30. Julieta
Chapter thirty
Julieta
The coffee stain on my blouse has somehow gotten bigger since I walked into the office. I never spill my coffee. I’m never without an extra blouse.
I have also learned to manage my time so well that I know the exact time to leave my apartment to avoid any of the early morning downtown traffic. I didn’t manage my time this morning, though. I rushed out of my house, a frazzled mess, having spent the night with Logan instead. More specifically, the whole week. More specifically, in my bed.
The problem is, when you’re living two lives and toeing the line between them, something is bound to slip.
“Julie. In my office, please.” Barbara is at my door, eyeing me over her glasses, perfect posture as always. But this time it looks like she’s about to rip me a new asshole.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I tell her. “Rough morning.” I point to my obvious coffee stain.
“What’s going on with the Lorenzo case?” She cuts me off.
“I’m working on it. Why?”
“Are you?” The question is accusatory. One quick jab to make sure I’m listening. “I have to say, you were always one of my most dedicated employees. I never had to worry about you, but these past couple of months have been concerning. Leaving early, not focused, no urgency in responding to any of my emails. You are not the associate you used to be.”
Everything suddenly feels like quicksand. I’m sinking down, my life slipping out of my grasp, and I don’t know how to pull myself out of it.
“Barbara, I can assure you I am dedicated to this job.” My voice might be shaking.
She slams the file down on her desk and it makes me jump. “There's a request for production here. Did you see that? Did you realize there are thousands of documents to review and the deadline is tomorrow? ”
I might be breaking out into a sweat-induced panic. How did I miss that?
“This Lorenzo case is an absolute disaster and not at all the work of somebody who is dedicated to this job. Or to being here.”
I flinch at her words. A lump is forming in my throat. I've never been on the receiving end of her anger like this. I stay uncomfortably silent, a quiet so loud, it's only rivaled by her icy stare.
“ This is the kind of work you put into this firm? This is what you have to show for it? This is shameful ,” she spits out. “So, if you want to still be here come tomorrow, I suggest you figure it out and fix it .”
Fuck. Fuck!
This cannot be happening. The voice in my head starts screaming louder about how I should be focused on work. I could lose my job. I shouldn’t be out so late on weekends. I shouldn’t be sleeping in and pushing cases aside. I should be responsible.
I should be fucking grateful.
“It won’t happen again,” I tell Barbara, with as much conviction as I can muster.
I’m abruptly dismissed, and walk out of her office on shaky legs, straight to the employee bathroom where I let the tears run.
Once I’ve collected myself enough to make it back to my office, I call out, “Larissa, come to my office please.”
“Of course.” She stands quickly, with a worried look on her face, following me.
Once we’re in my office, I shut the door and let it out.
“I fucked up. Like, royally. And I know that I’m an asshole for asking you to help me fix my mistakes. I shouldn’t be asking for any of this, but I need you to help me figure this out.”
“What do you need?” Larissa asks with no judgement.
“The Lorenzo case,” I say. “There's a request for production. And the deadline is tomorrow.” I run my hand down my face, frustrated.
“Okay.” She nods, writing notes down on a legal pad quickly.
“We have to review so many documents,” I say apologetically, pacing in front of my desk. “Thousands.”
“Okay,” she repeats, wide-eyed. “I can do that.”
“Thank you,” I answer shakily, taking a deep breath.
If she notices my red rimmed eyes and sniffly nose, she doesn’t say anything. She just puts her head down and we get to work.
Larissa and I spend the rest of Thursday working on everything, and then I take the weekend to work some more from morning until night. I tell Logan I’m too busy, I silence my phone, I lock my door.
Now I’m at dinner, practically falling asleep at this table, ready to head to bed.
“Tired?” Cecilia asks.
“Very.”
“Sabes quién me llamó?” my mom asks the table, probably about to get into some anecdote about an old friend that called her. “Javier.”
Suddenly, I’m wide awake. T and Delfina look my way instantly.
“He said he was so proud of you, Julieta. He was so happy to see you out, and he said he’d never seen you look so happy, either.”
Motherfucker. I take a big bite of an empanada.
“He said I must be so proud of you, too, taking after abuela and following in her steps.”
The whole table turns to look at me, wide-eyed. But Cecilia’s face slowly turns into a smile.
“And so I had to tell him that unfortunately my daughter hadn’t told me anything. Guess I didn’t deserve to know what was going on.”
“Maria,” my father says with a sigh.
“She doesn’t have to tell you what she’s doing,” T adds, throwing fuel to the fire as always.
“No, she doesn’t. But I don’t like lies, either,” my mother says, matter of fact.
“Nobody lied, ma,” I say, exasperated.
“You just omitted information?”
“What does it matter?” I throw my hands up.
“Javier said he had never seen her look so happy and you completely bypass that to make it about you? En serio?” T says.
“Agostina,” Ana says in warning.
“No. Honestly, this is so stupid. Who fucking cares what she’s doing? She’s a grown adult woman. But since you are all so interested in how she’s been deceiving you, at least take a look for yourselves.” She pulls out her phone, showing my mother a video she must have taken at the milonga. She watches it with almost no expression, mouth firm.
“Look at your daughter. Look at the joy. And the talent!”
“And what exactly are you going to do with this?” she asks me. She’s referring to the dance, as if it should be some tangible good with a purpose. As if the joy of it alone isn’t enough.
I guess this is the part where Future Julie has to own up to her mess. “I’m taking a weekend away.”
“Dónde?”
“California,” I say.
“You think that’s a good idea?” she asks.
“I think so.”
She shrugs, not saying anything else. But she doesn’t have to, I know it by heart. It’s not a good idea. It’s a bad one, in fact. You’re pushing your responsibilities aside; you’re wasting time on frivolous things. You should be grateful for your job. They’re going to fire you and then what?
“Abuela chose dance over her family. And that’s what you’re doing, too.” And with that, she gets up and walks out of the dining room.
The accusation is a low blow, a real punch. It’s meant to make me feel guilty and ashamed. It’s meant to make me stop whatever I’m doing. And the worst part is that she knows me well enough to know that it would absolutely work.
I can’t make the trip to San Diego. It was laughable to even think I could. To dream enough to actually book it.
I can’t do any of this anymore.
She's right. My job will fire me and then what? I will have thrown away my years of studying and their sacrifices for my tuition on some dance classes?
I am so defeated. I am so full of guilt. An unbearable weight, a suffocating sadness. I feel like I’ve got no strength to even get out of this chair right now. The thought of driving home is overwhelming and exhausting.
This feels like everything is quicksand, slowly swallowing me up, surrounding me so I can’t move. Naively, I never thought it would get to this. I never imagined it would come to a place where I am not allowed to feel joy. Where I am not allowed to do anything outside of the realm of what was decided for me. Not that law school was decided for me, but a solid career path was. And a focus on studies was always drilled into me.
I never let myself divert from any of it. Thirty four years of following a line, how could I possibly stray from it now?
I am so, so sad.