Sidebarred_ A Legal Briefs NoveL - Emma Chase Page 0,21
and blotchy and big, heaving sobs rack her shoulders.
Chelsea awkwardly settles on the floor. “Honey?”
Riley looks up. “Peter broke up with me.” She pauses to cry into her hand, then goes on. “He said he didn’t want a girlfriend during the last summer before college.”
“Oh, sweetie.” Chelsea envelops Riley in her arms. “I’m so sorry.”
I’m not. I’m fucking elated. Best news I’ve heard all day.
Of course I can’t tell Riley that. She wouldn’t understand. So I offer my support the only way a guy in this situation possibly can.
“Do you want me to snap him in half for you? It’d be really easy.”
Riley squeezes her eyes and shakes her head. “I loved him so much. Why doesn’t he love me back?”
Chelsea brushes her niece’s hair out of her eyes. And she gets this determined, resolute look on her face. “Listen to me, Riley. Millions of women have been where you are right now. I know it’s hard and I know it hurts . . . but I promise you, you will come out of this stronger than you were before. There’s a reason; there’s something better waiting for you, just around the corner. And it won’t hurt like this forever. One day you’re going to wake up, take a breath, and realize . . . you’re over it. You’re over him.”
About fifteen minutes later, Riley asks to be alone—so she can listen to depressing songs on repeat and watch YouTube montages about her favorite deceased dystopian-books-made-into-movies characters. As we walk down the hallway, I mention, “You seemed pretty experienced in the whole breakup pep-talk thing.”
Her eyes crinkle up at me, curiously. “I’ve had my share.”
“Is that what you thought about me? Back in the day. Were you waiting for the moment when you realized you were over me?”
Boy was that a terrible time. I remember the weeks Chelsea and I spent as civil, polite, platonic friends—at my insistence—with a mixture of shame and nausea.
She wraps her arms around my waist and rests her cheek on my chest. “No. I’d resigned myself to a life of faking it. Because I was sure there was no way . . . I’d ever be over you.”
“Yeah. You pretty much ruined me, too, Chelsea.”
****
That Tuesday, I’m in the office going over my messages when Brent—and his very round, very pregnant wife—walk in. Kennedy’s wearing pink velour sweatpants, one of Brent’s Batman T-shirts, and a pair of fuzzy beige boots that probably cost an obscene amount of money. She looks like a homeless person who raided a dumpster in the fashion district.
“Hey, Kennedy.”
“Hi, Jake.”
“How are you feeling?”
She rubs her protruding belly. “Like a tick ready to pop. Today’s my first day of maternity leave.”
Her due date is next week.
“Congratulations. What are you doing here?”
She sighs, pushing back a strand of light-blond hair. “I had planned to put my swollen feet up, cuddle with the cats, and reread a Stephenie Meyer novel, but . . .”
Her eyes slide to her husband.
Brent raises his hand guiltily. “I had a dream last night that Kennedy went into labor and I missed the whole thing.”
“So he dragged me along with him today.”
“You can put your feet up on my office couch. We’ll hang out, it’ll be great.” Brent snaps his fingers and pats his leg, vibrating with more energy than usual.
Kennedy notices, too. “Why don’t you go for a run?”
Brent is shocked by the suggestion. “I can’t do that. What if your water breaks while I’m gone? I don’t want to miss anything.”
Kennedy’s brown eyes roll to the ceiling. “It’s impossible for you to miss anything, Brent! If I stop short you’re going to go straight up my ass.”
Brent smirks. “Wouldn’t be so bad—it’s my second favorite place to be.”
Kennedy pulls at her hair and she looks to me. “Help.”
I shrug. “You married him.”
“Seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Knock it off, you two. You’re going to hurt my feelings. I’m sensitive.”
He says this while walking past me to Stanton’s closed office door. He opens it, stands inside for two seconds, and mutters, “O-kay.”
Then he turns around and walks back out to the common area. When I try to pass him with a file Stanton was looking for yesterday, he holds up a hand.
“You don’t want to go in there, trust me.”
I was Stanton’s roommate for four years. I know him well—I’ve seen things.
“What? Are they screwing in there?”
“Yep. In the desk chair.” Then he grins. “Did you know Sofia got a tattoo?”
****
An hour later, Stanton and Sofia