Quantum Meruit

Author's note:

quantum meruit

(kwahn-tuhm mare-ooh-it) n. Latin for "as much as he deserved," regarding the value of services performed. Also known as "as much as he has earned."

Praying to god I'm not using the term wrong here. If I am, please don't tell me, lawyers of Lit.

"Simon, come downstairs, we're going to cut the cake for Mother's Day!"

As soon as Unashe Nkomo heard her elder brother bellow from the foot of the stairs, her stomach dropped like a boulder. She turned to her 13-year-old nephew, their X-Box football game all but forgotten as they lowered their controllers to their laps.

The boy was her brother's son, but she'd always marveled at how much he looked like her, right down to their brown-black, upturned eyes, and deep oaken skin. Or rather, they both looked like the mother Unashe didn't remember and the grandmother Simon never met.

"Simon, you don't have to do this," she urged him. She'd planned on being the fun aunt since the moment she'd first laid eyes on him, but she hadn't thought at that time she'd end up being the lifeline aunt. There was a reason she was at her idiot brother's house on Mother's Day when she could have slept in after managing an unruly bar the previous night.

"Dad called me, Aunt Unashe," Simon said, his voice heavy with trepidation. "It's an order. And he told me last week to be prepared for this because it's what Becky needs."

What Becky needs is a slap across the face,

Unashe rued.

"It's not only Mother's Day; it happens to be your mom's birthday," she said out loud, "and Becky is insensitive and out of line to demand this ridiculous party on the same day. I don't care that she's your stepmom; if she wants your affection, this is the wrong way to go about it." But Simon had already switched off the console, his face funereal.

"You come too," he simply said. "Please."

Poor kid knows he's licked,

Unashe thought, her hand lightly resting on his shoulder as they went down the stairs. It had warranted a raised eyebrow when her brother remarried less than a year after he'd lost his wife. Simon had been eight and Unashe well recalled the stern discussion with her brother, telling him he needed to focus more on his son than a new relationship.

Becky hadn't been an awful stepmother, and Unashe had made sure to drop by often to make sure of that. But Simon still hadn't taken to her five years later, and his dad's stunts like this were the main cause.

"Simon, give Becky a hug," Aneni Nkomo instructed his son as he pretended not to see the glower raging across his younger sister's face.

"Well, you can at least pretend to want to be here," Becky admonished the teenager even as he loosely draped his arms around her.

"Put two and two together, perhaps?" Unashe chimed in.

"You definitely don't need to be here," Becky muttered under her breath.

Aneni had an otherworldly ability to ignore conflict that was right in front of his face, Unashe thought, as he brought out the cake he'd ordered—or rather, that Becky had ordered him to order—and had his wife cut into it. Maybe, Unashe thought as she munched on the butter cream fondant, she'd just blown the magnitude of potential awkwardness out of proportion. But maybe not.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Becky called just as Simon made it to the doorway of the kitchen, inches away from a clean exit.

"Do you... do you want me to do the dishes?"

"Simon," his father emphasised the boy's name, with no other explanation to follow. But it was obvious his son had no clue what was expected of him. "Aren't you going to wish Becky a happy Mother's Day?"

Unashe tried to keep her eyes blank and unbiased as her nephew's gaze turned to her, but she knew her jaw was clenched.

"It's mom's birthday and Aunt Unashe and I are going to visit her grave," he replied.

Good, don't answer the question,

Unashe thought as she stepped toward the kitchen door.

These two can't possibly miss the—

"Simon, wish your mother a happy Mother's Day," Aneni said more sternly.

"I will, at her grave."

"I can't even believe this," Becky shook her head, her blue eyes flashing. "Simon, you manage to do this every holiday! And especially today when I was hoping we could all have a nice—"

"And whose mother are you, exactly?" Unashe found herself saying more loudly than she'd intended. It was the nuclear option, but enough was enough.

"Excuse me?" Becky also knew it was the nuclear option, and so did Aneni by the way his eyes widened.

"Whose. Mother. Are. You?" Unashe overenunciated.

"Unashe, how dare you?" Becky stood up at the table, her lip trembling.

"Yeah, weaponize those tears of yours," Unashe rolled her eyes. "That's what you're great at, isn't it? That's how you've steamrolled over the needs of a pre-teen boy for five years and tried and swap in a new mom instead of giving him space, right? It's his mother's birthday today and you had to steamroll over that too!"

"Unashe, that's enough," Aneni said, albeit unconvincingly.

"And

you

," she turned to her brother. "Do you not have enough of a spine to realise you can't bring a stranger into your young son's life just months after he lost his mom, and expect that Simon will replace his mother as easily as you replaced your wife?"

Amid her voice rising, she vaguely noticed the tears rolling down Simon's face as he stood in the corner.

"She wasn't a car or a shirt, Aneni! You didn't even help him mourn! I've been quiet now for too long but you are torturing your son by forcing a relationship that doesn't want to be born. He doesn't see her as his stepmother, let alone his mother! She's just his dad's wife."

"Thanks, Unashe," Becky bit off as she blinked forward the tears.

"You two have no idea how hard he's been trying," Unashe ignored her. "You're not even grateful at how polite he's been all this time, when he's a kid and shouldn't have to be the bigger person."

"Will you get out??!" Becky hollered. Unashe looked at Aneni, who was studying the floor.

"Happily. Let me get my keys from upstairs." She brushed past her brother. "I'll take a look around for your balls while I'm at it."

"I'm going too," Simon announced.

"You're not going anywhere, young man," Becky dismissed him.

"No, Aunt Unashe, I want to go with you. You're right, I tried, and I'm done. I'm tired of this. I'll pack a bag and stay with you a few days. I didn't think anyone got it until now. I thought you were being nice about it, but that you were also on their side." Then he dropped the bomb.

"I want to live with you from now on."

***********

The crowd at Unashe's pub was usually thinner on a Sunday night, but it all depended on whether there was a game on. A sparser evening was all for the best, she thought, glancing at Simon who sat at the far end of the counter with his eighth-grade math text.

She poured drinks on auto-pilot and looked back at him now and then, not with the short-term worry that he was getting in trouble, but with the long-term worry of what she was going to do with him. It'd been eight full hours since she and Simon had left the Mother's Day celebration with her brother and sister-in-law screaming at her that they'd call the cops.

"Um, Miss, sorry, I wanted a whiskey," a man in a maroon hoodie and jeans said to her. She looked at the bottle in her hand and cringed.

"I'm so sorry," she apologised, putting the tequila back and grabbing a fresh shot glass. He downed it like he was taking his morning vitamins, then motioned for another, and then a third.

"Everything alright?" she asked. "Here I thought I was having a rough day."

"Just working up some courage," he replied, motioning over his shoulder. "My girlfriend's birthday party is over there in the corner."

"That doesn't sound like the most stressful situation but then again what do I know?" Unashe grabbed a rag and started wiping down a spill. The chatter of the pub around them seemed louder as the man peered into his shot glass.

"Did you ever say something to someone because you felt they had to hear it, and then it opened up a whole can of worms you weren't ready to deal with?" he suddenly asked. At least he'd slowed down long enough to nurse this last drink. Unashe stopped wiping and looked him square in the eye.

"Buddy, you have no idea."

If the situation with Simon were any less dire, she would have said it with a chuckle. But she now had a teenager to bring home, as well as visits from social services or the police in her immediate future.

Unashe took a closer look at the ragged man before her and noticed that if not for what was weighing on his mind, he was a quite handsome. His thick, straight, black hair flopped over the tan skin of his forehead, and he sported a neat goatee. His shoulders were also built like a tank so at least she wouldn't have to worry about him puking in her alley later on.

"See that kid all the way behind me?" Unashe gestured back toward her nephew with a flip of her onyx waves. "I told off his dad and stepmom this morning for being assholes toward him, and now he's my responsibility."

"Whoa! It's true. Bartenders really do make you feel better," the man said, his mouth threatening to crack a smile as he reached into his wallet. Along with the bills, he pulled out his business card. "Lucky for you, I'm

just

drunk enough to offer my services without knowing a thing about this case."

Virat Bhatia, Family Law

, Unashe read, wondering if her fortunes were finally turning around.

"Not going to lie, this is the break serial killers like me are always looking for," she deadpanned. "So... Virat as in Kohli, the cricketer?"

"Oh wow, I'd represent you even if you weren't a serial killer," he finally gave her a weak smile. "I've been trying to get my girlfriend to watch cricket with me for ages."

"Well, I'm from Zimbabwe so it's kind of a big thing there."

"My family's from northern India. It's a religion. My girlfriend's from there too, but... I dunno..." Virat inhaled sharply as the whiskey made him forget where he was going with this.

"So... the birthday party," Unashe tried to redirect. "You going to propose or something?" At least it would be a silver lining to this otherwise horrid day.

"Or something," Virat nodded, knocking back what remained of his third shot and sliding off the barstool. Maybe he was drunk or maybe the hot bartender's gaze was reeling him in like it had its own gravitational pull, but he had to get this overwith before he lost his nerve. First, however, he had to cue up his phone.

He came back to the booth, sitting beside Isha and crossing his arms before she could try to hold his hand. About 15 of their friends and family surrounded them. Including his business partner, Preston, whose balls he wanted to crush as soon as he stood up with his white wine glass.

"Vee, you sure you don't want to make the first toast?" he offered. Virat shook his head no, partly to ward off the buzz that was threatening to overtake his brain, and partly because he wanted everyone else to go first.

The usual fluff,

he analysed as his friend, then Isha's mother, then her best friend all took turns praising their relationship.

What is it, five years now? Five fucking years just for me to go scorched earth?

Virat had considered being the bigger person, but he'd ultimately decided the 'they go low, we go high' bullshit was for people who were never really connected to the thing they purported to fight for. To take the high road required the other person to possess a modicum of shame, and Isha possessed none.

"Isha," he stood up when it was his turn. Somehow, the alcohol allowed him to become vaguely aware of the cute barkeep watching their party in the background.

"We've known each other a long time. Long enough to know each other's ways and habits, and when things aren't quite right with the other person. You've certainly made me feel better whenever I felt like things were off." She beamed, and Virat took a deep breath.

"Just like last week." He put on a smile and hoped his voice wouldn't drip with the ire he felt pulsing through his veins. "When I came to pick you up but left my phone in the car? And then you opened up your phone so I could check the weather while you got ready?" Isha face flickered with recognition, just before it transitioned to mild panic.

"You tried even then to make me feel better when I asked why Preston had texted you—and I quote—'hey, hot ass, I can't wait to get back into that sweet pussy again.'"

"Virat—" Isha knocked her chair back and Preston put both hands over his face as it turned crimson.

"I'm not done my toast yet," he smoothly rolled on, not a trace of anger in his voice. He'd blown past the point of feeling stressed, and moved into blissfully not giving a fuck.

"I told you that wasn't what it looked like! We were just joking around!" Isha protested. Virat smiled when he noticed the sheer horror on her parents' faces. Just as well. It's not as if they thought he made enough money anyway.

"Of course, sweetie," he answered, pulling out his phone and hitting send in their group chat. "I am definitely not in the habit of taking things out of context, or judging without a sober second thought." He smiled at his accidental choice of words, seeing as his blood felt like it was 50 percent whiskey right now.

"So before I talked to you about it, I screen-grabbed the whole chat. If everyone could give me their opinions, I'd be much-obliged." As the phones resting on the table chimed one by one like a cursed orchestra, Virat stood there and watched his relationship with these people burn as though he were watching a play.

"Isha..." her best friend put her hand over her eyes. "'He'll be out of town next weekend so I'm gonna have your cock in my mouth for two whole days'?! What the hell is wrong with you?"

As everyone started shouting at each other and it looked like Isha's dad was contemplating going after him, Virat raised his hand in a still goodbye and made a beeline toward the pub door. He was halfway to his car in the adjacent lot when it hit him. Not the spectacular chaos he'd caused between almost everyone in his life—the nausea.

He emptied his guts, clutching the rim of the trash can he was all but mounting. A rat running across his shoe in the alley made him further empty his guts just when he thought he had nothing left to deposit. Then, he felt a hand supporting his forehead and another one on his back.

A glance downward and he saw red-painted toenails peeking out from sandals worn by a lovely mahogany foot. It was only when the dry-heaving subsided that he thought to feel mortified at how Hot Bartender came to his rescue—not to mention touched at her kindness.

"Here," Unashe said, picking up the water bottle she'd brought with her. Virat rinsed his mouth, then braced a hand against the red brick wall before him, still too embarrassed to face her.

"Thank you," he said at last.

"Just don't sue me for alcohol poisoning and we'll call it even," she smiled, her hand still between his shoulder blades.

"Three shots and I'm puking in the alley," he chastised himself. "I'm sure my Punjabi ancestors are laughing their asses off."

"People have had worse days," Unashe tried. "I once had a customer come in and quietly ask for an Irish car bomb. Apparently, he ordered one while visiting Dublin and it didn't work out so well for him there." This man was a mess, she thought. And it still wasn't safe to assume his party had gone home.

"Let me take you to the employee's washroom to clean up," she offered. "It's dark enough that I don't think anyone saw you all the way in here from the street."

She checked in with him some time later as he drifted in and out of consciousness on the couch in the back office, feeling for him because throwing up was never fun. The rollercoaster of exposing his girlfriend's cheating probably wasn't a thrill either.

"You've been unduly kind to me," he said when he woke up for good, looking at the bottle of apple juice she'd placed on the side table. "I don't even know your name."

"Unashe," she told him. "I do have to kick you out in another hour or so. I usually stay later but I have to take my nephew home and figure out where he's going to sleep."

"Right. Tell me what happened there?"

Unashe started from the beginning, but not from that morning. She started from when they lost Simon's mother and Aneni was a mere shell of himself. But suddenly, he couldn't have been in more of a rush to remarry. It hadn't felt like he'd been cheating during their marriage, but more like he was petrified of raising his son alone. Becky was from their church.

"That's the difference between men and women, as a group," she digressed. "Sure, there's plenty of independent single dads out there, but compared to the sheer volume of single moms who don't need a man to bring an income and help raise kids? No comparison."

She had a trace of an accent, Virat noticed, as if she'd come to Canada very young from Zimbabwe. It was sure a lot more musical than any North American accent.

"If Simon is 13, you have a shot at making his case for living with you, but he may have to file for legal emancipation. It's a shame that all the courts are able to look at is whether a parent is providing their physical needs. Parents neglecting their kids' emotional needs is how you get my generation."

"You're...?"

"I'm 33."

"I'm 28 but I barely remember my parents, at least not my mom. It's really just been me and Aneni for the longest time. Which makes it all the more infuriating that he keeps appeasing Becky at the cost of—"

"I'm sorry, what?" Virat's mouth threatened to turn up in the corners. "Her name is what?"

"...Becky?" She raised an eyebrow as he sat up on the couch and gripped the side of the table as he guffawed.

"I'm really sorry... it's just... the behaviour you described... and that name... does she also gossip with her friends about how other women's butts are too big?" Virat had previously thought he wasn't drunk anymore, but he could have been wrong. Luckily, Unashe grinned so at least he wasn't embarrassing himself any further.

"I'm putting you in a cab," she told him.

"No, no," he declined as he stumbled to his feet. "I'm just glad you got the Sir Mix-a-Lot reference. I'll look up some precedents and you can give me a text about this in a few days if you want." It was probably safe to assume everyone he'd known was out of the pub by now, so he turned toward the door leading to the bar.

"Hold on," Unashe stopped him. "I can't—if you're a full-fledged lawyer, I can't afford to pay you. I have the pub, but I can't re-mortgage the building, especially when I don't even have a commercial tenant for the upstairs—"

"You already paid me. There's nothing more valuable than a bottle of water to a barfing man. Old Punjabi saying."

"I seriously doubt that," Unashe gave him a smile so adorable that Virat was willing to consider it as a legal retainer on its own. "But I don't want to take advantage of your generosity, especially since this is going to be a messy case. I'm trying to take my brother's boy away from him."

"You're providing an alternative to a child who is old enough to decide that his environment is not healthy for him," Virat rephrased.

"Oh wow, you're good."

"Unfortunately, that doesn't count for much unless a judge says it," he mumbled, as he tentatively followed her through the kitchen and peeked into the pub's seating area. It didn't look like anyone he knew was still there, so he turned toward the door to wait for a cab.

"I'm serious," he said as he tapped his pockets to make sure his wallet and keys hadn't fallen out. "Text me at the number on my card, and I'll send you my temporary office address."