The shadows curled around the corners of his furniture and slinked along the walls. The kitchen’s island, whitewashed in bright light to ward them off, was covered in piles of transcripts and the floor bore the weight of case law and past briefs. She wound her foot around the leg of her stool and tried to ignore the way his arm brushed over hers when he reached for a transcript or passed her a page to review. She tried to ignore the steady clink of his watch on the countertop, the contractions and flexes of his muscles sliding under his skin as he wrote. But she heard each whisper of a movement, felt each touch, and their memories lingered on her skin like a brand.
The coffee pot beeped and it released great gulps of steam as it sputtered to a stop. She glanced up at it, grateful for the distraction, and ran a hand over her hair, scraping it back from her face. “Coffee’s done,” she said quietly. She pushed back from the counter, her chair legs scraping roughly over the floor. “Want some?” she asked, looking over her shoulder.
He straightened and stretched his muscles. “That’s why we made it, right?” He pressed his thumb into his palm and massaged the cramps from his hand.
“Black, right?”
“Yep.” He surveyed the lake of paper in front of him and stopped a sigh of disgust from hissing out. “This appeal is such a mess.” He nudged the pile of papers by his foot and winced at the avalanche that followed.
She handed him a mug and cupped her own between her palms, letting the steam from the coffee float past her face. She blinked slowly as the vapor drifted across her eyes and she leaned back against the counter. “It was a month long trial,” she pointed out. “It was bound to generate some paperwork.”
“The other lawyers should have been more considerate and pled.”
She snorted softly and the corners of her mouth tilted up. “I don’t think they had us in mind when they tried this case.”
He shrugged. “No excuse.”
She mimicked his shrug and let her eyes wander around his apartment. Her gaze settled on the front door and stayed there, waiting for it open and Mattie to peek in. But the door stayed shut. “It seems quiet tonight.”
“It’s the rain,” he started shuffling through his notes.
“I meant in here,” she clarified, still watching the door.
He followed her stare and leaned back in his chair. “Mattie’s with her dad tonight.” The words were casual and his tone was offhand. It was almost possible to ignore the flicker of disappointment in his eyes.
She sighed a little and let the steam from her coffee take the little breath to the ceiling, where it disappeared into the corners of the room. “You miss her.” It was a statement.
He hitched a shoulder and let it drop. “It’s what’s best for her.”
She studied him before saying, “But not what’s best for you.”
The words crawled across the room and hovered at his back, pulling his muscles tight across his shoulder blades. He fought against the tenseness, shifting until his muscles stretched, and mumbled a “hmm” quietly. “We should get back to work.”
“Harm?” she said. She kept her eyes trained on him and didn’t move.
“What?”
She took a deep breath and asked, “Are you okay?” She regretted the question as soon as the words pushed past her lips. She hated the way it hung suspended in the air. And she hated the fact that if he said no, she wasn’t sure she had anything left to give him.
“I could ask you the same question,” he said after a minute.
She lifted a hand from her mug and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “You could.” She traced the rim of her mug with a finger. “But we’re not talking about me.”
He gripped a pencil between his fingers, letting it seesaw on the countertop. He watched the ends bounce with each tap. “We never are, are we?”
She let her breath out in a huff and leaned back until her hips rested on the countertop, putting as much distance between them as the space would allow. “We’re always talking about me,” she responded. Her coffee was almost gone and the kitchen’s lights formed shapes on its surface. A series of ellipses and half circles that led nowhere. “Always.”
“And you never say anything.”
“There’s nothing to say.” Her fingers tightened around the cup until her knuckles blanched. She shifted against the counter and wondered, almost absently, how much pressure she would have to exert to have the mug shatter in her hands.
He stood up and started reorganizing the paper piles until carefully ordered dates slipped out of order and hundreds of pages were realigned. Their edges matched perfectly and the piles were neat, but, in the morning, when he would try to work, he wouldn’t be able to find the things he needed the most. “The same goes for me,” he said.
“Harm,” she began, then bit her lip before taking a deep breath and continuing, “Mattie’s moving out.”
“I’m aware of that,” he said softly.
She ignored his tone and pushed a little harder. “That’s got to make you feel something.”
He sighed and straightened his back, vertebra by vertebra. “What do you want me to say, Mac?”
Rain fell softly on the window, beading and dripping in rivulets. He could hear the wind as it slipped between the buildings and sighed around the corners.
“Something.” She gripped her mug. “Anything.”
“She’s going back to her dad.” He shrugged. “It’s for the best.”
“It is, you know.”
“I know,” he agreed. “We’re going on vacation next month.”
“Where?” She recognized the change of subject but didn’t want to fight.
“Massachusetts. The Cape. She picked it,” he explained.
Mac wrinkled her nose in confusion. “That’s an odd choice for a teenager.”
“Apparently,” he said, “she and her mom used to watch ‘Sabrina’ together. It was filmed on Martha’s Vineyard.”
“Oh,” she nodded. “I guess it makes sense.” She put down the mug and rubbed her hands over her arms. She tugged at the sleeves of her tee shirt and stared at the chair where he had been sitting. She tried to imagine it empty for a week, his office dark, and it reminded her of all the times he wasn’t there. Blinking, she looked away as her stomach churned. “I always wanted to go there,” she murmured.
He glanced up from the papers he was stacking in boxes. “Do you want to come along?”
“I wasn’t fishing for an invitation,” she said quickly.
“That wasn’t why I invited you.”
The rain grew louder on the windows and bounced on the roof. Its dull pounding echoed through the room and its shadows traced patterns on the walls. “I don’t think I’d be good company.”
He smiled and said, “I’m used to it.” Walking around the counter, he tipped her chin up to see her face. “Why don’t you come with us?”
“I won’t be any fun.” She patted his hand and eased away from him, separating her from him with floor tiles and counter space.
“You don’t know that,” he argued, wondering why he was arguing.
She sighed and rinsed out her cup. Staring out the window, she watched the lights halo around the street lamps. “I don’t have the energy for it,” she said quietly. She looked up at him and sighed the words out, “There’s nothing left in me.” She set the cup down carefully on the edge of the sink and stared at the dark street.
He leaned against the counter and watched the material of her shirt slide over her back as she washed the coffee pot. It was odd, he thought, as the shadows shifted on the walls and the rain slid down the windowpanes, they had so much in common. His hand rose and dropped to his side. The water shut off and she turned to face him. Over the lake of papers, they stared at each other.
“I should go,” she said quietly. “It’s late.”
He didn’t stop her. It was late.