Wicked Love | √

Eight

"DO you like this?" Elizabeth asks, holding up a rather simple black fitted skirt from a large white marble table. We are shopping in the city today, as per Elizabeth's request, and I'm already beyond bored. As soon as we pulled up to Madison Avenue I instantly regretted the choice to come out today when I could be at home reading and studying. Preston gave me some extra books that he thought could help me with real world application of the law, and I've actually been really enjoying them. Not that I'll ever tell him that.

My head tilts to the side as I take it in. "A little tame for you," I reply honestly as I look through a stack of expensive cashmere sweaters. The store is pristine and the workers make sure we are taken care of but also give us our space as Elizabeth is a regular and they know she doesn't like to be bothered much while shopping.

She doesn't like to talk a lot about her childhood, but Annabelle told me when her cousin was young, around eight, her mother was accused of trying to steal a blouse at Chanel. And she was there to witness and watch as her mother had the cops called on her. Of course her mother wasn't shoplifting, and Elizabeth's father who is a world class heart surgeon and best friends with the governor of New York came down and put the fear of god in those workers. Ever since then her family has been kind of infamous in the retail world. But nevertheless it left a bitter taste in Elizabeth's mouth and she never lets any stylist at any store help her now.

She lets out a contemplative sighs and sets the skirt back down deep in thought. "My mom is wanting me to build up my professional wardrobe for when I intern next summer."

Acid burns at the back of my throat at the mention of her internship. If you have the connections it's the smartest thing to do. Get an in with a law firm before senior year and law school. Begin to understand the way in which a firm works in the real world. But my father won't let me anywhere near his firm. And anytime I reach out to a law firm the old men who own them see my last name and ask why I'm not working for my father. I try to make excuses but it's clear as day the real reason, and if they are confused they even go directly to the source where my father then proceeds to put my name through the mud.

So my search hasn't been going as smoothly as others have and I hate it. I feel behind. Of course this isn't a requirement but it helps to take that extra step and stand out against the thousands of resumes law schools receive each year. Plus good recommendations can be the difference between ivy league and a plain old state school.

An emotion I've never ever let fully form begins to fill my bones and it's fear. Fear I won't succeed. Fear I won't get into the law school of my dreams and show everyone how strong I can be. It's cold as ice, sharp as knives fear and I hate the way it makes me feel. I hate feeling weak and scared and worried. I don't want this feeling ever.

I run a trembling hand through my dark hair and shake the feelings and thoughts from consuming me. "Is your leopard print mini skirt not appropriate enough?" I attempt to tease though it doesn't come out as lighthearted as mean it to. I turn from my friend and distract myself by letting my fingers graze the edge of a silk cami with delicate lace lining the front neckline. It's simple yet sexy.

"She wishes," Annabelle jokes as she rounds the corner carrying a sale sweater. I know money is tighter for her and the current store we are at will probably be the cheapest one we hit today.

Elizabeth lets out a dry empathized chuckle while shooting daggers at her cousin. She then grabs another skirt in the same cut as before but in a different color. This one is a deep maroon that I know would look gorgeous on her. "My mom saw that skirt on me once and I'm pretty sure I gave her a stroke," she tells us with a roll of her warm brown eyes.

"Well it's nice for an internship," I tell her nodding my head towards the skirts she holds in her hands.

A soft smile touches her signature red lips as she weaves her way through a few different racks of tops before sliding up beside me. "How's your search going?" she asks and I can sense her hesitancy on asking me this question. She is well aware that my search hasn't been going well. Even when I don't want to share my problems, which is always, Elizabeth has a way of sensing these things and drawing them out of me.