Chapter Twenty-Seven

Ben

Candlelight glints off the hefty silver cutlery and wineglasses filled with a very expensive Cabernet. Heavy, white plates laden with perfectly prepared steaks rest on a thick, snowy tablecloth in one of the best steakhouses in Chicago.

My father set up this “celebratory” dinner to thank Richard as soon as the call came in about my acceptance. I didn’t cancel it, even after my enlightening conversation with Alex.

I’ve fucked up—in many ways and for a long time. But the biggest mistake I’ve made is living in fear. I have a long list of things I need to do, but this one is a top priority. If I’m going to go for it, I can’t have the security of law school and a trust fund to fall back on. I don’t want the temptation of taking the path of least resistance when things get hard. If I’m finally going to be brave enough to claim my own future; I’m doing it without a safety net.

“Once you get to the spring semester, we can start looking for an internship with a firm or a clerkship with a judge for next summer,” Richard says.

My father leans forward and stabs his fork into a blood-red slice of steak. “You want an internship with a good firm, Ben.” He points his dripping steak at me. “None of this clerkship stuff. Knowing you, you’ll end up working as a damn public defender if you go that route.”

“Public defenders play a vital role in the system,” Richard says evenly.

It sucks that I have to drag him into our drama—he’s actually a friendly, decent guy, despite being old friends with my dad—but the only way Dad will get it is if I make it irrevocable, and for that, I need witnesses. This isn’t some minor Ben rebellion he can crush and sweep under the family rug. This is a full-out revolution. Go big or go home, right? Well, after tonight, I won’t have a home, so I’m going really big. All this time I’ve been looking for a way around his ultimatum, but the answer is clear. I don’t need to go around— I need to bust straight through it and stop worrying about what’ll break when I do.

“Sure, public defenders are useful,” my father agrees. “For folks who need them. And that’s fine for all those liberal arts types, but Ben here has a hell of a brain. He’ll do great in civil law. Right, Ben?”

I inhale deeply. Now’s the time. The opening is right here in front of me. If I back out now, I’ll never have the courage to do what I need to do. So I straighten my shoulders, look Dad straight in the eye, and say, “No.”

“Excuse me?” he says, a note of warning in his voice.

I put my fork down. “I won’t do great in civil law or criminal law or any other kind. I mean, yeah, I could muddle through if I wanted to, but I’m not going to because I’m not going to be a lawyer.”

“Now Ben,” my dad says smoothly. “We’ve talked about this.”

“No, you’ve talked, and I’ve gone along with it because I was scared, but I’m done with that. This isn’t right. I don’t want to be a lawyer. I know what I want to do with my life, and this isn’t it.”

“I thought we put the teaching nonsense to bed,” Dad snaps.

“You did. I haven’t. I won’t.”

Richard shifts uncomfortably. “If you’d like me to give you a moment—”

“That’s not necessary, Richard. Ben’s just—”

I stand, throwing my white linen napkin onto my untouched plate. “Ben’s finally fucking speaking up for himself.”

My dad’s voice drops into an ominous register. “You know what happens if you fuck this up, sport.” Unease flickers through me, but I shove it away. That’s an old reaction, left over from childhood. I’m about to lay claim to my adulthood. It’s long overdue.

“Yeah, I know, you’ll cut me off, disown me, whatever. Do what you want, but I’m not going to law school.”

Dad glares at me, his face turning an ugly shade of purple. “Exactly what do you think you’re going to do if you walk out of here?”

“I’ll catch a bus back to Arlington. I have a lot of stuff to fix, but it’s about time I started living my life for me, don’t you think?” I turn to Richard and extend my hand. “Richard, I’m sorry. You were really great. Thank you for everything, but I can’t do this.”

Richard hesitates, then smiles and shakes my hand. “Don’t worry about it, Ben. Good luck with everything.”

My dad snorts in disgust. “He’s going to need luck. I swear, Ben, you won’t see a dime from me.”

“I know, Dad. If I walk out, it’ll be big and bad and permanent. But for better or for worse, it’ll be mine. I’ll roll the dice, and I’ll play whatever comes up. You’re an investor— You should appreciate that, right?”

I don’t wait to hear his reaction. I turn and walk out of the restaurant into the freezing Chicago night. For the first time in ages, I can breathe.