Page 5

I storm through the foyer and into the kitchen, my bare feet slapping against the cool flooring until I reach the fridge and pull out a pitcher of margarita.

“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” I whisper while pouring myself a hearty glass of the tart lime concoction. My frustration ebbs when the sweet and salty liquid trickles down my throat.

My phone buzzes in the back pocket of my denim cutoffs. I swipe it open and catch up on the messages in the group chat.

Parker: If I were male, my manscape game would be top level.

Margot: What’s a manscape?

Parker: Oh, sweet summer child. It’s when men prune their private parts, but no one told the guy I was with last night. One word: rainforest.

Harriet: Aren’t rainforests…damp?

Harriet: Wait, I don’t want to know.

Parker: Do you want to see pictures?

Margot: Please no.

Harriet: We really need to start monitoring your messages.

A marg and the unhingedness from my friends is enough to tame any woman’s midafternoon spiral.

Talia: I’m bored. Anyone want to keep me company? Margaritas on tap.

Margot: I’d love to, but I promised Willow I’d take her to the mall.

Parker: My dad isn’t having a great day. I’m gonna have to pass. Sorry, babe.

Harriet: The baby hasn’t stopped fussing and I’m about to put him down for a nap.

Talia: Want me to come over and help?

Harriet: No, you’re fine. Warren is here and I’m sure you have better things to do.

I have nothing to do, and it’s driving me toward the verge of insanity. They’re all valid, grown-up excuses. They don’t stop the trickle of rejection seeping into my veins.

Margot is a single mom, Harriet is a new mom to six-week-old Ethan, and Parker cares for her dad alongside her full-time job.

They all have their people to look after.

And me?

I glance around the empty kitchen, the July sun streaking through the large French doors and glaring off the shiny granite worktops. I have no one. Don’t get me wrong, if I were in a crisis or needed help to bury a body, they would all come running, bleach and shovels at the ready. Plus, it’s not their fault I’m alone in this mansion.

It’s mine.

“Ugh. Stop it.” Acting more bitter than the juice in my drink, I knock the rest of it back, refill my glass, and traipse into my office.

I’m calling it a day on the housework, and before I’m left to my own devices, I power on my laptop and dive into my last case. It’s a Saturday, my day off, but I’m still playing catch-up after the Fourth of July and refuse to let my clients down.

This is the glamorous life of a medical malpractice attorney.

I love my job; it’s rewarding, and I can’t imagine doing anything else. There was a time those closest to me didn’t believe in my dream. It was too big for my small-town upbringing. Even my teachers found my ambition hysterical. Their lack of confidence simply fueled the fire in me, and I’m now an associate at Baker and Foley.

The number of emails in my inbox doesn’t faze me. I welcome the distraction and demanding hours. I’m paid well at a firm that doesn’t determine a person’s worth by what’s between their legs. A rarity in this climate.

Tate always said I’ve got bigger balls than a longhorn bull. The weirdest and best compliment I’ve ever received.