Give Me Yesterday (4 page)

It’s the wrong goddamned shade.

With a huff, I rise to my feet and stalk over to the bookshelf in the corner. On the top shelf, sits a color palette booklet. Snatching it up, I thumb through the colors of the rainbow until I find the one color that always alludes me yet is perfectly imprinted in my brain.

I count through the
X
s over each wrong color.

Sixteen.

The seventeenth shade gets a big fucking
X
too.

Since I only instruct Monday, Wednesday, and Friday of each week, Tuesdays and Thursdays are my play days. Tomorrow, it would seem, I’ll be playing in the paint section of the hardware store.

I carry over the palette to the bar and drop it beside my wallet. Tomorrow I’ll attempt, once again, to find that color.

The color that haunts my dreams.

The color that should bring joy but instead drags out depression from the depths of my soul.

A color that will always be perfect in my head but no matter how hard I fucking try, I’ll never bring it to life on my living room wall.

“Life’s not fair,” I mimic Mom’s words.

I cringe at her harsh words that were meant to mend my heart and push me back into reality. Back then, despite her unyielding personality, she was there for me. Tough love, she used to say. But, she eventually lost the bite of her rigid nature, the moment Alzheimer’s started playing tricks on her. Little by little, it stole my strict mother away and in return gave me this confused, lost woman. One of the only three people I’ve ever truly loved came to a point where she couldn’t remember if she loved me back or not. Now, I feel as though I’m all on my own, facing reality, without my mother’s guiding hand and advice.

My head throbs in unison with my broken heart and I run my fingers through my hair. Gripping at it, I slam my eyes shut.

Discombobulated shards of my brutal past stab and slice through my head. I force my eyes back open and with it, the sadness that ever attaches itself to my psyche withdraws into the shadows of my mind.

Tomorrow, I’ll visit
her
.

Tuesdays they have fresh daffodils at Schrage’s Florist, and just like I do each week, I’ll bring them to her.

She doesn’t have to tell me she likes them because I know.

Pain once again slices through my chest and I stumble into the kitchen, on a desperate mission to dull it. Yanking open the cabinet door above the stove, I grab the amber colored whiskey bottle and unscrew the cap. I bring it to my lips and take a long swig, enjoying the burn as it races down my throat.

It burns in my chest and chases away the hurt.

But for how long?

Another pull of the whiskey.

Life’s not fucking fair.

T
he wind whips at my hair and rogue strands plaster against the front of my face.
Damn it.
I tuck them back, irritated that I didn’t put on that extra layer of hairspray this morning. It’s a rare spring day in Chicago, the weather in April often swinging from fifty degrees to seventy-five day to day.

I walk swiftly up Whacker Drive toward my office building, barely noticing the river, still green from the St. Patrick’s Day celebration. I don’t see the other people around me, taking in the sites, eating a Chicago dog from a street vendor, the sights and sounds of the city that excite so many people. I miss it all, my thoughts focused on my upcoming meeting.

After the accident, I couldn’t bring myself to attend Northwestern, so I transferred to the University of Chicago and was eventually accepted into their law program. I didn’t have a specific track in mind, but when it came time to apply for positions as an associate, the best offer was from the firm Abbott & Taft. They are one of the most prestigious firms in the city, but the opening was in the specialty of divorce. It ended up being an area where I excelled.

Perhaps there is some irony there, helping others to see what I already knew—love brings nothing but hurt.

I dedicated myself to the job one hundred and twenty percent, leaving no time for family or friends. The result was to become the youngest junior partner in the history of the firm.

My upcoming appointment is with my most wealthy client. I represent a Chicago Cubs outfielder whose wife violated the fidelity clause in their prenup. Repeatedly. Apparently, he was head over heels because he kept forgiving her until she unexpectedly filed for divorce three months ago. For some reason, the hussy thought by being the one to file, it would negate the rules. He got himself a smart one there, didn’t he?

Once I met with her overly confident lawyer—
idiot
—and laid out the ironclad—and I say ironclad, because it just so happens that I was the one who put their prenup together—agreement with her lawyer, I sent him back to her with his tail between his legs.

If I had my way, the bitch wouldn’t get one single cent, but they have a kid together, and David wants to settle this out of court. I don’t handle cases where children are involved and my boss, Larry, knows this. Due to the deep background checks they do on all possible candidates for an associate position, he is aware of the accident and subsequent loss. I’ve never talked about it, but he knows. So, I was monumentally pissed when he laid this one on my doorstep.

I have a reputation as an ice queen, a bitch, a pit-bull, and many other terms that probably seem unflattering. But, I don’t give a shit. To me, those names represent my ability to effectively do my job without any emotional crap getting in the way. I’m a merciless negotiator. I’ll take on the toughest of cases, and even though I follow the letter of the law, that doesn’t mean I fight fair.

And, I
always
win.

At the end of a case, my clients don’t become my friends. I don’t get Christmas cards. Instead, I get a big, fat bonus, and the promise of becoming an equity partner in the next few years. That works for me just fine.

Kids are where I draw the line, though. I don’t do custody issues. However, my boss came into my office all those months ago and basically told me to take one for the team. David offered the firm an astronomical retainer in exchange for having me handle his divorce. Another lawyer on my team is mediating the custody arrangements, but he had a family emergency take him away, and now it’s in my hands until he returns. The timing couldn’t be worse. May is approaching, and even after ten years, on that day, I haven’t been able to completely seal the wall around the empty chasm where my heart should be. Somehow, there are a few beats, each one more agonizing than the rest. Every other day of the year, I am able to master the ability to live without my heart, to avoid attachment, feelings of any kind.

I reach the tall, glass building, each window reflecting the change in the weather. The sky is becoming clouded, and I can smell the scent of rain in the air.
Just fabulous
. It matches my fucking mood. Once inside, I stop at the ladies room in the lobby to make sure my appearance is perfect. My long, blonde hair is swept into an elegant chignon, and I smooth every hair into place, unwilling to accept any rebellious strays. My wide, rounded blue eyes are lined with black kohl, a subtle mixture of browns on the lid, and black mascara that fringes the top and bottom, making the color of my irises look especially icy. Lips glossed, cheeks lightly rouged, and my complexion completely smooth, without a single blemish. I pay a fortune to keep my appearance perfect, but it’s worth it when I can use it to intimidate the opposing council.

I run my palms down my ivory, silk blouse and navy pencil skirt, eradicating any wrinkles. Pearls in my ears and nude, five-inch fuck-me heels, elevating my five-foot-seven frame to give me a height advantage. I check the time on my dainty gold Rolex and see that I have thirty minutes to spare until my meeting.

Perfect.

I’m ready.

Exiting the bathroom, my heels click against the marble tiles, each tap a reminder that I’m a force to be reckoned with. A machine. I approach the elevator just as the doors swoosh open. I stand aside as it empties where I’m greeted by a few co-workers; giving them nothing more than a perfunctory nod, or clipped hello. Once I step inside, the doors begin to slide closed, until a large, masculine hand shoves in between them forcing them open again.

I stiffen when I see that it’s Kyle, a fifth-year associate who has been on my team for David’s divorce. Kyle is well within his rights to be bitter about my position above him. He has been with the firm a year longer than me. However, for some reason, he has taken it all in stride and is the hardest worker in the group. He’s the only co-worker who makes an effort to scale my walls. He has even indicated his desire to take me out several times, though I have made it abundantly clear that it will never happen. Regardless, he makes the offer subtly from time to time, while never doing so in a pushy manner. Always kind. If I were even remotely interested in having someone fill the hole in my chest, I might have accepted his offer at some point. But, I’m not. I want nothing to do with relationships and emotions.

Kyle smiles warmly at me and says hello before turning to face forward, seemingly unaware of my standoffish attitude. When we reach his offices, he wishes me good luck with my appointment and leaves me with another smile. The tension remains when I’m alone, steadily growing as I rise up each level. The ping alerting me that I’ve arrived on the forty-fifth floor startles me and I jump just a fraction of an inch. I tell myself to calm the hell down and find the steel inside.

When I step off the elevator, I’m once again the Ice Queen, ready to put the fear of God into David’s slutty, soon-to-be ex-wife. Stacey, my assistant, stands as I approach her desk, handing me a small stack of papers.

“Here are your messages. Your eight thirty meeting will be in conference room
B
, and I’ll have coffee and refreshments placed in there ten minutes prior. Also, your mother called. She wanted to remind you about your cousin’s rehearsal dinner coming up,” Stacey says hesitantly.

She’s toeing the line by giving me my mother’s message verbally and she knows it. The only messages I want given immediate attention to are from Larry or a current client with an emergency.

I give her a stern look, then thank her and walk into my office, thumbing through the messages. When I come across a handwritten reminder of my mother’s message, I toss a dark look at Stacey through the glass wall that separates my office from her workspace. She doesn’t see it, because her head is down, looking as though she is engrossed in her task. I sigh and make a mental note of having a word about it with her later.

I read the note again. Rehearsal dinner.
Right.
Danielle is getting married. I’ve told my mother I would make an effort to attend, but we both know I won’t. That doesn’t stop her from trying, though, nor from her pestering me about losing out on family memories during our obligatory, once a month conversations. I always bite back a scoff at that; reminders of
family
are the last thing I need.

The rest of the notices aren’t urgent, so I spend the next twenty minutes prepping, going over the details one final time, despite knowing them inside and out. At eight twenty-five, Stacey buzzes on the intercom to inform me that my client has arrived.

“Send him in, Stacey.”

My door opens and David walks in, looking tired and defeated. The season has just started and I can only imagine how much this stress will affect his playing this year. The Cubs are struggling as the organization is being rebuilt.

Okay, so I’m a fan.

I didn’t lose every single part of the girl I was. Being a Cubs fan is in my blood. In any case, I hope he can get it together and be an asset to the team. Just another reason for me to get this divorce done and over with quickly.

“David,” I greet him, walking around my desk to shake his hand. “Are you ready for today?”

He runs his hands through his dark hair, the already messy mop cluing me in to the fact that he’s been doing this repeatedly all morning. I put my hand on his shoulder attempting to garner his undivided attention, an act which emphasizes my message much more, seeing as how I rarely make physical contact, other than a handshake.