face.
Trey smiled.
“I’m hanging up,” Paula said.
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Did you say it back?”
Paula looked at Trey.
He poured juice.
Her expression softened.
“Yes.”
Danielle screamed.
Paula ended the call.
For three seconds the kitchen was quiet.
Then Trey said, “A transcript?”
“Mind your business.”
“It appears to be my business.”
Paula walked over and took his glass.
“You love me.”
“I do.”
“So what’s yours is mine.”
“That is not how property law works.”
“It does in Brooklyn.”
He took the glass back.
She laughed.
The ease of it almost hid the change.
Almost.
Last night had altered something. Not their routines. Not their rules. But the emotional stakes underneath them.
Trey touched the hem of his stolen shirt.
“Mine.”
Paula looked down.
“The shirt?”
His gaze lifted to hers.
“Careful.”
Her smile slowed.
There it was again: the private language they were building.
Paula leaned against the counter.
“I have a meeting at ten.”
“I know.”
“Dinner with Marcus at six.”
“I know.”
“You’re not invited.”
“I know.”
“You’re very agreeable this morning.”
“I’m in love.”
Paula stared at him.
Trey took his coffee and walked away.
Behind him:
“You cannot just keep saying that!”
He smiled.
“Yes, I can.”
The rest of the day proved love did not make either of them less busy.
Trey spent six hours at Howard and another two with Malcolm preparing a voting-rights case. Paula spent most of hers between New York and Washington calls.
At four thirty Anthony texted THE COMMITTEE.
ANTHONY: Emergency.
TREY: Actual emergency?
ANTHONY: Danielle—wait, what is Danielle’s last name?
TREY: You’ve had dinner with her twice and don’t know?
ANTHONY: I was distracted.
MALCOLM: By what?
ANTHONY: Mind your business.
Trey smiled.
Anthony had not stopped talking about Danielle since Brooklyn.
Not romantically, according to Anthony.
Just frequently, enthusiastically, and with remarkable specificity for a woman he was definitely not interested in.
Trey typed:
TREY: Ask Paula.
ANTHONY: I am not asking your girlfriend for another woman’s information.
TREY: Then suffer.
At six fifteen Paula texted.
PAULA: Marcus canceled. Client crisis.
TREY: Want dinner?
Three dots appeared.
Stopped.
Appeared again.
PAULA: Yes. But I pick.
Trey smiled.
TREY: Send the address.
Progress.
She chose a tiny Ethiopian restaurant in Brooklyn where the tables were close, the music was louder than Trey preferred, and Paula knew the owner.
It was perfect.
Halfway through dinner Paula said, “I want to ask you something.”
“Ask.”
“Do you ever worry that this is moving too fast now?”
Trey put down his fork.
“After three years?”
“That’s exactly why I’m asking.”
He understood.
The waiting had compressed desire. Once the barrier disappeared, everything had accelerated: nights together, drawers, keys, love.
“I think we need to distinguish speed from certainty,” he said.
Paula frowned. “Explain.”
“I’m certain about you. That doesn’t mean every next step needs to happen immediately.”
She considered that.
“No secret apartment lease termination?”
“No.”
“No moving company?”
“No.”
“No engagement ring in the mashed potatoes?”
Trey looked at the platter between them.
“This is injera.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
He reached across the table.
“You have your apartment. Your career. Your friends. Your life.”
“And you?”
“I have mine.”
“And us?”
Trey turned her hand over.
“We build that deliberately.”
Paula smiled.
“Terms and conditions.”
“Always.”
Outside, cold air hit them hard.
Paula tucked herself beneath his arm.
Trey kissed the top of her head.
The love was new.
The work of it had already begun.