I sit back down as he walks the rest of the way into my office, glances around the crammed quarters, then eases himself into the chair across from my desk.
“So what’s up?” he asks, taking a long sip of coffee, as if we’re old pals, or at least equals.
I take a deep breath, then give him my rehearsed opener. “Well, first of all, I’d like to say that I’ve been working at this firm for more than seven years…and that I’ve had mostly excellent reviews….And I have met or exceeded my billable requirements every year, both as a full-time associate, and after my daughter was born, as a part-time associate.”
“Yes. You have an excellent reputation. Thank you for your fine work and commitment.” He nods, looking serious, but I detect a sparkle of something in his eyes, like he knows what’s coming and is somehow amused by it. “So what are you working on these days?” he asks.
“The Lambert case,” I say, trying, likely unsuccessfully, to hide my distaste. “Pretty much exclusively.”
He whistles, then winces. “Ohh. Sorry to hear that. Goldman’s a real charmer, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” I say, giving him a genuine smile. “He is, indeed.”
Molo grins, then says, “So is that what you wanted to talk to me about? Goldman?”
“Oh, no. Not exactly. Actually, not at all…” I babble. “I just wanted to talk about work in general….”
“Okay. Let’s cut to the chase. Are you resigning? Or just requesting a leave of absence?” He takes his last sip of coffee, then aims the cup toward my wastebasket, a full four or five feet away. He makes the shot, then says, “Because I would really recommend the latter.”
Stunned, I say, “Yes, sir. The latter. I would love the latter.”
“How long do you want?” he asks.
“Two weeks? Maybe three?”
He raises his brows and says, “You sure that’s all?”
“Three would be amazing.”
Molo nods, then says, “How about a month?”
My smile turns into a grin. “Thank you so much. A month would be amazing.”
“Fabulous. Enjoy,” he says, glancing at his watch, then abruptly standing. “Just tell Goldman and HR I signed off on this. See you in a month. I hope you come back. But Godspeed either way.”
Then, before I can thank him, let alone process the magnitude of the gift he’s just bestowed upon me, my boss’s boss winks and walks out the door.
chapter twenty-one
JOSIE
The Wednesday morning following my first appointment with Susan Lazarus, and three days before I turn thirty-eight, Gabe walks into the kitchen with an extreme case of bed head.
“Nice hair,” I say.
He runs his hand through it and thanks me.
“Why are you up?” I ask, glancing at the clock on the microwave. It’s only six-forty, about five minutes before I have to walk out the door, but a good hour before Gabe normally hits his snooze button for the first time.
“I wanted to catch you before you left,” he says, yawning as he opens the refrigerator. He pulls out a jug of grapefruit juice, gives it a shake, then pours some into a glass. “Your birthday’s coming up.”
“I thought you forgot,” I say.
“I did until this morning,” he confesses without a trace of remorse. “Why didn’t you remind me like you usually do?”
I put my peanut-butter toast down on a paper towel, wipe my fingers on the edge of it, and say, “I’m trying to be less self-involved as I approach motherhood.”
“And how’s that going for you?” he asks, rubbing his eyes.
“It’s not easy,” I say. “I was starting to feel like Samantha Baker.”
“Who?” he asks, which surprises me; normally he nails movie trivia.
“C’mon. Molly Ringwald? Sixteen Candles? Remember how everyone forgot her birthday?”
“Facebook wouldn’t let that happen to you.”
“You’re not on Facebook.”
“But I’m sure Pete is.” He gives me a coy look, clearly testing me.
“Good point,” I say.
“So do you have plans with him?”
“No. I don’t have any plans,” I say, making a big show of taking my folic-acid-filled vitamin with a long swallow of now-room-temperature green tea.
“Well, what do you wanna do?” he asks.
I think for a second and say, “I want to go out and get really drunk.”
“Spoken like a mother.”
“It’ll be my last hurrah. Hopefully my last birthday without a child…Will you make a reservation somewhere fun?”
“Can’t Sydney handle that?”
“Gabe,” I whine. “She’s not my best friend. You are.”
“Fine,” he says with a sigh. “But can I get some guidance? Where do you want to go and who do you want to invite?”
“I’m sure you’ll make the right decisions,” I say. Then, in case that’s not enough pressure, I add, “You’re the one person who never lets me down.”
“Okay,” he says. “Just send me Donor Boy’s number. I assume you want him there?”
“Sure,” I say. “That’d be great.”