Courtshıp

Startled awake, I fumble around in the dark, searching for my buzzing phone. In my experience, any call this early is either bad news or dialed by some time-zone-challenged fool. Confused, I blink several times, as Marc Hayward flashes on the screen. My boss is many things, but time zone challenged isn’t one of them.

“Hello?” I answer, my voice thick with sleep.

“Olivia, it’s Marcus.”

I sit bolt upright, suddenly wide awake. Marc only refers to himself as “Marcus” when he’s angry.

“Hi, Marc, is everything ok?” I ask, trying to sound upbeat. I know he went to a Cher-impersonator concert last night, so hopefully he’s just got a major hangover and wants me to cover his morning court appearances.

“Your services are no longer needed,” he snips.

Blinking several times, I pause, sure I misheard. “Wait . . . What?”

“Your. Services. Are. No. Longer. Needed,” he repeats slowly, as if I’m dense. “You’re fired. Get your things, or they’ll be on the curb.”

My brain spins in confusion. “Fired?” I ask in shock. “Why? I don’t—”

But before I can say anything else, the line goes dead.

I stare at my phone in disbelief. Did I really just get fired? At 6:10 a.m.? Maybe the box wine I choked down last night was laced with something, and I’m hallucinating? Turning on my bedside light, I look at my call log. Yes, Marc did call me—no hallucination there. But getting fired makes no sense. Two weeks ago, I got a great review and a raise. You don’t get those things if you’re about to be canned. Besides, I have three months left on my one-year employment contract, and according to that, Marc can only fire me for cause. But what cause could he possibly have?

This cannot be happening. There must be some mistake. Quickly, I shoot off a text to Marc, asking if this is some sort of joke. My phone buzzes almost immediately.

Nope. You’re fired.

Stunned, I stare at the text, a wave of anxiety washing over me. What am I going to do? In addition to rent, bills, and sending money to my parents, I’m supposed to start paying back $125,000 in student loans next month. How will I do any of that without a job? It’s not like I have any savings to fall back on.

Suddenly, it feels like someone’s standing on my chest, squeezing the air out of me. I try to take some deep breaths but only manage short gasps. Fired. Why?

Forcing myself to do the box breathing employed by Navy SEALs, I shakily make my way to the shower. As the weak trickle washes over me, I mentally scroll through my cases, wondering if I inadvertently screwed up somewhere. The only thing I can think of is that my nutty client, Sheryl Grant, followed through on her threat to write “dickhead” in her ex-husband’s lawn in gasoline and ignite it. But I have it in writing that I counseled her against it, so that can’t be the reason.

My mind is reeling as I towel off and check my emails, thinking maybe Marc sent something that would explain my firing. Bile rises in my throat when I see a notice from my bank regarding my student loans, and an upcoming payment reminder from my credit card company. There’s also a message from my mom, and I sink down onto the floor as I read it. She tells me all the latest news from our family farm and thanks me profusely at the end for sending part of my paycheck home each month to help them.

When I was a teenager, my dad was injured because our tractor malfunctioned. My parents hired a lawyer to sue the tractor company, but his mild-mannered country ways were no match for the company’s savvy corporate lawyers, and my parents were left with deep emotional scars and a measly settlement.

My dad’s ability to work was severely curtailed, and things became tough for us financially. Being from a farm already made me uncool in school, but becoming “poor” sealed my fate as an outcast for the rest of my childhood. Every time I saw my dad limp, or I got picked on because of my background, I vowed that I would someday be able to help my parents get back to their pre-accident lifestyle. I figured becoming a savvy corporate lawyer was a good way to do it.

After graduating law school with my best friend, Emily, her uncle Larry offered us a free place to stay in Phoenix and jobs at the law firm where he worked. So, we moved to Arizona, our heads filled with dreams of big paychecks and exciting cases. But before we started, Larry’s firm went through a restructuring and—just my luck—only had space for only one new lawyer. This left me desperately searching for a job, which is how I ended up working for a modest salary at Marc’s two-person firm. And now I’ve been fired.

Wondering how I can save money, I get up, glance around my small apartment and sigh. The only thing more economical would be living in a cardboard box under a bridge. My couch was left here by the previous occupant, who apparently got more food on the cushions than in his mouth. At least I hope they’re food stains. I put a clear plastic cover—like my grandma had—over it, to protect me from the mystery stains, but I usually end up falling asleep and waking up stuck to the plastic. The wobbly green patio table I use as a desk/dining space is littered with work papers and my empty wine glass. My tiny kitchen is functional, but just barely. Randy, the apartment manager, offered to give me a break on my rent if I went out with him, but men with picket-fence teeth and feathered hair aren’t really my jam. Besides, I was already dating my boyfriend, Stewart, when Randy tendered his offer.

Speaking of Stewart, maybe his analytical, unemotional mindset can help quell the panic currently threatening to overtake my body. He starts work at his swanky downtown firm at 6 a.m. and has instituted a “no calls before eight” rule—unless it’s an emergency. Figuring that being canned and soon-to-be-broke qualifies, I decide to risk it.

“Stewart Stark the Third,” he answers, his voice clipped.

My panic abates for a split second as I roll my eyes. I’m not sure why Stewart acts like caller ID doesn’t exist. I think he just likes saying his name—especially the “third” part. Emily thinks he’s a total snob, but maybe it’s just how most people who grew up wealthy and graduated from the country’s top law school act? When I’m feeling insecure, I wonder why someone with his fancy background is interested in me, but then I remind myself that I’m a lawyer too, and just because our childhoods were wildly different doesn’t mean we can’t be a good match. Besides, I find intelligence extremely attractive, and Stewart has tons of that—maybe not emotionally—but certainly academically. Factor in his preppy good looks, and this farm girl counts herself lucky. Also, to be perfectly honest, with Emily working long hours at Larry’s firm and my barely meeting anyone while working for Marc, I’ve been a little lonely. Meeting Stewart and being swept up in a flurry of opera and chamber music concerts has remedied that. While I’d prefer rock concerts and going dancing, I figure getting some “culture” can’t hurt—even if I’m sometimes bored beyond belief. But I keep the bored bit to myself. Stewart is stable and predictable, and right now, that makes him even more attractive.

“Stewart Stark the Third,” he repeats, interrupting my thoughts.

“Hey,” I say, drawing a shaky breath. “Sorry to call so early, but you won’t believe what just happened.”

I wait for a response but only hear his keyboard clicking. “Stewart?”

“Yes, dear. Sorry. What happened?”

I roll my eyes again. Even though Stewart’s ten years older than me, his word choice sometimes makes him sound like he’s a hundred.

“I just got fired,” I say, my voice wobbly as unwelcome tears spring to my eyes. Saying it out loud makes the gravity of the situation hit me tenfold. I shake my head, trying to keep it together.

“Fired?” he asks vaguely. “Any idea why?”

“No,” I say, my voice tight with anxiety. “Marc called this morning out of nowhere and told me to get my stuff. That’s it. I’m kind of freaking out right now. I need this job. I have student loans coming due and my parents to help.” My voice rises as the pressure in my chest increases. “And what if I can’t make my rent? Then where will I go?”

“Olivia, calm down. Getting hysterical won’t help,” Stewart commands, resuming his typing.

I bristle at his use of the word “hysterical,” which I’ve repeatedly told him I dislike, due to the lack of an equivalent term for upset males.

“Stewart,” I implore, trying to take some deep breaths and calm my racing heart, “this is serious.”

The clicking stops and Stewart lets out a heavy sigh. “Olivia. The best thing is to stay calm and figure out what happened. Furthermore, I’m confident both you and your parents will be fine. You’re worrying too much.”

A flicker of irritation rises in me. This isn’t how a boyfriend is supposed to act. I’m aware that Stewart is analytical—it’s what makes him a good lawyer—but I could use some empathy right now. Shouldn’t he be offering me a loan or a temporary place to stay if things get really bad? I start to say something but Stewart interrupts.

“What about your contract?”

“I know. Marc needs a reason to fire me before my contract is up. But I have no idea what I could have done.”

“Then put on a ‘brave face,’”—I can visualize his beloved air quotes—“and go find out. My big trial starts Monday, so I’ll be unavailable the remainder of the day. I can, however . . .” He trails off, and I hear his keyboard clicking again. “. . . set aside about an hour and twelve minutes for you this evening.”

Annoyed that Stewart views our time together in billable, six-minute increments, even when I’m facing a crisis, I respond with a sarcastic, “Gee, thanks.” A voice in the back of my head tells me this isn’t acceptable, but the anxiety from my firing drowns it out. “I’d better get going,” I say. “I’ll see you for seventy-two minutes this evening.”

Stewart guffaws, and we hang up.

Talking to him did nothing to calm me. My mind is racing out of control. How does he know my parents and I will be fine? Although I’ve told him about my family’s financial problems, I think growing up with nannies, boarding school and the country club rendered him incapable of comprehending life on the lower side of the middle class.

Starting to shiver, I force myself to get dressed. Stewart did at least say one helpful thing. I’ve got to figure out why Marc fired me and try to fix it.