Silence at the other end. It sounds like this guy might be sobbing. Muffled noises, too hard to tell.

“And if I don’t?” he finally says.

I opt for avoidance. It’s becoming my specialty.

“One step at a time,” I say.

13.

Jason

Sunday, June 9

Late afternoon, I walk the four blocks to my favorite store on the near-north side to buy a new pair of running shoes. Yes, it’s early for me. I know that. But it’s symbolic. And anyway, I like to wear a new pair around for a few weeks before I start running in them. Just the smell of this place, the fresh rubber soles, brings something back to me that’s been missing. I’ll be training again within a few months.

It feels good just being inside the store, the signs for upcoming marathons and 10Ks, people going on about their PRs and training regimens. There are three employees working the store: a woman with blond dreadlocks tied loosely together in back; an older blond woman, closer to my age and more attractive; and a scruffy young guy.

I get the girl with the blond dreadlocks, the name Minnie on her name tag, dressed in running gear herself, an enthusiastic hard-core triathlete who is equally enthusiastic about my credit card. I buy a new pair of Brooks—I’m loyal—and new arch supports, two pairs of shorts, three tanks, two high-necks, nipple guards, gel packs, the works. I walk, not jog, around the store in the new treads. I’ve looked forward to this trip to Runner’s High all week, the idea of reentering that part of my world, but by the time Minnie is ringing me up at the register—$342.74 later—I’m feeling wrong again, irritable, jumpy, my hands itchy, my tongue thick and pasty, my stomach mumbling nasty thoughts. Outside, it feels like during the hour I spent in the store, someone cranked the furnace way up, the air choking my breath, the sunlight stabbing my eyes.

What are you thinking? You’re not going to be running anytime soon. You might as well have flushed that money down the toilet.

I get a bottle of water from the corner convenience store and take a couple of chugs. I pop an Altoid and chew it up, digging out every last granular morsel stuck in my teeth with my tongue. Head down, my eyes on the sun-bleached pavement, I cross the street to the west side, lean against a store window in the shade, and close my eyes.

A man passes me on the street and slows his pace, eyes on me, keeping them on me even when he has to crane his neck backward, a scowl on his face, a look of disgust, because he knows, it’s all over me, I’m transparent.

This was a bad idea, I tell myself. I can’t do this. This date with Alexa the court reporter. What the hell am I doing, thinking I’m in any kind of shape for a relationship with a woman?

Twenty minutes later, I’m seated at the outdoor café just a few blocks from my townhome, a place called Twist that I’ve wanted to check out since I moved into this neighborhood last winter. I arrived early and snagged a corner table outside, along the railing and looking out over the shopping district.

I see her first: Cleopatra in a blue summer dress. She has a sky-blue hair band, if that’s the word, tucking her dark locks behind her ears and fashionable sunglasses, Audrey Hepburn–oversized.

This was a good idea, I tell myself.

She seems very pleased to see me when I raise my hand. She waves back, kind of a cute little gesture, and then comes over and drops across from me.

“Hey there,” she says. “I’ve always wanted to come to this place.”

“Me, too. I’m glad we could do this.”

Ah, what a day, the full throes of summer (though it’s still technically spring), hot and humid but with a nice corner breeze—there’s no accounting for the wind patterns in our fair city—and a bustle of shoppers and people just wanting to be outside surrounding us.

Then she removes her sunglasses and the day gets better. Those liquid eyes, taking on the color of her sky-blue sundress. I love women’s eyes that change color.

“So, Jason Kolarich,” she says. “By the way, I never would have pronounced your name correctly if I hadn’t heard it used in court.”

I get that all the time. It’s a simple name, really. Kola, like the drink. Rich, like wealthy. “Most people say koh-LAR-ick, which sounds more like a throat disease than a last name.”

She likes that, which is important, because I can’t be with a woman who doesn’t appreciate my sense of humor. Not that I’m already planning a future with this one. I’m not into the future right now. I’ll settle for a decent present. It’s pretty damn decent right now.

“You were impressive in court,” she says.

“Yeah? I wasn’t sure you’d think so.”

She cocks her head. “Why not?”

“Oh, the race card. A lot of people find that offensive.”

“But I thought that’s why you did it,” she says. “You wanted him to run away from that accusation. Which he did. And that left him with not much to say. His point was, suburban kids go down there to buy their drugs, and he looked like a suburban kid. But once you equated that with being white, you were making it look like he was playing the race card. And once he backed off that, he didn’t have much to go on for why your client Billy was suspicious.”

Wow. That’s exactly what I did.

She raises her eyebrows expectantly and leans into me. “Pretty perceptive for a court reporter.”

“Pretty perceptive, period,” I say.

“But especially for a non-lawyer, right?” She leans back and smiles, like she zinged me. “Lawyers think that nobody’s as smart as they are.”

“That’s not true.”

“In my experience, it is.”

I think about that for a second, my brain swimming. “In mine, too, now that you mention it.”

She winks at me and something inside me reacts. Our drinks arrive. Normally, it would be straight vodka or a martini, but I can’t handle much booze these days, so I go with a Tanqueray and tonic that is certain to be watered down. Alexa has something in a martini glass with fruit and chocolate in it. We snack on some truffled popcorn that is wicked good. Good times.

“We’re not all bad,” I promise her.

She waves me off while she sips her whatever-martini. “I didn’t say that. But the whole system is set up so that we need lawyers. Everything’s in code and so complicated that even a Rhodes Scholar wouldn’t understand it without a lawyer who got all the secret passwords in law school. And then you guys waltz around the courtroom in your fancy suits and feel so superior to the clients and spectators, like you’re Roman warriors in the Colosseum or something.”

I throw up my hands. “It’s a wonder you’d even date a lawyer.”

She drills a finger into the table. “You call this a date? No. If you want to date me, I want flowers and a white linen tablecloth, and you pick me up and open the door for me. This isn’t a date. This is just a drink.”

She winks at me again. A rosy flourish has gathered at her cheeks. The alcohol taking effect, that initial euphoric buzz. She can’t be much over a hundred pounds soaking wet, so her tolerance is probably low. I sit back and look up at the clouds, take in the flurry of tourists and shoppers and partiers around me.

“I Googled you, y’know,” she says.

“You Googled me?”

She shrugs. “A girl can’t be too careful these days.”

True enough. I don’t even want to ask what she found on the Internet.

“Football star with an attitude problem,” she says. “Big-time defense lawyer. Some people think you were the undercover lawyer in the thing involving Governor Snow. Oh, sure.” She nods. “I know all about you.”