Page 3 of How Freaking Romantic

The first thing you learn in law school is that weekends are a myth.

A legend told in hushed tones around study groups, or to your own haggard reflection after pulling two all-nighters in a row.

Even if you do somehow manage to eke out a few hours on a Sunday to unwind, by the time you disengage your brain from torts and case law so you can ponder abstract concepts like “relaxing” and “self-care,” Monday arrives with as much fanfare as a pap smear: horrifying but necessary.

I want to stress that on paper, this all looked very doable. In practice, it is a clusterfuck.

This particular Monday morning my curls refuse to stay clumped together on top of my head, so I set them free.

Frazzled ringlets spring out in every direction as I swipe on a bit of mascara in the hopes it might save my reflection, or at least distract from the dark circles under my hazel eyes.

The plethora of freckles used to do the job, but there’s only so much I can ask of them now.

He smiles and waves at me like this our usual morning greeting.

I only realize once I’m out the door that he’s not far off.

If I can snag an express train, campus is exactly seven subway stops away from my apartment.

Unfortunately, this morning the express train decides to go local after 125th Street, so my thirty-minute commute becomes fifty.

By the time I ascend the steps at Fourth Street and round the corner to Washington Square Park, it’s 9:24 a.m. I’ll barely have time to stop by my office before I need to head to class.

Apparently, on top of being an idiot, I am also a masochist.

The NYU Law campus is really just a cluster of buildings surrounding Washington Square Park, an enclave in the greater NYU sphere.

In autumn it’s gorgeous, with the historic brick and stone buildings framed by the golds and reds of the park’s foliage and the towering arch in its center.

Students and locals crowd every available space, and New York feels less like a city and more like a village, albeit one filled with twentysomethings arguing about international copyright law while a man wearing a top hat and monocle walks his iguana nearby.

But right now it’s mid-January, which means the park is barren.

Gray snowbanks line the sidewalk and the wind whipping down Fifth Avenue makes it too cold to attract the usual crowd.

The only people I pass are two fellow students who jog by, looking fresh-faced and chipper in their NYU Law sweatshirts.

I make it a point not to look at them as I scurry toward the colonial brick facade of Vanderbilt Hall.

Even though I’m only a few years older than almost everyone here, moments like this make it feel like a lifetime.

My phone starts to ring just as I enter the lobby. I reach into my bag, my fingers probing the candy wrappers and bodega receipts. When I find it, I see my mother’s face lighting up the screen, and groan.

A phone call from Denise Nilsson can go one of two ways: (a) she needs to complain about something for an extended period of time before hanging up with barely a goodbye; or (b) she requires my opinion on something, which will in no way factor into her final decision.

“Hi, Mom,” I answer.

“Do you think I need a neck lift?” she says in greeting.

Ah. So it’s option B, then.

“I’m doing great, thanks. How are you?” I say as I swipe my ID through the lobby turnstile.

“I’m serious, Bea. I just walked by the mirror in the hallway and gave myself a jump scare.”

She says it like I’ve seen the mirror in question.

In truth, I’ve never set foot in her house in Fort Lauderdale, let alone the entire state of Florida.

I also haven’t seen her neck in at least three years, when her sixth (and shockingly, still-current) husband, Todd Whitaker, surprised her with a trip to New York so she could see the new Neil Diamond musical on Broadway.

I make my way to a waiting elevator with a couple of other students. “Don’t you think it’s a little early on a Monday morning to be contemplating invasive surgery?”

“Oh, I’ve already been up for hours. Todd and I grabbed the first tee time at the club this morning. It was invigorating. You really should try it,” she says as the doors close and the elevator lurches up.

My mom has a habit of adopting the personality of whoever she’s currently married to.

Golf is only the latest in a long list of hobbies, most of which were discarded in the wake of divorce.

After she found out Darren Lupinski was a White Sox fan, she took out a new credit card to buy season tickets.

When Locke Taylor revealed that he loved rebuilding classic cars, she suddenly had a burning desire to own a 1968 Ford Mustang.

It’s a pattern that’s existed for decades.

“I’m not sure I can squeeze golf lessons into my schedule right now,” I reply. The student standing beside me looks up from his phone in confusion.

“Well, you should,” my mom says. “You sound tired.”

“That’s a prerequisite of law school, actually.”

She hums to herself. “I told you three years ago that you were too old for that.”

I roll my eyes as the elevator doors open on the third floor and I walk forward down the hall. “Thanks for the reminder.”

“I’m just saying.” Her voice takes on a tinge of indignation. “Most people go to law school right after college, not years later so they’re middle-aged when they graduate.”

“I’m twenty-nine, Mom,” I say, trying to keep my annoyance in check as I unlock my office door. I say “office,” but really it is little more than a large closet with a small window in the corner. There’s room for a desk and a chair, though, which is all I really need anyway.

“You know what I mean. Look at that friend of yours. Jared? Josh? He tried to go to grad school, and it ruined his life.”

I let my bag drop to the floor and ignore the sting of her comment as my body falls into the desk chair.

My mom has never been good with details, let alone the ins and outs of my personal life.

Questions about anything other than herself are rare, and when they do come, I’ve learned the answers are only partially retained.

While I had mentioned Jillian and Josh’s divorce a couple of times over the past few months, she always had a cursory response, something that implied sympathy but ensured the conversation would move on to how her sink was back-ordered, so the bathroom renovations had been delayed again, or how she was thinking of becoming a Pilates instructor.

Maybe that’s one of the reasons she was so eager to move down to Florida from Boston a few years ago; her distance is just another excuse to avoid getting bogged down by my life’s tedious details.

Still, I’m surprised by the sudden urge to talk to her about the divorce, the alimony, everything that was tearing our small group apart. But before I can say anything, my mother groans.

“Oh God, it’s awful. The skin below my chin is just hanging there,” she says. I can imagine her right now: the phone to her ear as she leans toward the mirror, poking at her jaw.

I sigh. “You don’t need a neck lift, Mom.”

She hums again, a telltale sign that, while she’s listening, she absolutely doesn’t believe me. “Well, I have to run. Todd’s pulling the car out. We’ re grabbing brunch with the Davidsons.”

“All right,” I reply. I have no idea who the Davidsons are, but that doesn’t seem like a reason to hold her up. “Keep me posted about any other elective medical procedures.”

“Will do!” she says. And then she hangs up.

I managed to make it to my ten o’clock class on time, but missed my window to grab a coffee beforehand, which is a tragedy.

Professor Callahan is a renowned expert on public health law and social justice, but she also never changes her intonation or inflection, so her course is one monotonous drone for two hours. Without caffeine, it’s hell.

I trudge back to my office afterward and grab my mug that has I Hate It Here written in big block letters across the side.

Josh bought it for me when I got into law school because, in his words: “It reminded me of you.” At the time I wanted to throw it at his head, but I can now admit that it is the perfect size to fit a large serving from the coffeemaker in the third-floor lounge and still leave room for milk.

I cradle it in my hands as I head back to my desk, somehow already an hour behind on the grading that was supposed to start my day.

But first: email.

There’s a sea of them waiting in my inbox from students. Their questions range from the insane to the surprisingly pertinent, but regardless, I’ll get to all of them later. Right now, I scan the list for one with “RE: Graduating Law Student Job Inquiry” in the subject line.

There’s none.

Shit .

I always assumed the most stressful part of post–law school life would be passing the bar, not lining up a job where I would be able to utilize my new skills.

But I’m not going to panic. Not yet. Yes, I sent out nineteen emails to nineteen separate firms right before Christmas.

And no, I haven’t received a single reply yet.

But that was only a few weeks ago. People are barely back in their offices after the holidays, let alone opening unsolicited emails from desperate law students looking for a job.

There’s nothing to worry about. Not yet.