“Yes.” At this point she breaks down, hugging herself and sobbing, her tears dripping from her face into her lap. “I am so sorry. I am disgusted and deeply remorseful at the fact that I took part in their deaths. I would do anything to change what happened. I want them to know that I recognize that my apology is worthless, that it will never bring mothers and fathers and daughters and sons back, but that I will see their faces till the day I die. I am sorry,” her hands come up and cradle her face. Bravo.
I breathe a sigh of relief. She did it—she pulled it off.
“Thank you, Ms. Smith. That will be all Your Honor.”
The prosecutor cross-examines Leah next. She stands firm. She plays dumb so well. I silently applaud her wide-eyed terror.
When she walks down from the stand and takes her seat, our eyes meet in a knowingness that transcends a normal lawyer/client relationship. Did I lie okay? Her lashes ask me. Am I being soft enough to convince the jury? Her mouth pouts.
You are a gifted actress. I say with a flick of my eyes. And I hate you.
I turn in my seat to look at Caleb. He is looking at me and not his wife. He acknowledges the success with a tight lipped nod of his head.
We break from trial on the first of September. In the morning Leah’s verdict will be read. I am a mess. I am lounging around in my condo. It is dark outside and I can see a few twinkling boat lights creeping along the ocean’s surface. I haven’t washed my hair since yesterday and I am wearing sweats and an old t-shirt when the doorbell rings. Funny. Usually if I have a guest, the front desk will call up before opening the elevator. I plod to the door in my socks and open it without looking through the peephole which is a very bad habit. Caleb is standing in my doorway in a wrinkled suit, with a bottle of wine in one hand and a greasy bag of take-out in the other. I let him in without a word. I am not surprised, I am not mortified. I am Olivia and he is Caleb.
He follows me to the kitchen and he lets out a low whistle when he sees my view. I grin and toss him a corkscrew for the wine. He opens the cork, while I go to the cabinet for two glasses. I start carrying everything to the table, but he points to my balcony. It faces the ocean and the only way to get there is by walking through my bedroom.
We carry everything outside and sit at the wrought iron table that has never been used. He brought sushi. We prop our feet up and eat in silence, watching the waves lick at the sand. There is a heaviness between us, but isn’t there always? After tomorrow there will be no more excuse to see each other and though we have not said much on a personal level, there have been looks exchanged, small words…
I am so tired of this cycle, this constant struggle to breathe the same air as him. I look over and see that he is watching me.
“What?”
“Don’t marry Turner.”
“Pfffff,” I say. “Why do you hate him so much?”
Caleb shrugs and looks away. “He’s not your type.”
“Really,” I mock. “What do you know anyway? You have terrible taste.”
We sit in silence for another few minutes, and then he says, “If you’ve never trusted me on anything, trust me on this.”
I sigh, and change the subject.
“Remember our tree?”
“Yea, I remember,” he says softly.
“They cut it down.”
His head snaps over to look at me.“I’m just kidding,” I giggle.
He smiles and shakes his head.
“What difference would it have made? Our whole relationship was cut down,” he grins, but it is a bitter grin.
“Put through the grinder,” I remark.
“Pulverized,” he adds.
He leaves after that. Hours after he’s gone, I can still smell him in my halls. My condo feels cold and empty without him. I would give it all up, the money, the fancy job, the condo….I could live in squalor with him and be happy. I think. Why didn’t I realize that before? Before, I screwed it all up. I can’t sleep, so I sit on the couch and stare at the ocean. I am still sitting there when the sun rises. I get ready for court, make myself some coffee, and walk out my door. Today is the last day.
We win the case.
Leah is found not guilty of falsifying documents, not guilty of clinical trial fraud, and guilty of ethical misconduct of responsibilities. She pays a fine of one million dollars for the latter and is sentenced to two hundred hours of community service. I am not celebratory. I could have put that bitch in prison and stolen her husband.
The victory dinner is held at a posh restaurant in South Beach. I am extricating myself from a handful of well-wishers when I spot her sashaying over to me. I eye her sexy black dress with distaste. She is so polished and coiffed, she looks like a magazine cutout. I am wearing a simple, cream sheath dress. She is the Devil tonight and I am the Angel.
“Olivia,” she purrs, sauntering up with a glass of wine in her hand, “cheers to our win. It was all very well done.” She clinks her glass with mine and I smile tightly.
“Thank you?”
“I don’t suppose I’ll ever understand why you did it. You saved me. Unless, it’s because he asked you to.”
As if on cue, we both look over at Caleb, who is laughing and chatting with a group of friends.
“It must have been very hard for you to be around him.” She is watching him, possessively. I am struck by how much I miss hearing his laughter. It rips me to my core, that he belongs in her life and not mine.
“He’s not the kind of man a woman can easily forget,” she continues sweetly, and if I wasn’t the type of girl that played her game, I would have thought her sincere.
“No, he’s not,” I admit freely.
“You watch him all the time—I see you do it, Olivia.”
I look at her bored. She is playing games with someone who knows how to play them better.
“Does he look at you, the way I look at him?” I ask casually. Ahh, there it is—the ill-disguised anger.
And, by the look on her face, I know I’ve struck a nerve. She opens her mouth to say something but I hold up a hand.
“Leah, go be with your husband,” I say, “before he realizes that he’s still in love with me.”
And as if right on cue, Caleb turns to look at me, not at his wife—at me. Our eyes lock for the briefest of seconds, Caleb’s and mine, amber and blue. Leah witnesses our exchange and though she remains the epitome of decorum and class, I see a whiteness appear around her lips. Her anger rolls toward me, though what I feel coming from him pushes it away. He is longing, as am I. I garner what remains of my self-control and tell myself the truth: Not mine, not ever.