“Ah, yeah,” I say, racking my brain to try to think of any other reason to keep her around and coming up short. “We’re done. What’s up?”
“I’m quitting.”
3
Griffin
Why do people always think it’s a joke when they hear bad news? Either that, or they ask for a repeat of the bad news, as if they’ve suffered some instantaneous and catastrophic hearing loss that prevents them from hearing correctly. The brain’s way of trying to un-hear what it doesn’t want to be true, I guess.
Whatever it is, it’s got me in a chokehold.
I cock my head, determined to try this again and hear it right this time.
“What?”
“I’m quitting,” she says again.
I manage half a strangled laugh. “No, the fuck you’re not.”
“Well, okay,” she says calmly. That’s one of the most reliable and infuriating things about Bellamy. She’s always calm. “That settles it, then.”
“How are we doing over here?” the server asks brightly, reappearing at table side. “Can I get you—”
“No,” I bark, my attention irrevocably centered on Bellamy the Calm and only dimly aware of the man walking off again. This is between Bellamy and me. I need her, and she’s kicking me to the curb like she doesn’t have a care in the world. The rest of the world, including the pianist, who’s over there plinking away on some Frank Sinatra tune, can fend for itself while I figure out why. “I’ll give you a fifty percent raise. Now drop the nonsense.”
She hesitates.
“Sorry, boss. I can’t do that.”
The B-word suddenly grates on my nerves in a way it never has before.
“I’ll double your salary. And don’t call me boss.”
Her expression turns to stone right in front of my eyes.
“I have a good reason for quitting—”
“Doubtful.”
“And I think I’ll stick with boss. Since you just sat there and told me you didn’t want to cross any lines.”
“That was before you ripped the rug out from under me,” I say, planting my elbows and hunkering over the table. “What the fuck is going on?”
She hitches up her chin. Beams with unmistakable pride.
“I heard from Berkeley Law. I’m off the waiting list. It’s my dream school. My mother went there. Anyway, I start in August.”
Rarely has anyone gone through such a sickening cycle of emotions. My anger evaporates. I feel enormous excitement for her because this is her dream come true and I know it. I feel proud of her accomplishment. I feel eager to see how big a bite she’ll take out of the legal world. I feel concern because I know how much Berkeley costs versus how much I’ve been paying her, and those two numbers don’t equal each other. I feel a strong urge to volunteer to pay for her entire legal education and bookmark that idea for later. I know how poignant this moment must be for her because her mother died a few years ago and isn’t here to see her daughter fly.
Most of all? I feel flattened. Because soon Bellamy will be living three thousand miles away.
She really is leaving. There really is nothing I can do to stop her.
And I’m sure the sickening knot in my gut has nothing to do with her skills as my assistant.
I blow out a harsh breath. Rub my hands over my face. Drop my hands, face her like a man and try to approximate a selfless human being.
“That’s amazing,” I say, meaning it even if I can’t quite force my lips into a smile. “Congratulations. The legal world is going to get a hell of a lawyer once you’re all trained up. I know it.”
“Thanks,” she says, now beaming at me as though I’ve slipped the Hope Diamond into the palm of her hand.
I watch her, riveted. Trapped inside a bubble of sweet misery with no idea how I got there.
This morning she was my assistant, the same as always.
Now? I’d happily give half my fortune to taste that champagne on her lips and in her mouth. And I’d seriously consider giving more than that to keep her here with me.
Several things hit me at once:
I’m lonely. Sitting across from Bellamy makes me feel lonelier.
The feeling will get worse when she leaves.
And I could do with a lot more of her smiling at me. Exactly like that.
But hey. I could also do with a trillion dollars in my bank account, and that ain’t happening either.
Since tonight clearly isn’t going to be my night on any front, I decide I might as well wrap it up as soon as possible. Stop being such a jackass and let Bellamy go celebrate her birthday with people she cares about. Maybe find something special with the guy her friends plan to hook her up with.
Because that’s what she deserves.
And because I can’t stand to look at her for another second. Not tonight.
“So,” I say abruptly, scooting my chair back and focusing on some indistinct point on the Madeline mural across the room. “We’re done. Go have fun.”
“That’s it?” she says, looking startled.
“That’s it. See you Monday morning. And don’t think about calling in because you partied too much.”
“I’ve never missed a day of work or even been five minutes late, but I appreciate that reminder to be conscientious and professional. Helpful.”
“It’s because I stay on you all the time. You’re my most reliable employee. I know what to expect from you. I’d like to keep it that way.”
I stand and turn away to head back to my original table before she can respond, but not before I catch the funny look on her face.
“You okay?” I say, pausing. “You look like you just caught a bad case of food poisoning.”
“Absolutely,” she says with a tight-lipped smile that’s as authentic as a fourteen-dollar bill. She stands, slings her wrap over her arm and snatches up her little bag. “Because if there’s one word I want you to think about when you think of me, it’s reliable.”
She sweeps off without another word, leaving me gaping after her while I fight the strong urge to follow her and demand to know what she meant by that. I want to know what the hell’s gotten into her tonight. I almost feel like I need to know. But then I remind myself of my commitment not to cross any lines with her and thank God she’s finally gone. My self-control is running on fumes tonight, and I’m surprised it’s lasted this long.
At loose ends now, I returned to my original table.
“Hey,” I say.
Ryker, who’s still nursing his drink, eyeballs me. “Everything okay?”
“Peachy.”
I hesitate and stand there like an idiot, with no real idea what to do with my arms and legs or my body inside its suffocating skin. I don’t feel like sitting down for another drink, grabbing dinner with him or going home to read those documents, which is what I really need to do. What I feel like doing is going Godzilla for a minute and destroying all the tables and chairs to burn off some of my thwarted desire and adrenaline surge. But since that seems like a socially unacceptable choice, I decide that the next best thing is to hit the gym and hope I wind down enough to be able to fall asleep sometime before dawn.