43. Reid
Reid
I hate to admit this, but I am going to.
I have been leveled in a courtroom before.
It was a case where my client was going for broke.
He was bitter about his wife falling out of love with him over the years.
She didn’t cheat. There was no foul play.
If anything, she was in the right. It was one of those age-old cases.
He went into the marriage hoping she wouldn’t change, and she did.
She grew. And she went into it hoping he would change, and he didn’t.
He said all the right things to get to the altar, and then he was lazy.
Over the years, the effort fizzled and the chemistry (I know, it’s odd to hear me talk about chemistry) faded.
And before they knew it, they were roommates raising kids together.
Also, most of the child raising was done by her even though she worked full-time.
She wanted half of everything. As she should.
And he wanted to steamroll her.
I went into the case unaware of just how wrong he was.
He withheld information about funds, assets, and income, not just from her, but from me as well.
I went full boar to defend my client, as you do, only to find out about all this shade during the trial.
And believe you me, her lawyer came with a verbal shotgun of proof that my client was slime.
She and her lawyer destroyed us.
I walked out of that courtroom with my tail between my legs and fury raging in every other part of my anatomy. I ripped him a new one.
And the worst part of it all? Her lawyer was none other than Grant Bowen. He ruled over that case with the grit and grace of Fred Astaire doing the waltz. Not one foot out of place.
And I got to hear about it for years.
So as I sit at my favorite hole in the wall bar drowning my recent loss (the conversation with Quinn) over and over in my head wondering if there was something else I could have said or done, I am surprised but not when none other than Grant takes a seat next to me.
“Really?” I ask without looking at him. My words slur slightly from the whiskey buzz, but I wouldn’t say I’m drunk. Just…numb. All except for my heart, that is. The whiskey hasn’t touched that.
“I know, I know. Of all the gin joints in the world, right?” he asks. “Lucky, or unlucky, for you, this is my go-to for a stiff drink after a hard case.”
“Ironic,” I state. “I had a hard case today, too.”
“So maybe we can set our differences aside and have a drink then. Colleague to colleague,” he says, waving down the bartender.
I scoff. “We might work in the same field, but we work different ends. And you are not my colleague.”
“Salty words for someone who is in the wrong,” he says. “But of course you play that card often, it seems.”
I blink hard, my scowl deepening. “If you chose the stool next to mine so you can rub it in my face that I lost both a client and a woman I cared for, don’t bother. I’m already punishing my liver for my failures.”
Grant chuckles at that. “You’ve always been full of battery acid, Remington. I’ll give you that. But no. I’m not here to rub anything in your face. It was actually a coincidence that I saw you sitting here. I came in for a drink because, like I said, I’m dealing with a tough case.”
“Yeah?” I ask, attempting to show interest because I’m not in the mood to argue.
“Mom of four trying to get out of a traditional life marriage where abuse is involved. No money of her own and no skill set once the divorce is final. I want her to have full custody. I want him to have no contact other than a fat child support check with alimony to ice the cake.”
“So you want a rainbow,” I say, and he takes a sip of his drink and sucks his teeth.
“Yep.”
“Not impossible,” I tell him.
“No. But not easy. Hence, the drink.”
We are quiet for a respectable moment. Despite our differences over the years, we can’t deny that we have both been in the trenches of our line of work. They are muddy at best.
Grant takes another sip and clicks his tongue.
“Now that I’m here and my belly is good and warm, maybe I’ll offer you my blessing,” he says.
“Blessing for what?”
“Dating my daughter,” he says and my eyes scrape over to meet his.
“Seriously?” I ask skeptically.
“Hell no,” he laughs.
“You’re such a piece of shit,” I mutter. “I thought you didn’t kick men while they’re down.”
“And I thought you didn’t fall in love.”
“Yeah, well…she’s different, your daughter. She’s a gem,” I admit.
“She is. A gem that deserves the world,” he agrees. “Tell me, I don’t think we have ever talked about why you do what you do.”
“You mean why am I an attorney?” I ask.
“Not just an attorney. A divorce attorney. It’s no walk through the tulips,” he says, and I snort.
“More like a minefield.”
Grant chortles. “Truth.”
“People have the wrong idea about lawyers…” I start, and he nods. “We aren’t all snakes. Even if we do questionable things from time to time. It’s not like I want to fuck people over, you know?”
“Not usually, anyways,” he chuckles and I smirk.
Am I actually shooting the shit with Grant Bowen right now?
That’s how you know I’ve hit an all-time low.
Either way, I’m low enough in the aforementioned gutter not to care.
“I think I let my own pain fuel a lot of my cases, though,” I admit. While I expect him to be a cock about it, Grant just nods.
“I get that. It’s a tough job. No doubt.”
“I fucked up,” I admit. And I’m not just referring to the job. But his daughter. Quinn.
“You know,” he says. “I can relate more than you think. Quinn’s mom was the love of my life…but she wasn’t my first love.”
“Oh?” I ask with slight interest. Not because I care about Bowen’s love story, I don’t. But because I care about Quinn. By default, I guess I have to care about him too.
“My first love was younger. Brief. But whirlwind. It was enough to break me, that’s for sure. I thought that girl was it. It’s laughable now that I had the honor of being with Quinn’s mom.”
I remember in context that Quinn’s mom died years ago and suddenly feel petty. Pettier should I say.
“It wasn’t until I met her that I truly knew, though. My ex was someone I wanted and chased, and it never fell into place. My wife redefined love. It was right from the start, and I couldn’t have fought it if I wanted to. Maybe that’s what you need to find. Redefinition.”
“Yeah, well, no offense, but I think I found that in Quinn,” I state, and I can practically feel him flinch.
“I hate everything about this. But go on,” he says, tossing back the rest of his drink.
“That’s about it,” I say, sucking my teeth. “She doesn’t want to have anything to do with me.”
“Maybe you gave up too soon,” he suggests.
“I tried talking to her. I showed up at her best friend’s vow renewal and tried to talk to her. Confessed everything. My regret. My apologies. My love. Nada. It’s over. DOA,” I say, staring down at the bar top. But Grant is staring at me. I can feel it.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” he asks. “That’s it?”
“What do you mean that’s it?” I snap back. “She shut me down. I handed her my heart, something I don’t do as you well know, and she threw it on the ground and fucking stomped on it. In heels. It’s done.”
“No,” he shakes his head. “It’s not.”
“How the fuck do you know?” I ask. “No offense. Or…some offense. I know she’s your daughter, but like…it was absolute.”
“Chase her,” he says.
“I did chase her.”
“Harder. Farther. Until she can’t deny it and has to face her own feelings too,” he says.
I stare at Grant for a hot moment before blinking. “Sorry, I just…you hate me. We have been courtroom rivals for years. The idea of you wanting me to chase your daughter after what I did, it just…” I trail off, shaking my head.
“Oh, trust me, I hate it. But again, the thing I hate most is seeing my daughter hurt. I know love well enough to know that she loves you. Whether I like it or not. And honestly, if you pulled your head far enough out of your ass, you could love her back. And you can more than provide for her. And more than that…” he chuckles.
“You could handle her. That, as I am sure you have already experienced, is no small task.”
I half-smirk at that.
“So chase her. Go after her. She has always believed in happily ever after. And those stories always have some dramatic, climactic chase. So give her that. Give her the climax she deserves,” he says, then frowns. “Hypothetically, of course.”
“Right,” I say. After that, he throws cash down and walks away, leaving me with more to think about than I had before. The difference now is that I feel like the edge of the gutter is lower than I thought. Low enough I can pull myself out. Low enough that there might be hope after all.