Brandy Colbert: Pointe

My parents shield me from them, and Donovan’s lawyer meets us on the front steps of the courthouse. Graham McMillan. He’s supposedly one of the best prosecuting attorneys in the Midwest. Some reports say he’s the best in the nation. Before I saw him on the news, talking about the case in a press conference, I expected him to be tall and imposing, gruff-voiced and fierce. But he’s short and has a baby face with chubby cheeks, and when I met him a few weeks before the trial, his eyes disappeared into half-moons when he smiled, when he shook my hand and said it was nice to meet me.

We didn’t talk much yesterday; there was a chance I could be called but I wasn’t, so I spent the day sitting in the hallway outside the courtroom, doing homework and listening to music and almost wishing I was inside so I could get it over with.

But this morning he’s clearly waiting for me, stops pacing as soon as he sees us. He greets my parents, then says he needs to steal me away before the trial starts. They hug and kiss me, say they’ll see me inside.

McMillan and I walk through the halls of the courthouse. Sterile and stately and old.

We ride the elevator up to another floor. It’s quiet. I think we might be the only people up here this early. McMillan walks to a machine that dispenses hot drinks and buys me a tea. I’m not thirsty but I hold on to the steaming paper cup and watch him pay for his coffee.

We blow on the tops of our drinks as we walk. I follow him until we reach one of the hard wooden benches at the end of the corridor, perch on its cool, worn edge.

McMillan takes a sip of coffee and grimaces. He looks at me. “Are you ready for this?”

I look down into my tea but I don’t drink from it. “Not really.”

“Just remember to take your time. Remember what we went over before—all you have to do is talk about that morning.” He leans forward with his elbows on his knees. “I’m going to ask you some questions about the last time you saw Donovan, and then about how well you knew the defendant.”

The defendant.

I haven’t seen him in person yet, but you can’t turn on the TV or open the newspaper without seeing his face. He’s cleaned up for the trial. Shaved the bushy beard he had when they found him with Donovan so he looks more like he did when I used to know him. Younger. Friendly. He was wearing a suit the last two days, with a tie and all. I’d never even seen him in a button-down shirt.

The first day we drove out to the park, he asked if I’d ever had a boyfriend. I looked at him shyly as I said no, as I wondered if he’d think I was a baby for being so inexperienced and turn the car around. But he just looked over and smiled. Rested his hand on my knee as he said he was glad, because I was special and he wanted to be my first.

I didn’t know what to say to him, so I’d said nothing. Sex had always been so far away and suddenly it was in the car with us. Or the concept, anyway.

“Would that be okay, Pretty Theo?” he said, trailing his fingers lightly up and down my knee. “If your first time was with me?”

I knew I had to say something then, so I whispered yes. I wasn’t sure exactly what I wanted, but I was equally excited and frightened as I thought of the illustrations in the book Donovan and I had looked at so long ago.

You’d have to keep it a secret, though. Some people would say we shouldn’t be together, but they don’t know how mature you are for your age. They don’t know you like I do. Can you keep a secret, Theo?

His fingers moved up my leg, traveled to the inside of my thigh. His touch sent a tingling sensation through my entire body, even through the fabric of my jeans.

Yes.

My stomach twists when I think about seeing him. In probably less than an hour. I wonder if I’ll feel different when we’re finally in the same place again. I wonder if I’ll be able to talk at all just knowing those amber eyes are across the room.

“Pretend you’re talking to me instead of the jury,” McMillan says, looking at me with his kind but serious eyes. “That it’s just you and me, like right now.”

I nod, take a couple of sips of tea. It’s bland, almost bitter, but I keep drinking. Drinking means I’m not talking, not tempted to tell him there’s a little part I may have left out when we met a few weeks ago.

McMillan is still looking at me. I swallow, and then I open my mouth, think the words might dribble out like tea running down my chin, but nothing. Just silence and nothing. So I close my mouth and nod again for good measure. Yes, I know what to do once I get in there. No, you don’t have to worry about me, Mr. McMillan.

“I’d better go check in with the Pratts, but is there anything you want to go over before we head back down?”

He stands, holding on to his phone with one hand and the bad coffee with the other. He looks down at me with those half-moon eyes and this is my chance.

I look at his hand wrapped around the coffee cup. He’s wearing a wedding band: plain, smooth gold. I wonder if he has children. If so, how many? Does he have a girl? What would he think if his daughter got up on the witness stand and told everyone that her ex-boyfriend was the guy on trial?

My mouth sticks. The words are there, the sentences formed, but I can’t say them.

So I shake my head at McMillan. “Okay, then,” he says. “Let’s go back down. Judge Richey will have my ass if we’re late.” He glances down at his phone before he looks at me sheepishly. “Sorry.”

My mouth works again, but only to give him a small smile. Only to say in a weak voice, “Nothing I haven’t heard before.”

I learn of Donovan’s arrival long before I see him. I’m sitting on a bench in the hallway, waiting for the trial to start so they can call me in. The energy in the building changes, even around the corner and all the way down the hall from the front doors. The rustling turns to murmurs, which turn to a clear declaration of his presence in the courthouse. Donovan is here, and I will finally see him in person.

My parents sit on either side of me. Mom holds my hand and Dad sits closer than usual. Like he’s protecting me. Normally it would annoy me that they were being so clingy, but right now, it’s all I want. I look over at them every few minutes, try to memorize their faces because I don’t know what they’ll look like after I get up from the stand.

The prosecution team heads down the corridor, a cloud of business suits and stony faces surrounding Donovan. They slow down as they pass us and then they stop. Mrs. Pratt edges her way out of the middle. She wears a cheap red blouse and tan slacks that hang loosely at her hips. Makeup doesn’t cover the bags under her eyes, but she looks better than the shadow I talked to behind the screen door. Her hair has been done and she’s smiling. She steps aside to let Donovan through and I stop breathing.

I stand, slowly. Dad puts his hand on the small of my back, pushes me toward this ghost. I close my eyes to match him up with the photograph I’ve committed to memory. I open them and he’s still there. My arms and legs are cast iron. I’m afraid that if I move, he’ll disappear again. I saw pictures of him, video from the first couple days of the trial, but it’s nothing compared with him standing here in front of me. He’s truly here, truly alive.

He’s so tall, much taller than me. The dreadlocks are gone. His hair is shaved close to the scalp with clean edges, just like he used to wear it. His suit is new and his shoes are so shiny, I could probably see my reflection in them. He’s the version of my friend I couldn’t imagine, not even after the last few months of knowing he was back. I search his exposed skin for scars, visible marks to indicate any abuse he may have endured, but that’s stupid. His pain would be on the inside now. The types of wounds you can’t measure just by looking.