Every user was “guaranteed” to be a lawyer who’d been personally invited via email. According to the site’s developers, they’d “cross-referenced every practicing lawyer in the state of North Carolina against the board’s licensing records to ensure a unique and one of a kind support system.”
I honestly thought the network was bullshit, and if it weren’t for the fact that I’d f**ked a few of the women I’d met on there, I would’ve cancelled my account after the first month.
Nonetheless, when I saw a new “Need Some Advice” message from an “Alyssa,” I couldn’t resist trying to replicate my previous results. I read through her profile first—twenty seven, one year out of law school, book lover—and decided to go for it.
My intent was to answer her legal questions, slowly steer the conversation to more personal things, and then ask her to join Date-Match so I could see what she looked like. But she wasn’t like the other women.
She sent me constant messages, and she always kept the topic of conversation professional. Since she was such a young and inexperienced lawyer, she asked for advice on the simplest topics: legal brief editing, claim filing, and exhibition of evidence. After we’d chatted five times and I’d grown tired of having three hour long info-dump sessions, I asked for her phone number.
She said no.
“Why not?” I’d typed.
“Because it’s against the rules.”
“I’ve never met a lawyer that hasn’t broken at least one.”
“Then you’re not a very good lawyer. I’ll find someone else to chat with now. Thanks.”
“You’re going to lose that case tomorrow.” I typed before she could end our session. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”
“Are you really that upset about me not giving you my phone number? What are you, twelve?”
“Thirty two, and I don’t give a f**k about your phone number. I was only asking for it so I could call and tell you that the brief you sent me is littered with typos, and the closing argument reads like a first year law student wrote it. There are too many mistakes for me to sit here and type them all.”
“My brief isn’t that bad.”
“It’s not that good either.” Before I could sign out of our chat, her phone number appeared on the screen, and underneath it was a short paragraph: “If you’re going to call and help me, fine. If you’re using my number to talk me into joining a dating site later, then forget it. I joined this network for career support, that’s it.”
I stared at her message long and hard—debating whether I should help her with no chance of getting anything out of it, but something made me call her anyway. I walked her through every mistake she’d made, insisted that she clear up a few sentences, and even re-formatted her brief.
Just when I was about to tell her goodbye and hang up, the strangest thing happened. She asked, “How was your day today?”
“That’s not in your brief.” I said. “You only want to talk about lawyer shit, remember?”
“I can’t change my mind?”
“No. Hang up.” I waited to hear a beep, but the only thing I heard was laughter. If it wasn’t for the fact that it was such a raspy and sexy sound, I would’ve hung up myself, but I couldn’t put the phone down.
“I’m sorry,” she said, still laughing. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“You didn’t. Hang up.”
“I don’t want to.” She finally stopped laughing. “I apologize for that hostile message I sent you...You’re actually the only guy I’ve met on here who answers all my questions. Are you busy right now? Can you talk?”
“About what?”
“About yourself, your life...I’ve been asking you boring legal questions every day, and you’ve been very patient so...It’s only fair that we talk about something less boring for once if we’re going to be friends, right?”
Friends?
I was hesitant to respond—especially since it didn’t seem like the ‘less boring’ topics would involve sex, and she’d said the word “friends” so easily. Yet, I was in the middle of another sex-less night already, so I began to have a regular conversation with her. Until five in the morning, she and I discussed the most mundane things—our daily lives, favorite books, her dream of becoming a late, professional ballerina.
A few days later, we spoke again, and after a month, I was talking to her every other day.
Tossing back another shot, I pressed the call button on my phone and waited to hear her soft voice.
No answer. I considered sending her a text, but then I realized it was nine o’ clock on a Wednesday and we wouldn’t be able to talk at all tonight.
Practice...Wednesday nights are always ballet practice...
***
“Mr. Hamilton?” My secretary stepped into my office the next morning.
“Yes, Jessica?”
“Mr. Greenwood and Mr. Bach would like to know if you want to participate in the next round of intern interviews today.”
“I don’t.”