Chapter Three

three

Hillary

November

It's Wednesday evening, which means Aaron is sitting in his usual seat at our usual table in the corner of our usual restaurant, waiting for Roger, our usual waiter, to bring him his usual drink—an old-fashioned, heavy on the bitters.

For the past two years, I've found comfort in the predictability of our relationship. But lately, I've been wondering what would happen if I just…stopped.

Of course, I couldn't. I wouldn't. Not when Aaron is the key to the last item I have left on the "Ten Steps to a Successful Life" list I wrote when I was seven years old. I'm pretty sure I was the only kid on the playground who knew what magna cum laude was. Well, I didn't actually know what it meant—I just knew that my dad valued it, so I wanted it.

Before walking into the restaurant, I glance at my reflection in the window. With my black dress pants and turquoise blouse tucked in the front like the sales associate showed me, I look every bit the professional woman my father raised to be an ideal wife for a man like Aaron Feinberg. At least from the neck down. I'm overdue for a keratin treatment, and my brown hair is beginning to revert to its naturally curly state. I give it a quick finger comb, then apply a fresh coat of coral lipstick. Not perfect, but could be worse.

"Sorry I'm late," I say, giving Aaron a kiss, then taking my usual seat.

"I ordered for you," he says, matter-of-factly. There's no chill to his voice or undertone of annoyance. While the man is a lion in the courtroom, he's a lamb outside it. We never argue, which I guess is a good thing. Although it means we never get to make up.

On paper, Aaron is everything I'm looking for in a husband. He's on the partner track at my father's law firm. He's conventionally handsome, his reddish-brown hair neatly trimmed, his clothes tailored to fit. He even gets his back waxed. Honestly, he takes his appearance much more seriously than I do mine, but vanity isn't exactly a flaw. He's a great plus-one at social engagements, making small talk so I don't have to. And my father loves him.

The thing is, lately I've been asking myself: do I?

I like our life together. It's easy, companionable. What we lack in passion, we over-index in other things, like mutual respect. And that's an important foundation for a lasting partnership.

"How was work today?" I ask.

"Interesting, actually," he says, perking up. The man loves work the way I love…I'm not sure I love anything as much as he loves work. "You know the Lewin case?"

I nod. Growing up, conversation around the dinner table centered on whatever big case my dad was working on. I became fluent in legalese, a skill that's served me well.

"The deposition is next week, and I haven't had time to write my opening statement—but I put the facts into that Chat AI thing, and believe it or not, the robot did a decent job."

"Wow."

"It'll make my job much more efficient," he says, then adds, frowning, "but that means fewer hours to bill."

"Quite the conundrum."

Aaron purses his lips, like he's weighing the pros and cons in his head. Almost thirty years as my father's daughter has trained me for the delicate dance of conversation with men who just need a sympathetic ear to talk through their challenges at work.

"How about you?" Aaron asks as our entrées arrive: steak frites for him, cedar-planked salmon for me. "Good day?"

I shrug, taking a bite of salmon. "Good" is debatable. It was a successful day—but heavy. As an independent consultant who helps failing businesses turn the ship around, I'm often the bearer of bad news. Like today, when I informed my client she needs to close thirty percent of her locations. Her reaction was typical: confused and frustrated. Wasn't I there to save her business? But I reminded her, as I have so many others, that a strategic loss can leave room for more gains. The key to success in business—and in life—is to make decisions with your head, not your heart.

My ability to separate logic from emotion and find creative solutions to business problems has made me an in-demand leader in the change agent industry. Which is why it's so rare for me to have an opening in my calendar. Much less one that's three months long.

"Did I tell you I won the bid for the Water Tower project?" I say, reciting the opening line I rehearsed last night and again this morning.

The iconic mall in downtown Chicago has never quite recovered from the pandemic, losing stores and foot traffic, and I've been wooing the management team for months.

"That's great, babe, congrats," Aaron says, raising his glass to clink against mine.

"Thanks. They don't want to start until September, and my contract with the bank wraps up in May, so that leaves a few months unspoken for."

"Something will come up," Aaron says. "It always does."

"Actually, something did…" I say, letting the word linger.

Aaron cocks an eyebrow.

"I got an email about a job opportunity I might apply for," I say, feeling oddly like I'm about to ask my dad for permission to go to the mall after school. "Running the Arts and Crafts program at my old sleepaway camp."

Aaron laughs, then abruptly stops when he realizes I'm not joking.

"I know it sounds crazy," I say.

"It does."

I frown, trying to summon the surge of excitement that pulsed through me when I read Jessie's email. I haven't been this excited about a potential job since…since the summer I was planning to be a counselor at Camp Chickawah. At my father's urging (read: insistence), I turned down that job in favor of a "real" one that would jump-start my career. Which it did. The experience I got interning for a marketing firm that summer was priceless.

Well, not exactly priceless.

It cost me the best friend I've ever had.

"Camp doesn't start until June," I tell Aaron. "So we could take a few weeks to travel. Go somewhere exciting, maybe Italy and Greece? I've wanted to go since I watched the first Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants movie. And you love feta!"

"I do love feta," Aaron agrees. "But you know I can't take time off right now."

"It's not right now; it's in May."

"May's a busy time," Aaron says. But he's forgetting I'm the daughter of a lawyer—the daughter of his boss. I know lawyers don't have "busy times." All their times are busy, but that doesn't mean you never take time off. Is that the life Aaron wants? A chill runs through me as I imagine spending our honeymoon in the halls of the courthouse.

"Babe," Aaron says, putting his hand over mine. "I'm just thinking about our future—you want me to make partner, don't you?"

"Of course," I say.

"And this camp job. What does it even pay? Minimum wage?"

"It's not about the money."

It would help if I could find the words to tell him what it is about. But I've never been good at putting big feelings into words. Even if I could, I doubt Aaron would understand the urge I feel to reconnect with this piece of my past. There was a time when Camp Chickawah felt like home. The one place I could truly be myself. A person I haven't been in more than a decade.

"Everything's about money," Aaron says, then adds, "Right, Roger?" to our waiter, who probably wishes he'd picked a different moment to refill our water glasses.

"Nothing's decided yet," I say. "Who knows if I'll even get the job."

But beneath the table, I cross my fingers, hoping with everything I've got that I will.