March 4

The full hearing lasted all day.

Liza sat at the plaintiff's table in a blazer she'd bought for the occasion — she didn't own blazers before this, now she owned two — and she listened to Drake's attorney cross-examine her about the night of February 3rd. About whether she'd been drinking. About whether she'd called first. About whether the things she'd described had been said the way she said they'd been said, or whether she'd perhaps misremembered, given the stress of the situation.

She answered every question carefully. She'd practiced with Aaron for three evenings. She did not cry. She did not get angry. She gave facts in the same quiet, plain voice she'd learned to use around Drake when she was learning not to make things worse.

Drake was on the other side of the room. She had not looked directly at him for eight months and she did not start now. She could feel him — the weight of his attention, the particular temperature of it — and she kept her eyes on Aaron, on the judge, on the neutral middle distance where the truth lived without needing her to perform it.

The judge's ruling came at four-fifteen.

The temporary order was made permanent. One year. Drake was prohibited from contact, from approaching within 500 feet of her home or workplace, and from contacting her through third parties.

Liza walked out of the courtroom and stood in the parking lot and felt the sun on her face and thought: Now what?

A year. One year, minimum.

She sat in her car for twenty minutes before she could drive.