“Yeah,” I said. “Kristen wouldn’t, either.”

We set the security alarm, turned off the lights, and made our way for the door. The street in front of the restaurant was dark, and a homeless guy in purple sweats was sprawled out in the doorway. We stepped over him knowing that, as hard as we think we have it, there’s someone out there in far worse shape.

Not having a baby isn’t the worst thing in the world.

Unless, of course, you want one.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

KRISTEN

Marcy Teaberry has been my assistant at the firm for three years. She’s ten years younger and in some ways reminds me of who I was a long time ago. She’s ambitious, but not overly so. She treats the staff beneath her with the same kind and thoughtful regard she offers to those who could advance her career. She’s so nice, I think, I could actually be happy for her if she got a promotion. Her rise in the ranks wouldn’t be built on trashing someone. As mine was. I’m not proud of that. Marcy is trustworthy and predictable. In a law firm like ours, those attributes are in short supply and seldom linked.

She comes into my office with a stack of binders. The binders are black like her daily uniform. She sets them on the table softly.

“Traffic was the worst,” she says. “Sorry I’m late.”

“I didn’t even realize,” I say, though, of course, I did.

“Jaxon was up all night,” she says, as though a second excuse were needed.

This is where she doesn’t remind me of me. First, she has a son. Second, she’s named him Jaxon. If God or a fertility doctor were to give me a child, I would never call him something as low-class as Jaxon. Nicholas or Alexander top my dream list for a son. For a daughter, Katherine, after my grandmother, has always seemed perfect.

I bet if Marcy has a daughter, she’ll call her Amber. The name will be both a nod to her lower-class roots but also to the coloring that I’m sure the girl will inherit from her mother. Marcy’s hair is flame red. She wears it in a pixie cut that’s somehow modern and less childish than it sounds. Her skin is milk white and blemish-free. Looking at her, no one would guess she recently had a baby. Her baby belly is gone from hard work, good genes, or Spanx. Maybe all three.

I sit there quietly while she says my name a couple of times.

And a third: “Kristen?”

“Oh. What?” I ask. My head is lowered to look at my laptop.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay,” she says, fanning open the top binder, which is the thickest. “Let’s cover the Bradford depos. Sound like a plan?”