I dropped my phone to the cushion beside me and stared at it for a moment, willing the pressure in my skull to subside just a little. I never once, not even for a moment, contemplated telling anybody what had happened. I could barely recount it to myself: I left the gala early because I couldn’t stand to be around the wife of the coworker I’ve been sleeping with . . . I had to stop there.

I attempted to control the pain I was feeling by picturing myself floating on a cloud, conjuring the instructions from the one time in college I had tried meditating, but my mind raced with the sense that I’d somehow deserved the punishment, spliced with the actual feeling of my dress being pushed up and their hands all over me. I was unable to make sense of my thoughts or quell the anxiety numbing my limbs, but I did arrive at one conclusion: If I didn’t talk about it and I didn’t let it affect me, then it didn’t happen. What did actually happen, anyway? Attempted assault? What was the punishment for that? A slap on the wrist? This was Gary Kaplan. Nobody would believe me. And he would destroy my career, and maybe even my family. I would just continue to live my life, and not let him affect me. That way, I would win.

Part VI

Postbreakup Matters

The “cleanup” and adjustments made after a deal or breakup in order to ensure that each party to the transaction can successfully function.

Q. To be clear, you engaged in consensual sexual congress with Peter Dunn. And you did not consent to the alleged sexual advances made by Gary Kaplan.

A. Correct. You must realize that consenting to one man is not consenting to every man.

Q. There is no implication that it is. It’s a yes or no question. Is it correct that you consented to sexual relations with Peter Dunn but not with Gary Kaplan?

A. Yes. It is.

Q. Did you benefit financially based on your claims of alleged sexual assault against Gary Kaplan?

A. No.

Q. You did not benefit monetarily, either directly or indirectly, from your accusations against Gary Kaplan?

Chapter 22

I walked into the office the Monday morning after the Stag River gala and stared at the blinking red light on my phone. I’d listened to and deleted all my messages from coworkers and clients, so I knew what I would hear if I listened to the last voice mail, the one I had left myself that night. The air around my head hummed, and I shoved my index fingers into my ears and shook hard in a futile attempt to dispel the ringing. Though I hadn’t been thinking clearly when I’d lied about having the flu, it actually was the perfect excuse because I knew how ill I looked—my sunken cheeks had a greenish hue, and my hair was matted to my head from the constant beads of sweat bubbling up through my scalp.

I covered the blinking red light with a napkin and dove into my emails. Throwing myself into work distracted me from the mess that was my personal life, sucking all emotion out of me and leaving behind a calculating shell of a human. I spent the next hour tending to my Stag River messages, though none directly from Gary, and responded clearly and professionally. Starting at ten, I was in meetings all day, including three with Peter where I successfully avoided making eye contact with him even once. When I returned to my office at the end of the day, Anna was looking up at me expectantly from her cubicle. “I have Jordan for you.”

I nodded and closed the door to my office behind me. “Hi,” I said into the receiver.

His voice was warm. “How’re you feeling?”

“Better. Yeah, better,” I told him. In reality, I felt almost nothing but a nagging angst at my fingertips—making me type faster, speak more quickly, walk more swiftly.

“I’m getting a drink with some guys across the street. Are you still knocked out from the flu?”

“I need a drink tonight more than anybody has ever needed a drink.”

“Is that a yes?” Jordan laughed. “Meet us there at seven.”

I sat back in my chair and bit at a fingernail. For the moment, I had no unread emails and nothing pressing on my to-do list, and my brain drifted back to The Incident. I shook my head to steady myself and dialed the first three digits of Carmen’s extension but couldn’t press the last one. I leaned back in my chair and stared up at the ceiling, willing my hand to stop trembling. I shook it out, hung up, and dialed her full extension.

“Hey lady!” Carmen chirped. “What’s cookin’?” I could hear impatience in her tone.

“Hey . . .” I had called her to make small talk, just to cancel the noise in my head, but hearing her voice, I realized how badly I needed to tell her about the gala. Whatever was going on between us at work, I had no doubt whatsoever she’d stand beside me as a loyal friend.

“Al, so sorry. Gotta take this. Call you right back.” Carmen clicked onto her other line.

I cradled my head in my hands and heard a knock on the door. I took a moment to gather myself before speaking. “Come in!”

Peter opened the door, which let out a slow creak, and closed it behind him. I noticed that his usually smooth jawline was covered in stubble. It suited him—of course it did. I suddenly felt angry that everything was so easy for him. That I had been so easy for him.

“May I?” he asked, gesturing to a seat. I gave him a short nod.

“Are you avoiding me?” he asked, sounding uncharacteristically apprehensive. “I mean, I know you’re avoiding me. I know you’re mad about the gala.”

I swallowed. “I’m not mad. Or avoiding you. I’ve responded to all your emails, haven’t I?” He cocked his head to one side, indicating that he’d noticed that my responses had become short. And cold. No exclamation points or witty replies, no smiley faces or open-ended questions regarding anything other than deal terms. Granted, we had never been overtly flirtatious via email, but my tone toward him had undoubtedly shifted.

I stared at him, realizing that I blamed him for what had happened to me.

“I’m just confused because I thought we had a nice weekend together . . . I’d feel terrible if I did something to . . .”

“You didn’t,” I said. “But what we had, whatever that was, is over. I want to continue working on your deals. But we can only work together. No more . . . anything,” I finished, and exhaled. Saying those words was much easier than I had thought it would be.

Peter met my gaze with a half smile and nodded a few times, slowly at first and then faster. “Fair enough,” he said. Then we both froze as we heard a mechanical click from somewhere in my desk, a slight rustling, and the undeniable shift of the energy in the air. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

“I’m still on the line,” Carmen said, her voice coming from the black grid, and then we heard the click as she hung up.

I dropped my head into my hands. “Shit.”

“Was that—” Peter began.

“Please,” I said, without looking up.

I heard him shut my door as I said “Shit” over and over to myself, head still in my hands. I finally swallowed down the bile that had made its way to the back of my throat, sat up, and dialed Carmen’s extension. I heard her pick up the receiver, but the line went immediately dead. I tried again. Same thing.

Three more times. The same result. She had to be so disgusted with me—thinking this was how I’d gotten an edge over her in M&A.

“Fuck!” I yelled into the ether. Within thirty seconds, Anna poked her head in.

“Not now,” I snapped at her. She darted back out and closed the door quickly, leaving me alone in a space that seemed to be closing in on me as my thoughts of shame ballooned out.

When I arrived at the bar, I was surprised to see Kevin sitting next to Jordan at a high-top table, two empty beers in front of them. “I didn’t realize you two knew each other,” I said in between hungry sips of my drink, eager to wash away the day I just had.

“Jealous?” Kevin said with a wink. I rolled my eyes and ordered a round of tequila shots. I barely paid attention to what they were saying as I focused on drinking enough to dull my racing thoughts and emotions. I replayed the conversation with Peter that Carmen had overheard over and over in my mind as Kevin and Jordan laughed about some story they heard from the Litigation team. I ordered another round of shots, ignoring Kevin’s curious glance, and watched as the bartender slowly poured our shots and the waitress took an eternity to bring them over. I threw mine back before the guys did, without a “Cheers.”

“Another!” I demanded, slamming my shot glass down.

Jordan shook his head and laughed. “I think you’ve had quite enough, Skip.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” I said, and sneered. “I’m not some, like, little woman.” I couldn’t come up with a better word.

Jordan held up his hands. “Fine, fine—have as much as you want.”