Thirteen
Jihoon texts me short thoughts and photos of what he’s doing. He’s a stream-of-consciousness kind of guy, so I get random snippets of what he overhears on the street and his observations watching people try to fix a broken gate in the park. They’re the bright spots of my day, and slowly I start doing the same. We end up in long, free-flowing asynchronous conversations that serve as a satisfying digital reminder that other people exist and there’s life outside the hallowed, dark wood-paneled halls of Yesterly and Havings.
Because work seems a bit off.
A lot off.
At first, I thought it was me. My head used to be about 90 percent dedicated to work and 8 percent thinking about Hana and my family. The remaining 2 percent went to grooming and other human tasks. Jihoon and my dad and Phoebe have barged in to claim more than their allotted share. Work has lost out.
I glance at the time. I’m due for a meeting with Richard. Formal meetings with Richard are usually good news, and this must finally be about Beaconsmith. I know it. It has to be. I’ve worked hard, harder than anyone else at my level. Definitely harder than Brittany. Being added to a big name like Beaconsmith is a declaration of how much the firm values you. I’m ready.
I arrive at Richard’s office at the exact meeting time, and his assistant nods me in without looking up from her screen. Richard is finishing a phone call, and he points me to one of the leather seats in front of his desk. I smooth my skirt over my knees, notebook balanced on my lap as I cross my ankles. I never go into a meeting without something to write on.
Richard hangs up and smiles at me. “How are you, Ariadne?”
“Good, thanks.”
“How’s Marty?”
Richard is the only one I’ve heard call my dad Marty. I’m not sure Dad would like me to spread the story of his heart attack, so I say, “Doing well.”
“Good man.” He rests his hands on his desk. “I have some news for you today.”
This is it. My heart rate picks up, but I make sure to stay calm, at least outwardly. “Yes?”
“You’ll be pleased, especially in light of your work with Hyphen Records. A most unusual client for us. Ah, Brittany. Here you are.”
What’s she doing here? Brittany slides into the seat beside me. “Sorry I’m late. Meredith was telling me about the changes the marina is doing near the cottage.”
He waves this away as if he hadn’t told me multiple times about the importance of punctuality. “I know how busy you are. I called you both in because we’re making a few changes.” He doesn’t wait for a reply. “Ariadne, you’ve demonstrated a real skill with our smaller clients. I’ve heard good things from Luxe about your dedication and professionalism.”
I’m holding my breath as I wait for him to continue. This is good, really good.
“We’re going to capitalize on that. Effective today, you’ll now also be responsible for the Queen’s Bride, which was one of Brittany’s clients.”
“The what?” I say.
Brittany gives a fake frowny face. “Lucky. They’re a spa, so fun.”
A spa? He’s giving me a spa?
“This frees up Brittany to take on work with Beaconsmith.” He smiles at her. “An excellent learning opportunity for you.”
“I look forward to it,” she says.
“I’ve told Meredith and the rest of the team to bring you into meetings starting today,” he says. “I know you’ll do well. Have the Queen’s Bride sent over to Ariadne.”
I know the smile has remained on my face because it hurts my cheeks. I need to keep up a positive attitude in front of Richard, but I’m overcome by the unfairness. Instead of me impressing the bigwigs, Brittany’s going to be the one in the room with the decision-makers. I’ve been here longer. I put in more hours. I did the work. I deserved Beaconsmith.
He looks at both of us. “That’s it for now.”
I drop my notebook on the floor accidentally on purpose to give me an excuse to stay behind as Brittany breezes out the door to a friendly farewell from Richard’s assistant.
When I look up, Richard is already typing away. He stops when he realizes I haven’t left. “Something you need, Ariadne?”
“I’m glad to have the new account,” I say, deciding to lead with a positive. Men like Richard don’t like to be challenged. Since I spend most of my workday around men like Richard, even when they’re women, I’ve learned how to speak with the most marshmallow of words when necessary.
“Good,” he says, eyes going back to the screen. “I know you’ll bring your usual hard work to it.”
“I’d like to talk about when I can join the Beaconsmith team or one like it,” I say. “The chance to learn would be very useful for me.”
His watery blue eyes rest on me. “It’s natural you’d think that,” he says. “If you prove yourself with these clients, you’ll be in a good place.”
I want to point out that I already have been proving myself, but I say, “Is there an area in particular you want to see some growth from me?”
Richard holds up his hand. “You’re a good lawyer, otherwise you wouldn’t have the work you do. These placements are sometimes about fit. We look for the lawyers who are suitable for the team.”
I take a deep breath as shallow as I can so Richard can’t see the rise of my chest. Yesterly and Havings is a cold place, not only so men can wear their blazers every day of the goddamn year but emotionally frigid. I normally don’t mind because that suits me. Today it’s landing harder, and I’m not sure what’s changed.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Thank you, Ariadne.”
I have back-to-back meetings the rest of the day, which means by the time I leave, I’m numb to what happened but also angry. Suitable for the team, he said. Nothing about my work or dedication but that ephemeral and inarguable quality of fit. I know what that means and also that I have no defense. Brittany and I have similar qualifications, so what is it that makes her fit and not me? Could it be that she resembles all the partners and most of the lawyers, although the support staff is as diverse as the brochures at a university job fair? I’m trapped into silence, though. Richard would be angrier about any insinuation of being thought racist than he would about the actual racist shit he’s pulling. To complain would be to paint a target on my back and go against the cheerful and obliging reputation I’ve been trying to build.
A text comes from Phoebe, reminding me about dinner, as if I’m the irresponsible one. I don’t even bother to reply, and I feel my mood drop another eight percentage points. I look at my phone and text a message to Jihoon.
Me: I’m going to my parents’ for dinner. Want to come?
Jihoon: They won’t mind?
Me: Of course not.
Even if they did, right now his companionship is more for me than them. I deserve it after today. Plus, Jihoon’s presence will force Phoebe to be on her best—or at least better—behavior.
Jihoon: Thank you. I would love to meet your family.
Me: I’ll be home soon.
Knowing Jihoon is coming makes me look forward to this dinner. I like having him near, with his crooked smile and the way he throws his head back when he laughs. I like how he looks at the world, so different than I do. He gives me a break from myself.
The professional smile I put on as I leave the office is a little warmer because I’m thinking about Jihoon. It doesn’t matter. I don’t see anyone as I make my escape.