Page 47 of Finding Mr. July

I keep the text to myself. I want to ask Rachel if it means anything, but how is she supposed to know? Nevertheless, I read that little word too many times to count, wondering what… speculating if… hoping maybe. But I still need more than one word.

It’s the first time I’ve opened the box with my things from Heckles & Romer since I left.

My diplomas and admission certificates, the bound leather law tome my parents gave me when I graduated, half-filled notepads, and a framed photo of Chris and me on Mr. Heckles’s yacht.

Each item I uncover stirs up memories of my attorney days, but while not all are bad, they also don’t do much to boost me for the interview.

I thought seeing these items would remind me of who I am, connect me with the identity I once chose for myself.

Instead, they only remind me of what I used to do and how it ended.

It sounds similar, but the difference is vast. Nevertheless, I tell myself that nothing says I can’t do it again. I can do anything I set my mind to.

But it turns out, that’s not entirely true.

The interview begins on a high note. The partners have looked into my past achievements, courtesy of the portfolio Jude provided them with. They’re impressed, they say. “So, tell us why you want to work here.”

I blink at the computer screen. There are three of them.

Three smiling men in suits against a generic bookcase backdrop.

They’re younger than the partners at Heckles & Romer, but the slight pallidness of their skin is the same, speaking of irregular meals and infrequent exercise.

I know exactly what they’ll look like in ten years.

Yes, why do I want to work there? Somehow, I doubt “I want to be where my family is” or “I have no choice” will be acceptable answers.

“I’ve been looking for a smaller firm,” I hear myself say. “One where my business law expertise could make a difference in the lives of regular people. My brother tells me you’re expanding your services on the family business law side.”

The men nod and launch into a series of rapid questions regarding my visions there.

I know my responses resonate, that I am acing this interview, but the longer the call goes on, the sweatier I get.

It starts in my palms and moves up to my torso until my shirt clings to my back.

I’m parched, and if I wasn’t on camera, I’d be guzzling from the bottle of water next to me.

“What are your long-term aspirations?” one of the men asks suddenly. “Where do you see yourself in five years? Ten?”

“We do offer a partner track,” another one chimes in. “Which I assume someone with your background would be interested in.”

My tongue feels like a wad of cotton as I scramble for an answer.

I don’t understand it—I have always had a plan.

Several plans. Short-term ones and long-term ones.

But right now, I’m drawing a blank. When I try to corral my thoughts into visualizing what my ideal future looks like practicing law, they skate away like quicksilver.

And then I realize that if not for these men watching me, I wouldn’t even be trying.

I’ve been guided by professional aspirations my whole life. Every one of my successes and failures has been linked to tangible achievements. I’ve hinged my life satisfaction on doing instead of feeling.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

“Holly? Did we lose you there?” one of the partners asks.

Happy , I think. My long-term plan right now is to be happy.

And going backward isn’t going to achieve that. Not even the most ideal job would. I need more.

“Sorry, you’re breaking up a bit,” I say. “Might be the Wi-Fi. If I lose you, I—” I disconnect the call. Let out a shaky breath. A panicked giggle. Then I down the water bottle.

When it’s empty, I throw it in the trash and lean back in my chair, resting both palms on my closed laptop. I only know one other person who knows this level of floundering—who’s lost track of themselves and struggled with moving forward and who would fully understand my headspace. Understand me.

The one person who has given me a glimpse of happy.

I reach for my phone and dial.

“You’ve reached Jonathan Summers. Please leave a message at the tone.”

Damn it.

I almost hang up, but then I think how much I’d hate if he did that to me, so after a brief silence, I sputter out a “Hi.” I clear my throat and press the phone closer to my cheek.

“I didn’t expect to get your voice mail, so sorry in advance if I ramble.

” I get up and pace to the window in my room, take in the dimming sky.

“Um, I got your text, so I assume you know how Friday went. Not great, that is. I, um, thought you’d be there.

I looked for you.” My fingertips brush my reflection in the pane.

The glass is like ice. “I’d hoped you’d be there,” I clarify in a lower voice.

Then I spin around and draw a deep breath.

“Anyway, I just had this urge to call. I had an interview actually—with Jude’s new law firm if you can believe it.

Botched it in the end. So now, while everyone else has a direction, I don’t have the faintest clue what I’m going to do.

And all I could think about was how that would matter so much less if I could talk to you about it.

” I dig my teeth into my lower lip. “I miss you. I know I said stuff, but I know you didn’t sabotage the calendar on purpose.

I’m sorry if I wasn’t clear on that. I’m still disappointed, of course, but Letitia deserved to win.

Her plant-a-thon is going to do so much good with all those new evergreens along the Duwamish. Now, that’s impressive.”

On my desk, I push a binder aside to reveal the back of a copy of our calendar.

A collage of the twelve photos adorns most of the page.

“But I don’t know,” I say, more to myself than to him.

“I’m proud of what we did, too. All of it.

” I linger on the dramatic shot of Jonathan and Sir Leonard surrounded by a shower of fireworks. Resist the urge to caress it.

“Anyway…” I blink the moisture behind my eyelids away and swallow. “That’s all. Nothing important. I totally get if you don’t want to talk. Just know I wish you the best.”

Then I hang up, wondering if this is what closure feels like and if it’s supposed to hurt this much.