Love Proof (Laws of Attraction)

Nine

The October depositions rolled past, one by one: the northern California ones—San Francisco, Sacramento, Oakland, San Jose—most of them places Sarah had never visited before. Then on to Las Vegas and Reno. Denver and Colorado Springs. Albuquerque, Phoenix, Tucson—the airports and hotels all became a blur, each one interchangeable as she checked into a new one every night, sat in a conference room all the next day, then flew out again to a new city where she would rinse, repeat, ask her same list of questions.

By mid-November, Sarah spent a weekend compiling some of the information she had gathered: a range of dates for when the product had been purchased, a list of stores or Internet sites where the plaintiffs bought the hair iron, and a spreadsheet detailing how long they used it before it set fire to their hair.

Not a pretty picture.

She e-mailed the information to Mickey’s boss, Calvin, and asked him to forward it to the client.

And then asked for some information in return.

Sarah noticed a pattern: the only claims were for hair irons bought within a specific time period. It was something any lawyer on the case should have noticed already if they had taken the time to read all the complaints Joe’s firm had filed, or if they’d read the interrogatory answers the plaintiffs had sent back.

But Sarah had seen this kind of waste before. It was easier sometimes—and definitely more lucrative, since it meant more billable hours—to have an attorney take a series of depositions in person, rather than ask questions on paper. If Sarah had been hired to work the case from a desk, she might have gathered all this same information more easily and cheaply than having to fly from city to city and stay in hotels and eat bad food on the road.

But she wasn’t in charge of any of that. And, she reminded herself, she never would have been able to negotiate the salary she was getting if she just sat at a spare desk in the law firm offices and typed up interrogatories and reviewed documents all day.

So she was on a plane to Salt Lake City the Sunday before Thanksgiving, and would see Boise and Pocatello, Idaho before heading home Wednesday night. Then she would have four long days all to herself, to drive home to see her parents and sleep in her childhood bed.

If she could make it that long.

She had been feeling a little tired. More tired than usual. When she saw Angie on Saturday for their now once-weekly workout sessions, Sarah dragged from one exercise to the next. Finally Angie called a halt to the whole thing and told Sarah to stretch.

“You need a break,” Angie said. “Fifteen hours of sleep. A bad-TV marathon. Something.”

Sarah had dutifully kept up with her exercise on the road, running on the hotel treadmills every morning, then doing pushups and lunges and squats in the privacy of her own room.

Now she lay sprawled on the padded mat while Angie stretched her aching limbs.

“I think you’re right,” Sarah told her. “I need to turn off my brain for four days. Just sit in a chair and stare at the wall. Or read all the trashy magazines my mom saves up for me.”

“How’s Joe been?” Angie asked.

Sarah shrugged. “You know.” Then she grimaced as Angie angled her leg into a brutal hip stretch Sarah always both loved and hated.

She had kept saga of Sarah and Joe to herself for a few weeks, but finally she couldn’t resist telling Angie about their history. The trainer approved of Sarah’s overall plan to make the man suffer.

“Glad you’ll get a little break from him next week?” Angie asked as she pushed Sarah’s straightened leg practically over her head.

“Yes,” Sarah grunted. “Definitely. And that other guy—Chapman. I can’t wait to not hear his voice for four long days. What a luxury.”

Before leaving the gym, Sarah pulled a stack of bills out of her wallet.

Angie looked at the amount. “Are you sure? This much?”

“Of course,” Sarah said. “Thank you.”

She had been paying Angie off a little more every week, not only for the current sessions, but for all the ones Angie gave her for free during Sarah’s six months of unemployment.

“I know you’ll find something soon,” Angie always told her, and then finally one day it was true. Sarah never forgot generosity like that. She planned on giving Angie a big bonus at the end of the year, once she paid down some of her other debts. Angie was just a small business owner like Sarah’s parents, and Sarah knew very well the risk Angie had taken in giving her credit for so long with no guarantee of repayment.

If only everyone who dealt with Sarah’s parents felt the same way about compensating them for their work, Sarah thought. But she knew that wasn’t how the world worked. All she could do was her part.

“What time do you leave tomorrow?” Angie asked her as Sarah pulled a sweatshirt over her sweaty T-shirt.

“Around three,” Sarah said. “I want to get settled in Salt Lake and have some dinner so I can go to bed early.”

“Get some sleep tonight, too,” Angie said. “You’ve got circles under your eyes.”

“Yeah, but you should see the other guys,” Sarah joked. It was true, Chapman looked like he had put on weight over the past six or seven weeks, and all of them could probably use more fresh air than they were getting, but Sarah had been disappointed to see how well Burke held up. He still looked fit and rested, even though they had just crammed in five different cities in five days so they could make Thanksgiving week a short one. The guy was indestructible. Still.

Sarah stopped by the grocery store on the way home from her workout to buy herself something healthy. She picked out a few pieces of fresh fruit and a couple of lightly-fried vegetable samosas she found in the prepared foods section. She missed Indian food. Good food of any kind, in fact, and her own cooking even more. She made one more stop, dropping off her dry cleaning and picking up clean suits so she could pack for the next day’s trip.

Sarah hadn’t bought new clothes in over eight months now. It was a luxury that was no longer on her list. She promised herself a full new outfit when these depositions were all over, but until then she could make do with all the designer suits she purchased back when she was feeling flush. As long as she continued to take good care of them, they should last, no matter how many times she folded them, ironed them with crappy hotel irons, wore them, perspired in them, and subjected them to the cleaners.

As soon as she returned to her apartment, Sarah checked her e-mail, answered one or two, then headed for the shower. Now that she had sweated up her hair at the workout, she was safe giving it the full and laborious treatment: shampooing, conditioning, treating, blowing it out with the dryer, then straightening it with the iron. It was a process that could take as long as an hour and a half sometimes if her hair was being particularly difficult. She hoped today wasn’t one of those days. Angie was right: she needed more sleep. Sleep and a long weekend off.

And a break from looking at Joe across a table all day long every day.

***

“Beautiful, huh?” the court reporter, Marcela, said as Sarah gazed at the Wasatch mountains from the window of the hotel conference room. “Have you ever skied here?” she asked.

“No, I don’t ski,” Sarah said. “Do you?”

“Once,” Marcela said. “That was enough. I forgot snow was so cold.”

Sarah smiled, just to be friendly, even though she didn’t really feel like it. She hadn’t slept well. She felt edgy, irritable.

Joe’s Salt Lake City client was a woman in her thirties, well-groomed, but with an unfortunately short haircut. It wasn’t the woman’s choice.

“I used to have hair down to here,” she cried, tears slipping down her cheeks. Chapman had finally gotten around to asking a few relevant questions, and was rewarded with copious weeping.

Oh, boy, Sarah thought, this one’s going to kill us in front of a jury.

And then the room started to go black.

It started at the edges of Sarah’s vision, like black bars, slowly closing in. Then her ears began to buzz. She could feel sweat beading on her face.

Sarah glanced down at her legal pad and tried to concentrate on the few words she had written there, but the letters swam and wriggled out of focus.

When Sarah looked up again, she found Joe staring at her. She scowled, but he wrinkled his forehead and kept looking.

“Off the record,” he said. Marcela stopped typing. “Sarah, are you all right?”

“Of course I’m all right.” Even though she could feel the sweat covering more of her body.

“Come with me,” Joe told her. To the rest of the people in the room he said, “We’re taking a break.”

When Sarah didn’t immediately stand up—and why should she? He wasn’t in charge of her—Joe came over and clasped her by the arm. “Come on,” he said. “Now.”

Sarah slowly rose to her feet. “What are you—” But she couldn’t get the rest of the sentence out. Because suddenly the room swayed, and Sarah swayed with it. Joe braced his arm around her waist and escorted her out into the hall.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Joe said, “You’re sick.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Sarah, look at you. You’re bleach white. There are black circles under your eyes. You’re dripping sweat. Come on, where’s your room?”

It was true, she didn’t feel well—at all. But he had no right taking charge of her like this. Sarah wrenched herself away. “I’m fine. I just need to rest for a few minutes.”

As if accepting that as a signal, her legs began to give way. She leaned back against the nearest wall and started to sink down.

Joe bent over, scooped his arm behind her knees, and lifted her off the floor. Sarah drooped in his arms. Joe wrestled open the door of the conference room and called to Marcela, “Get her things. Come with me.”

“What’s going on?” Chapman called, but Joe let the door swing shut again.

“What room are you in?” he asked her again.

Sarah shook her head weakly. She wasn’t trying to be difficult, she just honestly didn’t remember. After staying in so many different hotel rooms over so many weeks, she had no hope of keeping it straight. She started storing each day’s key inside the little envelope the clerk at the front desk gave her. That way she could always refer to the room number written on the outside.

Marcela now joined them, holding Sarah’s purse and laptop case. Sarah pointed to the purse.

“Key.”

Even that much effort felt monumental. Sarah had to rest her head against Joe’s chest.

“Sarah?” He sounded so far away. “Sarah.” Joe shifted her in his arms so that he held her more securely.

“Got it,” Marcela said, showing Joe the key she found in Sarah’s purse. “Room four-eighty.”

“Would you come with us, please?” he asked Marcela as he started carrying Sarah toward the elevator. “I need you to bring those things to her room. But I’d keep your distance,” he added. “We don’t know what she has.”

“What about you?” Marcela asked him, no doubt noticing that Sarah’s sweaty face was just inches from his.

“Indestructible,” Joe told her.

Sarah heard it, but felt too weak to respond. It was a line he had used on her more than a few times. And it still made her mad because it always seemed to be true.

As they rode the elevator, Marcela asked, “What should I tell the others?”

“Tell my client we have to reschedule. And tell Paul to cancel the afternoon. I don’t think Sarah’s coming back. At least not today.”

“Yes, I am,” Sarah forced herself to say. “I just need to rest. Don’t cancel . . . ”

But she couldn’t say anymore.

Her stomach was starting to move.

“Oh, God . . . ” Sarah pressed her sweaty face into Joe’s shoulder and held on to one thought only: Not here, not here, not here . . .

Her room was just a few doors down from the elevator.

“Hurry, Burke,” Sarah urged.

Her stomach lurched.

“Oh, God . . . ”

As soon as Marcela got the door open, Joe raced with Sarah into the bathroom. Her knees barely hit the floor before her mouth exploded over the toilet.

Everything she had eaten since high school, it seemed, tried to come out of her. One wave after another, gushing, exploding.

In between heaves, Sarah fumbled at the buttons of her jacket. She peeled it off and tossed it to the side where she hoped it would be safe from any splatters. Then she tugged at the bottom of her silk top, desperate to lift it over her head.

“Sarah, what are you doing?”

“Get out!” she yelled, then vomited more. Including all over the shirt.

Now she was crying, in between heaves, as she twisted open the button on her pants. They were wool, lined, one of her nicest pairs. And she still had two more days of depositions when she’d have to wear them.

“What are you doing?” Joe asked again. “Leave those on.”

“I can’t—” but then another wave hit her, and her gut exploded once more.

Sarah rested for a moment against the toilet seat, and reached up to push down the handle. The bathroom reeked of vomit, and still Joe Burke stood in the doorway.

Sarah resumed trying to take off her pants.

“You’ll freeze to death,” Joe said. “Stop it.”

“Just help me,” she said.

Without asking why, he did. He pulled them off in one quick move, leaving Sarah in just her black bra and matching underwear, sitting on the cold tile floor.

“Here.” Joe spread out bath towels beside her and helped her shift her knees on top of them. Then he disappeared for a moment, and returned with the thick white hotel robe that had been hanging in the closet.

Joe helped Sarah thread her arms through the sleeves, then he wrapped it around her and tied the belt. Just that little bit of jiggling against her belly had Sarah twisting toward the toilet bowl again and losing so much of her insides, it felt like it included whatever she’d eaten since junior high, and maybe even elementary school.

When the wave passed, Sarah reached up and flushed again. Then she rolled onto the towels Joe spread out, curled her legs up into her for warmth, and let out a low moan.

She felt Joe lifting her head, then placing a soft pillow beneath it. He laid another towel over her bare legs and feet.

“Go away,” Sarah moaned.

“I will,” Joe said.

But meanwhile he swabbed her face with a washcloth.

“It’s disgusting,” she mumbled.

“It is,” he agreed.

“It stinks,” she said.

“It does.”

“Why are you here?” Sarah murmured.

“I wanted to see you in your underwear.”

Sarah couldn’t help chuckling, just a little. “You’re sick.” But then she felt the next wave coming.

“Oh, God . . . ”

“I’ve got you,” Joe said as he lifted her toward the bowl.

Sarah vomited until she could have sworn she got all the way down to her mother’s milk. When she finally—finally—felt empty, she flushed for the third time, then rolled onto her side again and pulled her knees up to her chest.

“I think I’m done,” she managed to say.

She felt Joe lifting her up.

She didn’t care that it was him. All she wanted was what he was doing, carrying her to the bed, pulling the sheets back, laying her between them and covering her up. He pulled the covers all the way to her chin.

“I’ll be back,” he said. “Will you be all right for a few minutes?”

Sarah nodded. She kept her eyes closed. She stayed curled in a ball.

She heard Joe closing the drapes in her room until the light was mercifully blocked out. He didn’t turn on any of the lamps, but left the room dark. She heard the door click closed behind him. Then she shivered miserably in her bed.

***

A cool hand on her forehead. She reached up to touch it. It felt dry, a little hairy around the knuckles.

She peeked open one eye. “Still here?”

“Here again,” Joe said.

He laid his hand against her neck. “You’re burning up. Here. Take these.”

He shook two ibuprofen tablets into the palm of his hand and offered them to her along with a glass of water. Sitting up seemed impossible. Sarah didn’t move.

“You’ll feel better,” Joe told her. “Come on, I’ll help you.”

Her body felt pummeled by a thousand aches. She really was sick, she realized—as if the puking hadn’t been enough to convince her.

“What about the depositions?” she asked.

“Cancelled.” Joe helped lever her into enough of a sitting position that she could swallow without choking. Then he helped her lie back down again.

“Don’t be nice to me, Burke.”

“I won’t,” he said.

“I mean it. You’re pissing me off.”

“I can see why.”

He got up and went into the bathroom, and returned with a damp washcloth. He wiped away the sweat on her face and the back of her neck.

Sarah felt the sting of tears. And the pang of anger.

“Don’t,” she said again, this time feeling one of the tears escape.

“It’s just today,” Joe said. “Then we can go back to being enemies.”

“Promise?” she sniffled.

“Promise. Go back to sleep, Sarah. I’ve got you.”