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Something cold settles in my chest. I heard so much about you. I reach for my highlighter cap to keep my hands busy.

“We are taking Jackson to dinner at Whitmore’s,” Linda announces, because apparently, we are all doing this now. “You should join us. I know Jackson’s grandfather would love to meet you.” The mention of Jackson’s grandfather brings a sharp ache to my ribs, the grief swelling out of nowhere and making my breath catch. It hurts me knowing that Jackson doesn’t want me to meet his family, even though I understand.

Mostly.

For one reckless second, I want him to correct her. To say, “Actually, Phoenix is coming.”

To choose me. But he doesn’t.

“Oh, I would love to.” Cassandra turns to me with a smirk on her face, like she has won something. Why does it feel like she has?

Using the smile I reserve for courtrooms when opposing counsel says something I find professionally insulting, I say, “I hope you have a wonderful time.” I look at Jackson because it would be strange if I didn’t. “Enjoy, that place is wonderful, I hear.”

He holds my gaze for one moment. Something in it that I don’t let myself read into. “Goodnight, Phoenix.”

I watch them move down the hall. Cassandra’s hand finds Jackson’s elbow. Linda is already asking questions about the restaurant. He glances back once, and I pretend to be busy with the brief in my hand.

I stare at the same highlighted paragraph for a full minute without reading a single word.

Whitmore’s. The nicest restaurant in Cascadia, directly on the main strip, where everyone goes, and everyone sees everyone. I know this because Becca has mentioned it twice as somewhere she and Sam have started going.

We have never been to Whitmore’s. We have never been anywhere in Cascadia, not once. It has always been one of our houses, or a town over where no one would place either of our faces. I keep telling myself I prefer it. It is cleaner, simpler, and easier to manage.

I pick up my highlighter and keep working because that is what I do.

I’m still at my desk three hours later, a dull headache blooming behind my left eye and my fourth coffee cold beside me. The office has long since emptied, but I’m focused on the motion I need to draft for the Kincaid file.

My phone lights up.

Mom

I saw the Hargrove ruling came down today. You should have led with the financial disclosure angle from the start. Lesson for next time

Mom

But, good job.

I read it twice, then set my phone face down.

She isn’t wrong; that’s the worst part. She has never once, in my memory, led with “you did well”; always with “here is what you could have done better,” and I have spent thirty-two years trying to produce work so airtight she runs out of angles. It has never happened, and I know it never will. I understand this intellectually, but it does little to nothing for how I feel emotionally.

My phone lights up again, and I brace for another critique.

Nessa

Ladies. Emergency. We are talking level 3

Mack

What happened? Are you ok? And wait, is level 3 worse than the time you pulled three tarot cards and all of them were negative?

Nessa

Define ok. My car is running, crystals are charged, but my spirit is troubled. And it’s about the same as the time I pulled The Tower, the Ten of Swords, and The Three of Swords.

Mack

Nessa, I swear to god