the act of restoring or making amends for something that was lost, damaged, or borrowed
can be applied to snacks
We eat lunch in one of the courthouse rooms, a spread of sandwiches, chips, cookies, and room-temperature sodas piled in the middle of the large, round table.
“Is there anything ever on the lunch menu besides sandwiches?” gripes Gray Man, directing his words to the turkey on rye in his hand. True to the first day, he has worn very little besides differing shades of gray suits. It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak except to ask our van driver to blast the air-conditioning harder on virtually every ride, freezing the rest of us out. He is the only juror I haven’t gathered any fun facts about.
“There’s never anything organic, either,” says juror number twelve, the usually perky mom of four, Kate. To no one’s surprise, Gray Man ignores her. Juror number eleven (the blond man I’ve come to know as the perpetual courtroom sneezer) grabs the last package from the turkey tray, and juror number two (a short, bald man who waves to Judge Gillespy each time we enter the courtroom) scoffs in dismay.
I sit down next to Tamra at the round table, then Damon takes the seat next to me. Cam quickly takes the seat beside Damon. We’ve become an unexpected little foursome.
“Four days in and we haven’t even heard from the defense yet,” Tamra says. We all look at one another, then the others, dejected. I’m not quite at the level of despondence they seem to be, but I do feel the fatigue of it all.
“It’s wild that woman wrote a book about killing her husband and then killed her husband,” Cam’s voice projects, garnering a few looks from around the table. He speaks as if he’s mid-conversation about the morning’s developments, though he’s just sat down. I notice juror numbers five and six nodding in agreement.
“An article,” I correct, just as one of the bailiffs—Carolyn, I know her name to be—clears her throat toward Cam and me.
I wonder whether the revelation about the book Margot was reading will damage her case. Whether itshouldbe damaging. I’ve read books about murder. It most certainly didn’t make me a murderer or more likely to murder.
“No case talk,” Xavier, our self-appointed jury leader, scolds jovially from a few seats down, then bites into the club in his hands. He seems to love sandwiches.
“Sorry,” Cam says to no one in particular, pulling his chip package open before leaning across the table to the center and grabbing two more bags. Tamra stares sadly at her bag of Lay’s. They didn’t even offer a variety of flavors today, it’s just a pile of yellow bags of Classics.
Damon leans in and speaks so softly only I can hear. “How are you holding up? Still a superfan after all you’ve learned?” His chin dimple twitches.
I smile politely at Damon, though do not otherwise reply, shoving my pastrami on wheat to my lips and sinking into a bite too large to speak through.
We eat primarily in silence for the remainder of the meal, and as our lunch break wears down, I duck into the restroom for a moment to myself. I stare at my reflection, see the barely there markings of a flush. There’s more color in my cheeks, and not the artificial kind. My eyes seem dewier, my eyebrows more arched. Despite the stress of the case and several nights of poor sleep, I look like I’ve just returned froma relaxing Caribbean vacation. A twinge of guilt singes the back of my neck as I think about Kara. About Joe Kitsch. I’ve had some semblance of enjoyment here, Joe’s death the catalyst for the new life in my cheeks.
Exiting the bathroom to head back to the makeshift lunchroom, I face-plant directly into Damon. Specifically, the right side of my face lands squarely between his pecs. I instinctively know it’s him, his smell and build immediately recognizable, even as my body collides with his. He is a wall, no softness or give.
He clasps my arms, just above the elbows, to straighten me as I step back.
“You fall a lot,” he says when we’ve separated.
“No, I don’t,” I respond automatically, though I instantly recall the almost-passing-out situation from last night, realizing how much the damsel in distress I’ve managed to be with him and how much I hate it. Like an unlikable rom-com heroine.
As I pull away, I realize I’ve left a foundation stain smack dab between his pecs on his sky-blue button-down. His eyes flick to the front of his shirt and then do this sort of flutter thing that tells me he doesn’t care.
We stand staring at each other in the hallway in front of the women’s restroom entrance and it feels dangerous, being alone with him, despite the many people just yards away behind various courtroom doors.
Still passed out in a closet,I think. I feel as though I am. A big part of me wishes wewereback in that closet, everything else shut out.
He pulls a package from his back pocket, hands it to me. “A replacement.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking the peanut butter cups. I open it and hand him one, keeping the other for myself.
“Cheers,” I say, holding it up.
He bumps his cup to mine. The chocolate has softened, likely from the placement in his back pocket. Peanut butter cups have quickly become my favorite treat.
Despite telling myself to walk away, I linger. “You really still ride motocross?” I ask through the bite. No matter how much I want to staymad at him, I just can’t seem to make it stick today. It’s unnerving, more than anything, how little time it has taken for me to seehimagain.
“What made you think of that?”
I shrug. “It’s one of the only things I know about you now.” Other than the taste of your mouth.
He leans against the wall just beyond the ladies’ room door, crosses his arms as his right foot moves in front of his left. “It’s where I do my best thinking.”
