Legal Affairs

Oliver

"How're you and Maggie doing," Noah asks.

I flinch. Right. I didn't tell her about that. "We broke up. Yesterday, after we talked."

"Shit. Are you ok?"

"Not really. It's...it's just..um yeah."

She smiles. "I guess there are both things we each don't want talk about."

I nod, not sure what to say.

There's another stretch of silence.

"Hey, um, I got a question for you," I say.

"Hmm?" she sips her coffee, Black Coffee with three scoops of chai, ginger, nutmeg, and a dash of milk, just the way she likes it. Is it creepy that I know that?

"About the annual gala. Will you be attending?" I ask, keeping my voice casual.

"Of course. Mr. Wilde made sure to emphasize that. 'It's a good opportunity to network and show your face,'" she mimics his tone, and I can't help but chuckle at the accuracy.

"He does have a point," I agree.

"Sure, but the way he said it..." she sighs, shaking her head. "Just a bunch of old white men looking for reasons to exclude the rest of us."

"What?"

She looks at me her eyebrows go up in a "whoops" look. "Did I say that out loud?"

"You did."

"Sorry, I'm not exactly a fan of the yearly gala."

"Why not?"

"Because it's a glorified excuse for the partners to rub elbows with each other. There's no substance, no real discussions. Just a bunch of white people telling each other how great they are and patting each other on the back for being such good upstanding members of society."

"Is it just the gala that you have an issue with or is there more to it?" I ask.

"It's not just the gala," she says, her voice tinged with annoyance. "It's the entire culture of the firm. The subtle biases and assumptions, the micro-aggressions and double standards. It's all just a game of politics, and I'm tired of playing by their rules."

I can't believe she's being this open. She's never really this open with me.

"I'm sorry," I reply, unsure how to respond. "They don't really mean anything by it, they're just being... themselves."

She raises an eyebrow. "And that makes it ok?"

"No, of course not, but you know, they're just like that."

Her face closes up. "We should get going, wouldn't want to keep Mr. Tremaine waiting."

I nod, not sure how to respond.

"Noah, you know I'm not some naive, wide-eyed idealist. I'm fully aware that the world isn't black and white. There are shades of grey, and sometimes, we have to navigate the system by playing by the rules." Before the words leave my mouth I know that I messed up.

"Oliver, let's just go." Her lips which are plump and soft are now set in a tight line.

"You're right," I concede, pushing down my frustration. "We should get going."

She nods, her expression still guarded.

As we head out the door, the weight of the conversation hangs between us, heavy with unspoken.

I pull up to my parents' house in Waterbrooke, San Francisco—a ritzy suburb with an HOA that's about as strict as a drill sergeant. Their home, a sprawling Colonial-style mansion, always looks postcard-perfect, with its immaculate white facade and navy blue shutters, surrounded by meticulously landscaped gardens. Today, though, it feels like the facade of a life I'm not sure I fit into anymore.

I haven't been home in a year and a half. My Mom has never liked Maggie, but she tolerated her until now. Now that I'm not with Maggie, I can't help but wonder what she'll say.

I lug my suitcase up the steps, my mind replaying the awkwardness of leaving the apartment I shared with Maggie. She needed a break, she said. Whatever that means. What does this guy have that I don't? I shake my head, trying to dislodge the thoughts as I step inside.

"Nate and Natalie's nest," I mumble under my breath, a smirk twitching at the corners of my mouth despite the churn of annoyance in my gut. Yeah, my parents really went all out with the matching names.

Inside, the house is as elegant and overly coordinated as ever. The foyer opens into a grand hallway, with a sweeping staircase to the right and the formal living room to the left, its furniture antique and probably more expensive than most people's cars. The spare bedroom I'll be crashing in is upstairs, a similarly decorated space with tasteful wallpaper and a four-poster bed that looks like it's never been slept in. It probably never has.

I glance into my old room across the hall. The door's open. It's still the way I left it after I left for college. I was a different person then. We moved to this house when I was seventeen. We just moved from Missouri.

A confederate flag is above the bed. I was proud of it eight years. I'm not sure anymore.

"So my twenty-six-year-old lawyer son moves back into his parents' house," he says, his tone light but carrying an edge of concern. He leans up against the doorframe, his arms crossed.

I bite my lip, feeling the sting of the words. "Well, damn, Dad, just light the fire already," I mutter, more to myself than to him. "Yep, Maggie and I...are going through something. This should only be a few weeks," I explain, trying to sound more confident about the timeline than I feel.

"Weeks? Weeks?" He throws his hands up in the air, his voice rising with each repetition. "Son, you have a full-time job, you're a grown man. You can't just move back home once something goes a bit sideways." He cocks his head to the side, his eyebrows knitting together. "Think about it. If we didn't sue Maria when she was a minor and she didn't win, then I would have been stuck with a baby-mama. It's the same with this. It's not gonna be easy."

I roll my eyes. Hearing about my Dad and his ex girlfriend.

He grabs my suitcase and starts making it to my old room.

I snatch it back from him. "Actually, Dad I'm not staying in there. It's not a problem, and I'll only be here for a few weeks, tops. And besides, the guest room has a better view," I say, forcing a smile and heading upstairs before he can protest.