Beside me, Mercedes’s leg tenses. I know she had her heart set on litigation. Does this mean the competition is back on? If so, then there will never be a finish line. As long as we’re working at the same firm with me in litigation and her in public law, she’s going to be gunning for a spot in my coveted practice group.
A headache forms at the base of my skull. “Thank you, Andréa. I can’t wait.” I lift my beer and take several long, long gulps. Frowning, Mercedes glances at me out of the corner of her eye.
Why do I suddenly feel bone-deep weary? This is everything I’ve hoped for, and more. Smith & Boone is one of the most prestigious firms in the state, maybe even the country. It’s where countless members of Congress and appellate court judges started their careers. I’ll be respected, well paid, and challenged every day. I’ll never have to worry about finances or not being able to pay my bills, especially since I’m starting with a clean financial slate thanks to my college and law school scholarships.
I can have the life other people only dream about.
But what kind of life will I have time to live once I leave the office?
I know the hours Andréa works—I’ve witnessed it all summer. Leaving at six thirty is considered early for her. Eight or nine is more her norm, especially when she’s working a big case, and—let’s face it—she’s always working a big case.
Does she ever paint? Help plan community festivals? Go on vacations without bringing work with her? Beer curdles in my empty stomach and I fight back a wave of nausea. Fumbling for my phone, I stand.
“Cass, are you all right?” Andréa asks, eyeing me closely.
No. Not even a little bit. “Yeah, fine. Sorry. Um, the chicken isn’t sitting so well.”
Her eyebrows knit together. “You haven’t eaten any.”
“I mean my breakfast. I made eggs this morning and I thought they smelled a little weird, but I ate them anyway because breakfast is the most important meal of the day, you know? And now I’m feeling off. I’m going to find a bathroom,” I mutter.
Mercedes half stands. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No,” I quickly say, stepping backward over the bench. “I’ll be fine.” I stumble a step before turning back around. “Thank you again, Andréa. This opportunity really does mean the world to me.” I put my hand over my heart. “I’ll be right back.”
I catch a glimpse of Mercedes’s creased forehead before I walk away from the table into the ever-shifting crowd.
* * *
Air. I can’t get enough air. Running my knuckles along the center of my chest, I force myself to take deep, calming breaths.
What is wrong with me? Why does it feel like an elephant decided to sit on my chest?
I pass the Blooms & Baubles tent. Inside, Perry is talking to Devin. He pulls a double take when he spots me. I keep walking. I can’t deal with Perry or Devin or my twisted web of romantic feelings at the moment.
I don’t head for the portable toilets—the thought of their rank stench only increases the churning, sick feeling in my gut. Instead, I walk to Blooms & Baubles, the shop. I just need a few minutes to collect myself. Somewhere cool and calm.
My tennis shoes thud dully against the sidewalk as I pass my mural, but I don’t stop to admire my handiwork. Accepting the position at Smith & Boone will mean no more murals, that’s for sure. Maybe some small-scale painting here and there—I won’t be working 24/7 after all—but just like in law school, I know the busier I get, the less I’ll paint… and the unhappier I’ll be.
Dodging a middle-aged couple on the sidewalk, I practically run up the path to Blooms & Baubles. The bell tinkles when I open the door, and I stop dead. The shop is busier than I’ve ever seen it. At least half a dozen people are meandering through the cramped store, and two more are in line at the counter—one holding a handblown vase, the other a small art print and ceramic mug. Alma looks up from behind the counter when I approach.
“Cass!” she says, but her smile fades as she studies me. “Hey, are you okay?”
“Can I use your bathroom?”
“Of course. You know where it is, right?”
Nodding, I sidestep the line of customers, walk past The Colonel, where he’s dozing in his dog bed, and veer through the door on my right into a tiny white bathroom. Locking the door behind me, I brace my hands on the vinyl vanity and stare into the mirror.
My cheeks are flushed pink and my eyes are overbright. For once, Rogue Curl remains firmly in place, trapped by the extra bobby pin I used to secure it.