I switched it off—TV wasn’t helping. Had we properly prepared the judge? What if I missed a case? That wasn’t possible, right? I mean, Matthew and I had scoured Westlaw and Lexis. I’d read more cases in the past six months than I had in three years of law school combined. In fact, my life had taken on an entirely jurisprudential framework: pizza v. pasta; Airplane v. When Harry Met Sally; Matthew v. Heidi.

Matthew was plotting his great escape from Heidi. This had been going on for weeks and I couldn’t figure out why he didn’t just do it. I understood that breaking up was hard to do—the song was written for a reason. But it wasn’t that hard.

My phone rang. It was Sanjay, whom I’d not heard from in months.

“Sheila, hey, it’s Sanjay.” As if I didn’t have caller ID.

“Hey, Sanjay, um, is everything OK? It’s really early.”

“Yeah, yeah, but I just saw on CNN that your big case is being argued today, and, um, I just wanted to wish you luck . . .”

“Thanks, Sanjay.” It was this kind of thoughtfulness that I’d loved about Sanjay once upon a time. “It’s really nice that you called. I’d love to chat but as you can imagine, I’ve got to get to work.”

“OK. Um, Sheila—another thing—I’m married. Gayle and I eloped to Brighton Beach over the weekend and news is spreading and I didn’t want you to hear from your mom.” It was this kind of horrific behavior that made me hate Sanjay now.

“Well,” I said, taking a deep breath, “thanks so much for letting me know this right before the biggest moment of my professional life. Great timing—really. And congratulations.” I hung up and splashed cold water on my face. My ex-boyfriend was married to a fake Russian and my coclerk was caught up with a camel toe. What was I doing wrong?

My doorbell rang. Standing on the other side was Matthew, holding two coffees.

“I figured you could use some company walking to work today,” he said, handing me a Starbucks, “and we’re going to be late.” He practically dragged me down the stairs into a glorious spring morning.

“Thanks,” I said. I shut the building door behind me, regaining my composure. “Hey, you look . . . um, you look really good.” It was a fact. Standing in his beige linen suit, the sun highlighting the handful of freckles on his face, Matthew was turning a few heads on the street. Granted, most of them were homeless, strung-out male prostitutes, but heads were turning nevertheless.

“Likewise, Ms. Raj,” he said, grinning. He led me down the street. “How are you feeling about today?”