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“Well, I…huh. Okay.” I rub the ends of my hair that have fallen over my shoulder, still eyeing him. “Thank you, Ezra.”

“Of course.”

I keep waiting for him to say something more, and when he remains silent, I’m struck with an overwhelming urge to put distance between us. As if it might be me who does something reckless if I stay here any longer.

“I’ll be in touch,” I tell him. “I have some additional interrogatories.”

He gives me another brief nod. “Sounds good.”

I allow myself one last look, realizing that he really is going to leave it at this, and I tell myself it is relief that I’m feeling as I turn from him to leave the room. That it’s a smart decision, ending this thing between us. No good can come of it, it certainly isn’t going anywhere, and I don’t need the distraction. This is a good thing.

Bianca is already gone when I leave the conference room, but I think I expected that. I suppose that means I’ll need to call her when I get home and try to sort through what happened back there. It’s not a phone call I’m looking forward to. I realize too late that I’m still lingering outside the conference room, just standing in front of the door without any real reason as my thoughts swim. Pretending I don’t know why I’m so distracted. Telling myself it has everything to do with the professional happenings that just occurred in that room and not the personal ones.

It’s a good thing.

I tell myself that a dozen more times on the walk to my car.

Nine

Dani

In the weeksthat follow depositions, Ezra makes good on his word to keep things professional. Gone are the random flirty text messages at least once a day I’ve become used to, and when wedotext—it’s curt, succinct, and completely centered on the case.

It’s what I wanted, what I asked for, sure. So why have I been so…unsettled?

It’s as if I’d gotten so used to his annoyingly constant presence that now that he’s stepped back (like Iaskedhim to), I feel out of sorts. It might be more annoying than Ezra is, feeling this way.

“Dani, you’re crushing my nuts.”

I jolt, dropping the pastry cutter I’ve been using to break up Mom’s pecans for the bottom of her pie. When I look into the bowl I’ve been working with, it’s clear I have in fact pulverized several of them into powder.

“Sorry,” I mutter, dumping my work and grabbing another cup of shelled pecans to start over. “Spaced out.”

She frowns at me from where she’s icing her cake. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine.”

She looks unconvinced. “Anything bothering you at work?”

“No, no. It’s going well at work.”

Well, mostly. Bianca’s second omission about her previous divorce petition and trust fund woes was a setback, one she hadn’t been too keen to talk about. When we discussed it, she more or less went Edna Mode on me. I could practically see her waving at me from over her shoulder saying, “I never look back, darling. It distracts from the now.”

Which is frustrating. Since she refuses to dive any deeper into the withdrawal of her petition, I’m only left with the assurance that her trust fund quickly regained its lost assets, giving her ample reasoning to go through with her petition, if money had been the issue. She didn’t have to stick it out with him for another thirty years if that had been what she was worried about.

“Good,” Mom says. “No work stuff today.”

“That might be hard considering half of your guest list are Dad’s old work buddies.”

“And if I hear anyone talking shop, there will be no pie for any of them.”

A laugh escapes me. “You know, most people don’t continue to listen to their spouses after the divorce.”

“We respect each other,” Mom answers casually. “We don’t need nuptials for that.”

I frown, giving my attention back to the bowl in front of me. I don’t think I can handle letting my mind wander to thecomplexity that is my parents and stepparents today. That’s never a fun time for my brain.

“Where is Bill anyway?”