Chapter 67 Fix Your Tie
“I know.” Andrew growled the words into the pillow. “I hate interning. And still got months left.”
Maggie glanced back from the bathroom doorway— silhouette framed in soft light. “Five more minutes, then up. Don't come running to me when you get penalized again.”
“I won’t.” Andrew mumbled— eyes already drifting shut again.
Maggie shook her head— fond— then disappeared into the bathroom. Water hissed— shower running. Fifteen minutes later she emerged— towel-dried hair loose around her shoulders, skin glowing, already dressed: charcoal pencil skirt, cream silk blouse, black heels clicking softly. She crossed to the bed, leaned over, tapped his shoulder again.
“Six-twenty-four. Up.”
Andrew mumbled something incoherent— rolled away.
Maggie sighed— half-laughing— then headed to the kitchen. The apartment was quiet— open-plan living space, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the still-dark Bellingham skyline. She started the coffee machine— hiss of water, rich aroma blooming. Two mugs: hers black, his with a splash of oat milk. She carried both back to the bedroom.
Andrew had pulled the blanket over his head.
Maggie set his mug on the nightstand, leaned down, tugged the blanket until his face appeared— sleepy, grumpy, adorable.
“Coffee’s ready. I’m heading out.”
Andrew cracked one eye. “Baby… it’s only six-thirty-two. Why you leaving so early?”
“Work to do.” She kissed his forehead— soft, lingering. “Some filings before the morning meeting. See you later.”
Andrew reached up— caught her wrist— pulled her down for one more kiss— slow, sleepy, tasting of toothpaste. “See you later.”
Maggie smiled against his lips. “Don’t be late to work.”
“I won’t.”
She straightened, grabbed her bag and keys from the dresser, and left.
Andrew listened— bare feet padding down the hall, front door opening, closing, lock clicking. Then silence. A minute later— the low rumble of her car starting in the garage below. Engine purr, tires rolling over concrete, garage door grinding up, then down again.
He exhaled— long— rolled onto his back, stared at the ceiling. Phone alarm would go off at seven-thirty.
He closed his eyes.
Just five more minutes.
At 7:30 a.m. the alarm shrieked— shrill, unforgiving.
Andrew jolted upright— heart slamming— grabbed the phone, silenced it. Screen glowed: 7:30. Panic hit like cold water.
“Fuck— I’m gonna be late.”
He threw the blanket to the floor— sprang out of bed— rushed to the bathroom. Toothbrush in mouth, shower running cold— he scrubbed fast, shampoo in eyes, cursing under his breath. Five minutes flat. He burst back into the bedroom— naked, dripping— grabbed clothes from the chair: grey slacks, white dress shirt, navy tie. Dressed in frantic motions— buttons misaligned, tie half-knotted. Keys. Wallet. Work bag. Phone. Coffee mug still on the nightstand— cold now. He grabbed it anyway.
He sprinted out— door slamming behind him—down the hall, stairs two at a time, through the lobby. Outside— morning air sharp. He bolted to the garage— found his Toyota Corolla, jumped in, turned the key.
Nothing. Engine coughed— once— then silence.
“Fuck— not today.” He punched the steering wheel— once, hard— then grabbed his bag, coffee, phone. Slammed the door. Ran back through the lobby— out onto the street.
Bellingham at 7:52 a.m.— sidewalks busy with students, commuters, delivery bikes. Andrew wove through the crowd—long strides eating pavement— coffee sloshing in the cup, tie flapping loose, shirt untucked on one side. He reached the train station— stairs down, ticket scanned, platform crowded.
The train pulled in— doors hissing open. He squeezed aboard— found a seat, dropped into it gasping. Checked his phone: 8:14.
“Fuck… I’m so fucking late.”
Two hours later— 10:52 a.m.— he pushed through the revolving doors of the downtown Seattle firm building. Glass and steel tower— lobby gleaming, marble floors reflecting the chandeliers overhead. He looked rough— hair mussed from the train, shirt wrinkled, tie crooked, coffee stain on one cuff. He straightened his shoulders— tried to smooth the shirt— muttered under his breath as the elevator dinged.
“I’m fucked.”
He stepped out on the fifteenth floor— firm’s reception area— quiet hum of phones, click of keyboards. Signed in at the front desk— badge scanned— then hurried down the corridor to his shared office. Dropped his bag, sank into the chair, opened his laptop.
An hour later— 11:52 a.m.— the door opened.
Henry— mid-forties, charcoal suit, silver at the temples— stepped in. His face was calm, but his eyes were sharp.
Andrew straightened instantly. “Morning, Henry.”
Henry closed the door behind him— soft click. “You were late again.”
Andrew swallowed. “I know. Car wouldn’t start. Had to run to the train. I—”
“That’s not an excuse.” Henry’s voice stayed even— firm. “This is the third time this month. I covered for you last time. I won’t again.”
Andrew nodded— quick, contrite. “I understand.”
Henry set a thick file folder on the desk— manila, tabbed, heavy. “Prosecution case. Assault with a deadly weapon, priors. I need you to review the file— police reports, witness statements, chain of custody. Draft a trial memo— strengths, weaknesses, recommended motions. On my desk by Thursday.”
Andrew pulled the file closer. “Got it.”
Henry studied him for a second— then nodded once. “Don’t be late again.”
“I won’t.”
Henry turned— opened the door— paused. “And fix your tie.”
Andrew’s hand flew to his collar— tie still crooked. He flushed. “Yes, sir.”
The door closed— soft click.
Andrew exhaled— long, shaky— then opened the file. Pages rustled— police reports, photos, transcripts. He straightened his tie — finally— then started reading.
Outside the window, Seattle moved on— ferries crossing the Sound, rain clouds gathering over the Sound, the city humming with mid-morning purpose.
Inside the office— quiet, fluorescent-lit— Andrew worked.
Late again.
But still here.
And somewhere in the back of his mind— quiet, steady— the thought of Maggie lingered. Just knowing he would return home to her was enough.