Scot on the Rocks Read online

  “Brooke, you should keep running in place,” Vanessa said to me, still immersed in her conversation about the marathon. I pretended not to hear and instead adjusted my ponytail.

  A few minutes later, we were back to running through the park, Vanessa, still nodding at random other runners and me, trying to look as if I were not at death’s door. I was getting the hang of it for a while, and as we began winding down, I was proud that I’d gone the whole time without dying. Vanessa slowed our pace to a “cool down” speed and I began to fantasize about the hot shower I would take when we got back to the apartment. Still quite a bit away, I could see the Seventy-second Street traffic light, beckoning me like a siren calling out to a tired sailor on the high seas. We got closer and closer, and a smile came to my face. I could even see the vendors beginning to set up their carts for the day, as I wondered if Vanessa had brought any cash so that she could buy me a congratulatory pretzel. I could hear the traffic roaring down Fifth Avenue and I silently patted myself on the back for a job well done.

  Maybe this would be the new me. A healthier, more positive me who woke up early and went running and nodded to other runners as I ran. A motivated me who faces challenges head-on and tackles every obstacle in her way. The kind of woman who doesn’t get flummoxed by the mere prospect of going to her ex-boyfriend’s wedding. Who goes with her head held high, with a real-life boyfriend as opposed to a faux Scottish boyfriend, and behaves like the normal well-adjusted big-time lawyer that she is, as opposed to alienating the faux Scottish boyfriend she has realized she is in love with.

  This was what turning over a new leaf was all about! I turned to Vanessa, all ready to tell her about my epiphany, and lost my footing for a brief instant. I felt something under my foot and it caused my entire body to jerk sideways. I heard Vanessa call something out about a hot dog, which really puzzled me, and then I went down.

  My body hit the pavement with a thud, like a sack of potatoes, as I tried to break my fall with my hands.

  “Brooke!” Vanessa cried out as she knelt down on the ground next to me. A crowd began to gather around us. The pain coming from my ankle was searing, and I grabbed it and bent my head down toward my knee.

  “Is your friend okay?” I heard a stranger ask Vanessa.

  “She tripped on that hot dog,” Vanessa said. I looked up to see the offending hot dog rolling away as Vanessa began yelling at the vendor about how we were lawyers and she was going to sue him. I knew that hot dogs weren’t particularly good for you, but this was ridiculous.

  “I think I need to go to the hospital,” I said to Vanessa as she helped me to my feet. Or, foot, as the case may be. I put my arm over her shoulder as I hopped with her to the curb.

  “Should we get that vendor’s license number?” Vanessa asked me.

  “I’m in too much pain to think about possible future lawsuits,” I said.

  “I’m taking you right to Mount Sinai Hospital,” Vanessa said as a taxicab stopped to pick us up.

  “Mount Sinai?” I asked. “That’s thirty blocks away. We need to go to Lenox Hill, it’s five blocks away.”

  “We can’t go to Lenox Hill,” Vanessa said, opening the cab door and gently helping me in. “Mount Sinai Hospital, please,” she said to the cab driver. He wrote down our destination while we sat there at the red light.

  “She means Lenox Hill, sir,” I said, looking at Vanessa. “I’m in a bit of pain here.” He shot me a dirty look in the rearview mirror as he erased our former destination and began to scribble down the new one.

  “Marcus is at Lenox Hill,” Vanessa said, looking down.

  “We’re not going to see him,” I said, still clutching my ankle. “It’s a big hospital. If you want, you can even just drop me off and go home. Slow the cab down to a cool five and just roll me out. Lenox Hill, sir.”

  “It’s a really small hospital and I can’t leave you alone,” she said. “She means Mount Sinai. Sorry for the confusion.”

  “Marcus is in surgery,” I pleaded. “We are going to the emergency room. I don’t mean to be insensitive, really I don’t, but I don’t think that I can make it till 100th Street. Sir, it’s Lenox Hill.”

  “What if you need surgery?” Vanessa asked. “Mount Sinai, please.”

  “What if I need surgery? I need surgery?” I said as tears began to fall from my eyes. “I don’t need surgery. Do I need surgery?”

  “Ladies,” the cab driver said, “what’s it gonna’ be?” The “Don’t Walk” sign had come up and I could tell that our red light was about to turn green.

  “Lenox Hill!” I said.

  “She means Mount Sinai,” Vanessa said.

  “No, I don’t!” I said. “Vanessa, for the love of God! Lenox Hill!”

  The cab hopped the traffic light on red and took a sharp turn onto Seventy-second Street as Vanessa and I stared each other down. Neither of us even moved as the cab lurched as it turned. We were like Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday at the O.K. Corral, even though we were actually in a taxicab and I think that those guys were on the same side. But you get the general point I was trying to make with that one.

  “Ladies,” the cab driver said, “we’re going to compromise and take you to Weil-Cornell New York Presb on Sixty-eighth Street, okay?”

  “Thank you,” we called out in unison.

  Our cabbie ripped across town to York Avenue and I was hopping into the emergency room in two minutes flat.

  “Maybe your friend can help you to a seat so that you can fill out these forms,” the admitting nurse said to me with a smile as she handed me a clipboard filled with papers.

  “I’m here alone,” I said to the admitting nurse as I steadied myself on a wall. “My best friend has absolutely no regard for my health whatsoever.”

  “She tripped on a hot dog in the park,” Vanessa said, ignoring me completely. “And now she has blinding pain in her ankle.”

  “Can you walk on it?” the nurse asked me, silencing a laugh.

  “It’s not funny,” I said to the nurse.

  “She can’t walk on it,” Vanessa said.

  “I’ll take care of these two, Nurse Carlson,” an English accent from behind us announced. “Are they checked in?”

  “Yes, they are, Dr. Locke,” the nurse said, smiling coyly at the doctor.

  I turned around and recognized a set of immaculately groomed dreadlocks. They were held back by that same chocolate-colored bandanna he’d worn when we’d first met him at Millie’s art gallery.

  “Christian?” Vanessa said. “Brooke, you remember Christian from my mom’s art gallery, don’t you?”

  “It was a week ago,” I said, still clutching the wall, “so, yes.”

  Christian helped me into a wheelchair and walked us back to the examining area. He and Vanessa then carefully got me up onto a hospital bed where Christian pulled back the curtain to examine my ankle in private. Which was good since I hadn’t shaved my legs since the wedding.

  Oh, please. As if you shave your legs when no one’s going to see them.

  “So, how was your ex-boyfriend’s wedding?” Christian asked as he poked and prodded my ankle.

  “Fine,” I said. “Ouch!”

  “Okay,” he said, “I’m going to put a little pressure on it. Tell me if this hurts.”

  “Ouch.”

  “So, everything worked out at the wedding?” he asked, still looking down at my ankle. “Are you and Douglas back together?”

  “It didn’t exactly work out the way I had planned,” I said. “Ouch.”

  “Most things never do,” he said. “But that’s what makes life exciting, right?” Vanessa and I both stared back at him blankly. It was still before eight o’clock in the morning — my usual wake-up time — and I could do without my current “excitement.”

  “So, whatever happened with that other guy,” Christian asked, now moving my leg around in circles, “the one who was at the opening with you two? He seemed very interested in you, Brooke.”

  “Oh, tha
t didn’t work out, either,” I said as Vanessa grabbed my hand and smiled at me. Christian turned my ankle in a slow circle. “Ouch.”

  “I see,” Christian said, looking up at me as he stopped poking and prodding my ankle. “Okay, Brooke, the good news is that it’s not broken.”

  “Thank you,” Vanessa said, taking on the maternal role, her hands clutching the metal bar of the hospital bed.

  “You do have a nasty sprain here, though,” he said. “I’m going to put you on crutches for a while.”

  “I can’t be on crutches!” I said. “I live in New York City! How will I get around? I walk everywhere — how will I walk? Or the subway — how will I get down the stairs to the subway?”

  “Think of it as a good excuse to take cabs everywhere,” Vanessa said, and then added under her breath: “Which you sort of do anyway.”

  “Staying positive,” Christian said. “That’s good, Vanessa. I’m glad to see that. I hear from your mom that you’re not having the best time of things lately.”

  “I’ll be okay,” Vanessa said. “At least I’m not on crutches.”

  “Ha ha,” I said.

  “Well, if you ever need to talk about it,” Christian said, “you know where to find me.” Is this man flirting with Vanessa while he’s examining my ankle? The nerve! How is he going to give my ankle a proper analysis? This is why people are always complaining about the state of health care in the United States.

  “I don’t need to talk about it,” Vanessa said, smoothing back her hair.

  Even though the pain was maddening, all I could think was if Vanessa marries yet another doctor before I’ve had a chance to marry even one, my mother will die. I can just hear her now: “Your friend married two doctors and you can’t even get a date!”

  “So, I can’t go to work today, right?” I asked Christian.

  “No, you can go to work,” he said, still preening in Vanessa’s general direction.

  “Are you absolutely positively sure?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said, eyes still glued on Vanessa.

  “Because I don’t have to go to work,” I said, ever the trooper.

  “Brooke, you can go,” he said.

  “Can you check again?” I asked. He shook his head no to me without even looking my way. “Do I at least get some painkillers?”

  “Let’s start with an ice pack and some ibuprofen. I’ll go get you a soft ice pack that you can use for the next forty-eight hours,” Christian said as he pulled back the curtain and walked off to get me an ice pack, but not before he patted Vanessa on the hand before he did so.

  “Don’t worry, Brooke,” Vanessa said. “Everything will work out.”

  “It’s badly sprained, Vanessa,” I said. “It’s done. It’s over. There’s nothing to work out.”

  “I was talking about Jack,” she said.

  “Oh,” I said. “I guess I feel the same way about Jack. I screwed up. It’s done. It’s over.”

  “No, it’s not. With Jack, it is in no way done or over. With the ankle thing, you’re just screwed.”

  “Thank you for that sensitive commentary,” I said, grabbing at my ankle.

  “I’m kidding!” she said. “It’s going to be fine! It’s not broken, and you’ll be back on your feet within weeks. In the meantime, you have an excuse to not exercise and take cabs everywhere! I would think that that would be your secret fantasy or something.”

  “It would have been my fantasy if I also got a note saying that I couldn’t go to work.”

  “I’ll work on it when he gets back,” Vanessa said, looking out past the curtain for Christian to return.

  “Are you going to flirt with him some more?” I asked.

  “I wasn’t flirting with him,” Vanessa said, toying with the zipper on her sweatshirt.

  “Yes, you were,” I said. “You know, it’s okay if you were.”

  “I know,” she said. “It just still feels like cheating somehow. I’m not ready to flirt with strangers just yet.”

  “You don’t have to be ready yet,” I said. “Just take your time. Everything is going to work out the way it’s meant to.”

  “I was just about to say the same thing to you.”

  27

  The following Monday, I marched right into Jack’s office and brought him the research I’d done for him over the weekend. Well, more like fell right into Jack’s office. I was still figuring out how to negotiate the crutches and the plastic boot I was condemned to wear on my ankle. (“Oh, my God, that thing is hideous, are you really going to wear that out of the house?” was Vanessa’s reaction.) I wore my hair down for our big meeting and I kept catching pieces of it against the crutches underneath my armpit. Not the image I was going for.

  “Thanks,” he said, barely looking up from his computer. I’d worked hard on the research — I didn’t want to give Jack any more reason to hate me than he already had — and I’d also drafted a comprehensive memorandum outlining the case law for him and highlighting future points for argument, which he hadn’t even asked me to do. I was hoping to get more mileage out of my weekend’s work than a mere “thanks.”

  “Is there anything else you need me to do?” I asked, hoping he would say yes and extend the conversation a bit further.

  “Nope,” Jack said, eyes still locked on the computer, “you’re all set. Thanks.”

  “Tell me the truth,” I said, trying to be cute, “is that really your fantasy football league that you’re working so hard on?”

  “No,” he said, turning his screen to face me, “it’s the survey for the Healthy Foods case.”

  “Oh,” I said, still standing in front of his desk. In a false-advertising lawsuit like the Healthy Foods case, what must be proven is actual confusion — that consumers were actually confused into buying your product because of your false advertising. Jack was crafting a survey that would then be conducted out in the public to prove that consumers weren’t actually confused into buying Healthy Foods coffee because they thought it was healthy. A case can be won or lost on a survey, a fact I knew acutely since Jack and I had drafted the winning survey on the last false advertising case we’d been on together. I couldn’t help but feel a slight pang of disappointment that he hadn’t wanted to work with me on the Healthy Foods survey.

  “Don’t you have other work to do?” he said, turning his screen back to face him and beginning to type.

  You’re losing him, I thought. Get his interest back.

  “Yes,” I said, hopping over to his visitor’s chair and plopping myself down, crutches strategically placed against his desk for maximum sympathy, “but I think I’d rather consult the Magic 8-Ball to find out if we’re going to win our case. Magic 8-Ball,” I said, shaking it slowly in a manner that I was hoping would look seductive, “are we going to win the Healthy Foods case?”

  Jack grabbed the Magic 8-Ball from my hands and threw it into his garbage can. I felt my body involuntarily jerk back into my chair from the sheer force that he had used to throw it down. I was certain that its contents were in the bottom of his garbage can, blue liquid oozing out everywhere.

  “Stop,” he said. “Enough. If you want me to find you some work to do, I can find you some work to do.”

  “For you?” I said, perking up. “Okay.”

  “No,” he said, looking me dead in the eye. “Not for me.”

  “But we always work together,” I said.

  “Well, Tina and I worked really well together at the client’s office last Friday, so I think I’ll be working with her a lot more on a forward-going basis. You’re getting too senior to be doing all of your work for me anyway.”

  “Oh,” I said, immediately feeling the urge to cry. “Of course.” I grabbed for my crutches and tried to steady myself as I stood. I pushed back the visitor’s chair with one crutch and hopped around to face Jack’s door. Jack sat at his desk staring at me.

  “Anyway,” he said once I’d almost made it to the door. “I’m sure you’ll be too busy planning
your wedding to Douglas to work on my cases anyway.”

  “My wedding? I’m not marrying Douglas,” I said, turning to him quickly on my good leg and almost losing my footing. I hadn’t heard Douglas’s name in a week. He hadn’t even contacted me in as long despite his declaration of love and marriage proposal at Trip’s wedding, and I had a visceral reaction to hearing it spoken. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Vanessa told me that he proposed to you in L.A. after I left the wedding,” he said.

  “But did she also tell you that I said no? That I stormed out on him?”

  “Yeah, she told me that part,” he said, looking me dead in the eye. “But I know you, Brooke, and you’ll be back for him. I know what you like. What’s important to you. You’ll be planning that wedding to Douglas in no time.”

  “No, I won’t,” I said. “I won’t, Jack.”

  “You know what, Brooke,” Jack said, shaking his head, “it doesn’t even matter anymore.”

  “But I love you,” I blurted out. I didn’t mean to say it — and certainly not like that — but the words just fell out of my mouth.

  Jack stared at me in silence for a moment before looking back to his computer. “I wish I could believe you,” he said as he began to type. Partners sometimes did this charming little trick when you were excused from their offices. They would bark out their orders to you, and before you could say a word, they would then pick up the telephone or begin to type or start reviewing a file without even telling you the meeting was over. Jack and I used to joke around about how unbelievably rude this practice was and report back to each other whenever a partner did it to us, putting them on a mental list of people we never wanted to work for again. I stood in Jack’s doorway for a moment, staring at him, certain he would look back up at me and want to talk, but he kept on typing furiously.