Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
A particularly snide associate, Gillian, interrupts. “Eliza, didn’t you flag the jurisdiction issue in Carlsen?”
“Yes. There’s a memo in the shared folder, subfiled under 'Jurisdiction—Potential FUBAR.' I can forward it.”
Gillian narrows her evil green eyes, and the associates all smirk while looking at me as if I’ve performed a party trick. I pretend not to notice, but allow myself a nanosecond of smugness. It’s my emotional equivalent of a smoke break.
Around noon, I gather my notes, file them in the order I’ll need for the next disaster, and duck out to the restroom. I’m alone. The mirror is pitiless, but I lean in anyway, checking for rogue mascara, lipstick on teeth, or the faintest crack in my mask of unshakable composure.
Nothing. The bun’s still bulletproof, the blouse’s top button unmoved.
At my desk, the rest of the paralegals are relaxing already. One is eating from a thermos with a baby spoon. Another is scrolling through Instagram, pausing to show a meme about depositions to a friend. They all nod at me, but nobody asks about my weekend. My non-life is an open secret: I do not drink, I do not brunch, and I do not confide in anyone with a yoga mat or a gluten allergy.
Lunch is a hastily scarfed sandwich, and there’s a reason why because by 1:07, my inbox is a war zone. I answer every message with a reply that’s brief but informative. I triple-check every attachment, cc every chain, and scan every PDF for booby traps. I’m the only one who notices that the toner is running out, so I change it before the printer can have a tantrum. There is a faint dusting of black powder on my hands, so I wipe them on a Clorox wipe and continue on. That’s me: the perfect, brilliant Eliza Shaw, who gets everything done, no complaining.
But at 4:45, the office energy shifts. I recognize it immediately. The other paralegals start checking the clock, and Kayley, a pretty girl who has a date practically every night, reapplies lipstick. There’s a low, conspiratorial chatter near the break room—happy hour plans being hatched like plotlines on a trashy TV show. I already know how this will play out: a last-minute invite, a polite declination, and a double-check that nobody takes offense.
It happens at 4:52. The other paralegals—three of them, grinning—hover at my cubicle. “Eliza, do you want to come out with us? O’Malley’s is doing trivia night.”
They look at me like I’m the human equivalent of a mathlete: useful, but not entirely real. Sometimes I wonder why they even bother to invite me, but it’s obvious why. I help them so much with their work that they feel they have to invite me, just to be polite.
I smile, warm but distant. “Thanks, but I told my parents I’d help with something tonight. Rain check?”
“Another time, for sure,” says one with a knowing smirk. We all know that I never go to firm happy hours, and they wander away, already relieved.
I allow myself a breath. I organize my desk, line up my pens like soldiers, and slip my laptop into the battered blue canvas bag I’ve carried since high school. I log out of the system, and stand, pushing in my desk chair. The office has emptied with a suddenness that would be tragic if you didn’t know how fake the camaraderie was.
I wait until the elevator dings, then walk out, posture still perfect. But in the lobby, where nobody’s watching, I pop open my phone and let my mouth stretch into an actual grin. There’s a new message waiting: the username is an inside joke, and the emoji at the end is almost obscene. My thumb hovers over the reply button, just for a second.
Then I tuck the phone away, allow my bun to loosen half a centimeter, and walk out the glass doors into the dusk, the good girl in her armor of professionalism. But inside, somewhere under the starched layers, my pulse is already racing for what comes next.
My parents’ house sits on a cul-de-sac in St. Cloud, just outside Minneapolis proper. Every driveway is a lineup of sedans, every porch engineered for the exact amount of seasonal decor to imply Normal Family Inside. I park behind Dad’s aging Taurus, slip off my heels the instant I’m inside the mudroom, and trade the professional glide for a softer, slippered shuffle.
The kitchen is alive with the warble of a local radio host and the scent of steamed broccoli. My mom Nancy, queen of casseroles, despiser of silence, is orchestrating dinner with one hand on the oven timer and the other speed-dialing relatives about nothing. She has the build and energy of a sparrow on Adderall. She clocks my arrival by the sound of the screen door, then calls out, “Eliza! I’m so glad you’re home, honey. Did you eat yet?”