Chapter Text
June 1994
“Careful there, Ponyboy,” Jimmy says leisurely when the ladder wobbles on its shorter leg, making no real attempt to assist or stabilize. He quickly gets back on track: “Okay, how about fighting ones? I get beat up a lot in mine, it’s like a recurring theme.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, like, you’re full of anger or fear or adrenaline or whatever, but your arms feel really, really heavy and you can’t even land a punch. Just—all sluggish, like moving in slow motion.”
Burt gives the described scenario a decent amount of consideration, then says: “No, not really. Although my teeth fall out sometimes.”
“That’s an entirely different animal, you clodpoll.”
Kim snorts, but she’s distant enough from the two of them that it goes unnoticed. She’s been observing Jimmy from afar, like a predator stalking its oblivious prey at the watering hole, a stack of legal documents acting as the figurative foliage she employs to conceal her presence.
She’s wily enough to lie low under the veil of busy work, but her senses have been taking note of every move, every word, every gesticulation—or lack thereof.
Jimmy rocks on steady feet all the way across the room from her, arms folded at the chest. It looks blasé enough, but she spots the fingertips digging on the skin of the bicep, secret pressure points of unrelenting tension. She ruefully looks at the crossed arms as a form of restraint.
Next to him, Burt feels tall on the highest rung of a step ladder, a lit cigarette between his lips. He thinks he is Marlon Brando, but Jimmy says he’s all Ralph Macchio, hence the “Ponyboy” moniker. Jimmy fails to recall that Ponyboy was actually played by C. Thomas Howell; Burt does not understand the reference.
“I know, I know,” Burt says, taking the cigarette with his left hand and waving it in the stuffy mailroom air, enticingly. His right hand grabs onto the highest level of an industrial shelf for balance. Something up there had needed retrieval ten minutes ago, the task now lost amidst the gab. “But—being beat up is just not relatable to me. I’m a ‘make love, not war’ type-a-guy, you know what I mean? I guess that must condition the subconscious somehow.”
“We got the Dalai Lama over here,” Jimmy says with a scoff, a light shake of the head. “How about flying? You ever just—fly around?”
“Oh, yeah, all the time. I’m a big flier.”
“Because flying is extremely relatable to you,” Jimmy mocks. “I see how it is.”
“Well, I don’t know how the mind works, Jimmy. I’m not a brain scientist,” says Burt without affectation.
“Jesus Christ,” Kim mutters to herself, a barely audible whisper. She is starting to feel an overpowering sense of second-hand embarrassment from their intellectually challenged conversation.
“I had this dream the other day—drove my car right off a cliff,” Jimmy chips in. “I wonder what that says about my subconscious.”
“I think it says you really love life,” Burt jokes, and Jimmy barks out a laugh. "Nothing wrong with you at all."
“Yeah, it's either that, or that I was watching Thelma and Louise.”
“Haven’t seen it,” he says. Without missing a beat, he plants the cigarette in front of Jimmy’s face. “You look like you want a drag.”
“Uh…” Jimmy pauses, staring at it. “No, I don't. Thanks.”
“Alright, suit yourself,” Burt shrugs, retrieving his proffering hand. Jimmy follows the action with a twinkle of longing in his eye. "I thought you were cool, but I guess I was wrong."
“Will you think I'm cool if I tell you that you shouldn’t be smoking that in here anyway?”
“And why’s that?”
“Because—I dunno…” The answer doesn’t come to him straight away, which diminishes its intended power. “It’s rude, man.”
“Weak. Watch this for rude.”
Burt takes a dissident pull on the cigarette, perhaps the longest pull she’s ever witnessed; an act of petulant defiance. After a big, suspenseful pause, he exhales, a thick cloud of gray smoke engulfing them both.
Jimmy retaliates by kicking the ladder. The kick has no force to it, but Burt still flinches and cowers by holding onto the shelf with his entire body. Jimmy frees one hand to fan the smoke away from his face, and then just as soon tucks it back into the nook of his armpit.
Kim sighs with the slightest hint of annoyance, tapping her pen on the documents in front of her. The dynamic duo on the other side of the room still manage to remain oblivious to their stalker, too caught up in the palaver to notice her frustration.
Kim’s discontent directly correlates to a Jimmy attribute: he talks with his hands. No matter the mood—happy, sad, confused, in a dither—it is all in the hands and the way he moves them.
Call it a coping mechanism or call it self-inflicted abstraction, but she’s been wanting to know how he’s feeling, and what he’s thinking; if he knows, and if he understands. Too socially inept to ask directly, she’s been observing him, almost obsessively, hoping that his hands will do the talking for them both. As if in retribution, he’s gone and tucked them away, revoking her privilege.
Perhaps she feels guilty. After all, this started when Julie stopped her midway through the morning mail delivery round and told her that Hamlin Jr. wanted to speak with her at some point after lunch.
“But before the summer ‘fete,’ of course.” She made a show of air quoting the word, eager to prove she was blameless in its conception. “Sometime in between, a happy medium, like—four in the afternoon. Does that sound good? I’ll come downstairs to get you when they’re ready.”
Kim felt like she had been shot several times in rapid succession. Through ringing ears, she didn’t even know what she wanted to focus on. Except, they?
Aware of Julie’s expectant face, she nodded unevenly and with an imperceptible delay, severely taken aback but outwardly keeping composure. She asked Julie for the reason, and was met with a shrug. Not too long after that, Julie walked away and Kim stood there like a dolt, unable to move.
A seemingly extemporaneous meeting with “they.” Was this it?
On her eventual walk back to the mailroom, she heard Jimmy before she saw him, the loose wheel on the cart giving him away. He seemed in good spirits and walked in tandem with her, making easy conversation. But she was unreceptive, turning it hard.
Unfortunately for them both, there was only space for her to reflect upon one thing, and that was, “This is it.” Echoing over and over inside her head—for everything that’s ever happened, every sacrifice, every droplet of blood, all the sweat and all the tears—this is it.
At some point Kim noticed Jimmy’s voice drifting in the background. He wanted to know why a summer party was called a “fete,” and was that a British thing? he asked. Any of the bigwigs British? he asked again. Who cares, she wanted to scream. By the time they put their empty carts back, he was silent. Eventually, he drifted away in the direction of his words. They haven’t spoken since.
Kim’s been wanting to confide in him; to share in the nerves, the bogus uncertainty, the bliss. She believes it is good news, she believes that to the core. So why hasn’t she? She has been mulling it over for hours on end, and it all comes back to this: guilt.
She knows they’re overdue a conversation, and her excuses for delaying it, flimsy as they are, will not hold past this meeting. The bar exam is the latest of a series of self-imposed deadlines she’s so far excelled at ignoring. No more. Jimmy is aware there is something going on, Kim knows that. She also knows he will not risk bringing it up.
Not telling him about the meeting and its consequences now is an act of self-preservation—she can so clearly see his eyes flashing fear at the news first, then elation. She doesn't want the fear, doesn't want it at all, for she has no use for it. She knows what that fear represents and it's oppressive. She would rather let him stew on the possibilities all day, let him come to terms with it on his own time, then hit her with elation.
She hates it that she is like this—so reserved and distant, selfish in a way and innately reluctant—finds it necessary to endure somehow.
Kim gets up to make a photocopy, to redirect some blood away from her overworked brain. Jimmy continues waxing lyrical on the topic of dreams. He uses the word “oneiric” unironically and, as the copier spits out page after page, Kim marvels at his ability to do so without gesticulating one inch. Burt expertly pivots to sex dreams and Jimmy listens on with a droll expression on his face. Neither of them seems to enjoy it.
Julie lied. It is Hamlin Jr. that comes down to the mailroom to get her.
He prances in with the swagger of somebody that owns the place. She supposes that he does. He also brings with himself the auspicious promise of whisking Kim away from the cavernous ruins of the mailroom, up into the heavenly suites in the sky. No words, but she can feel it.
He is personable enough to acknowledge everybody in the room, important enough to comprehend that they don’t matter. He moves on from them post-haste.
In contrast to his entrance, Kim’s exit from the mailroom comes to pass as if in slow motion.
Burt has stopped speaking mid-sentence, mouth agape. His cigarette dangles dangerously over his colloquy partner, and he cannot comprehend what is happening. Jimmy’s hands limply drop at his sides, finally set free, opening up a window into his soul—he knows exactly what is happening and to him it is a nightmare.
It’s just as well that Kim isn’t looking back to see it.
As she crosses the threshold on her way out of the mailroom, the burning ash from Burt’s cigarette crumbles under its weight and falls into the neck of Jimmy’s shirt, stinging him.
“Ow,” Jimmy says, audibly palming the ash away, reverie broken. Time chugs along at normal speed again. “What the fuck, man? Put that thing out already, I swear to God.”
This is the last thing she hears as the elevator doors close. She feels so distant from them both, from their trivial quarrels. She can almost hear them struggle for the cigarette as she floats away from the mailroom, perhaps for the last time as a clerk.
Kim feels slightly set up.
She sits completely alone on one side of a large, dual-toned table. Across from her, as if she's to bear witness to the legal version of The Last Supper, sit every partner of the firm, both name and nameless.
She has never been in this room before, spacious and overly bright, and there are people in here she did not realize were that important. Fifty minutes into this impromptu meeting, she has now come to understand that they are important enough to decide on every aspect of her future.
Perhaps it is her solitude, but Kim feels miniscule in comparison to the leather, swiveling chair she occupies. Her hands rest on her lap, wringing nervously out of sight. Her feet criss-cross under the table, suppressing their overwhelming urge to bounce. It’s the hottest day of the year, and she feels underdressed. She tugs down at her patterned blouse and smooths out wrinkles that are not there.
Her time to speak is over. She has laid out facts, made her case, opened an overly rehearsed window into Kim Wexler. Adrenaline and tension rush through her entire body as she tries to assimilate Hamlin Jr.’s words as he speaks them, all big smiles and forced pleasantries.
She has grasped the gist of it, cannot take in more. He insists she call him Howard, and that alone feels like an insurmountable task—this man is not an equal.
In short, the bourgeoisie wants a piece of her. Hooray.
That thought overwhelms her. Isn’t this what you wanted?
Kim moves her attention to Hamlin Sr., a man that looks much older than his years. His infirm body is steadily twisting toward his son’s in an unnatural position. He is clearly unable to sit straight, and has been staring at a spot two inches above Kim’s head the entire time, conspicuously withdrawn.
Out of the corner of her eye she sees Charles McGill, shrouded in silence, nose upturned. He hasn’t uttered a word all meeting.
Kim is secretly glad. She is not easily intimidated by others, but this man sits at the top of a very short list: the apparent smartest man in any space he occupies, Jimmy is the perfect example of what it’s like to live under his very large shadow. At this juncture, she would rather feel his judgy stare than face up to his words.
People around the room begin to stand up, all mixed chatter. Kim surmises that the meeting must be over. She is still operating with the same input delay that’s been affecting her since Julie approached her six hours ago in the hallway. After a spell, she gets up from her seat and smooths out her skirt like it’s her nerves.
Everyone takes turns to shake her hand and wish her well. Slowly, they filter out of the room one by one until it’s just her and the big men whose names are on the building.
She is exhausted and exhilarated. She both wants to stay here forever and run back to the mailroom where existing is effortless. She both belongs and is an outsider. Her mind is at constant war with her heart.
Hamlin Sr. extends a shaky hand and she takes it; it feels cold and papery, the bones jutting out in all the wrong places. Rumor has it he is slowly dying of an undisclosed illness. She wonders what he really thinks of performative meetings like this one.
Before he can gather the energy to speak, Charles McGill hits her with the unexpected.
“That was impeccably spoken, Miss Wexler,” he cuts in, giving her the slightest hint of a smile. As much as such a straight man can produce, she guesses with pride. “I was certainly impressed.”
“Thank you,” she says simply.
She tries her best to be casual and yet remain formal, moving on from the old man and taking Charles’ hand when he presents it.
“I can see why my brother is so fond of you,” he offers next. Their hands still, and break apart. Kim just hopes it wasn’t sudden, since the Earth seems to wobble beneath her feet and she stutters. She wants so desperately to downplay it, to feign innocence and confusion. My brother who? she wants to say. And then, as if oblivious to her plight, the coup de grâce: “Word of advice: don’t let him lead you astray.”
He has meant it as a dry joke, presumably, but Kim is not laughing. For the first time today, she is truly speechless. She doesn’t know what is appropriate to say, or how to appropriately say it.
What could he possibly mean, and what could he possibly know? She might be overthinking this. Of all the topics she’s imagined and rehearsed over the years for a meeting such as this, her helter-skelter relationship with Jimmy has never factored in.
A big chunk of her is ashamed of the optics of him and her in the eyes of the head honchos, a sort of unit—and isn’t that a horrible thing to feel?
“Oh, no. I wouldn’t. I’m not—” she cuts herself off with a shrug and pursed lips, a poster child of indifference. She is about to explode.
Ever the people person, Howard must sense the awkwardness, because he intervenes with a happy clap.
“I'm sure she'll be fine, Chuck. Anyway, how about we all head down to the fete?” It’s the way he excitedly forms the word around his lips that tells her the word choice is his brainchild. “Word to the wise, it’s the perfect opportunity to mingle with a bunch of associates; have a chat, ask for advice, get some life stories. Does that sound good, Kim?”
Charles agrees with a forced smile. Hamlin Sr. is just there.
“Sounds great,” Kim says, swallowing a bolus of neurasthenia away—her greatest skill.
“Do you need to go back to the mailroom? Pick up anything?”
“No, I’m all set,” Kim says quickly, trying not to think too hard about it.
“Fantastic! You can bid it all adieu later,” he exclaims with a nonchalant wave, baring his teeth eagerly. “Now, enough milling around. Let’s celebrate the season, shall we?”
“Yes, please,” warbles his father toward the fixed spot above Kim’s head, chiming in for the first time all day.
With that, all three men step through the doorway almost concurrently, and as Kim trails behind the most powerful people in the building, she becomes more resolute than ever in her conviction that she needs to do what must be done.
Summer of ‘94 is here, and Hamlin Hamlin & McGill wants to celebrate its presence, proudly.
Like any company of its caliber, the firm has always done its best to keep employees just barely above a baseline of complacent. That means the bare minimum expenditure, enough to brag about the fact that the hardworking employee is always—sometimes—on their mind; the occasional free food truck and two annual parties, one during Christmas and the other during the summer.
These summer parties, though they may once in a while take place in a rented venue, more often than not cheaply exploit the grounds in and around the HHM building—all big lawns of empty space—granting free drinks, food and activities to all that may wish to come. Families are welcome. Seasonal decorations have been put up. Music is loud enough to make every conversation a challenge. The burning, desert sun is a dreadful constant impossible to escape.
Kim has never particularly cared for any of these events. To her, it is all just a bunch of very wildly disparate people standing awkwardly on the grass and not talking about anything in particular, just counting down the minutes until they can politely excuse themselves and finally go home.
The divide among its employees is also evident and makes her skin crawl—mailroom clerks, janitorial staff and aides are relegated to one side, attorneys and paralegals to the other.
The differences are obvious, even to the most absent-minded observer: one faction brings their families to these functions, the other flashes golden bands around their fingers but stands alone among their peers; one covers every topic under the sun except for work, the other has a one-track mind about it.
Kim presumes that today’s party should feel different—better—but she hasn’t fully shed her mailroom skin just yet. It doesn’t really matter that she has moved up into a new league and is mingling with the big time: she feels uncomfortable and is bored out of her mind.
Looking around her new, shiny circle, she sees herself surrounded by associates Howard has formally introduced her to. He affably delivered the news to them and absconded. Never mind that she already knew all of these people, having delivered their mail for years and committed to memory their names in relation to their faces—it is the Howard tie-in that suddenly has them treating her like an equal.
This awful man named Dave commands all conversation and does not let it go. He is a third-year associate with an ego problem and a penchant for a drink. The topic of Kim quickly grew thin around the circle; she hasn’t voiced a thought in what feels like hours and is once again surrounded by nothing but men.
The initial excitement of her future inclusion has now worn off. She already misses the easy-going esprit de corps of the mailroom and she wishes she had left it with a cool wink and a shrug, instead of the robotic walkout of a few hours ago, her back turned on it like a mangy dog.
“I just couldn’t believe the nerve—meekly asking for a continuance after all she’s put me through. I wanted to slap her,” Dave says with a sour chuckle, receiving a few timid laughs and assenting nods in return.
“Well done on the restraint,” says another man in their small circle, raising his plastic wine glass to him. “She is the absolute worst.”
When Kim turns her head to look at the new voice, her eyes wander over to Jimmy in the not-so-distant background, sitting beneath the shade of a cottonwood tree.
She has tried her best to avoid looking in that general direction, but this conversation is too inane and sexist, and she is curious and in desperate need of a mental break. She squints to see him through the glaring sunlight.
Unaware, Jimmy slouches on a folding chair and nurses a suspicious liquid inside an opaque plastic cup. He seems to be vaguely engaged in conversation with somebody else, and Kim shifts lightly on her feet to get a better view.
Across from him sits Tim’s eldest son, a boy of about three with dark, stringy hair and dangling legs that can’t quite reach the grass from the colossal height of his seat. Not what she expected, but it's worth the effort of her screwed-up eyes.
Nosily, she muffles out any conversation around her and tries to focus on the one she cares about.
The little kid seems out of breath, enthusiastically telling a story she can’t quite catch from the distance, except for the fact that he keeps repeating, “And then, and then, and then, and then.” Then he takes a big gulp of breath, as if the effort of trying to find words is too much for his little body to bear.
Jimmy nods his head slowly, hanging onto every repeated word.
“And then what?” he prompts while wetting his lips on his drink, trying to lend a hand.
“And then, and then…” and so on and so forth.
Kim’s chest hurts something fierce. It hurts because she appreciates him. It hurts because he deserves more than she can give him, and acknowledging that is like a dagger to her stony heart. More than anything, it hurts because she anticipates his reaction—insecure eyes and unambiguous hands, desperate to make things work.
She has never had this much trouble breaking somebody's heart, and that bothers her.
“Excuse me,” she says, extricating herself from the circle before there is even a hitch in the convo, going practically unnoticed.
Kim begins walking around the side of the building, headed for the front doors. Almost by design, she tries to lock eyes with Jimmy with every step she takes. Still from quite some distance, he looks up and his back straightens at the sight of her.
She seems to communicate something to him and he seems to take it in, as if by telepathy. Her tight-lipped smile is almost imperceptible, and so is his nod. She clears past him and he remains seated for the time being.
She's still surprised by how seamless they make it look. It’s a move as old as time and they know every step to take, like a well-rehearsed dance of their own creation.
“Alrighty, give it here,” she hears him tell the boy through the crunch of grass underfoot.
She turns just enough to see Jimmy’s hand raised in the air, then down low. Every time the boy tries to make contact, Jimmy retrieves his hand and he misses fantastically, almost falling off his chair. They both find it equally hilarious.
Kim does her best to pretend she isn’t looking, and that she isn’t amused. It's hard, but she manages.
Resolute in her steps, she walks through the big HHM doors and takes the elevator from the empty lobby down to the emptier parking garage. She makes a tragically hurried pit stop in the mailroom to grab her bag.
Once downstairs, she makes a beeline for her car and sits inside, fully in wait. She cracks down the window a couple of inches and lights up a cigarette, unable to delay the instant gratification of that first hit of nicotine. By the time she hears the elevator jingle, the inside of the car is completely clouded in smoke.
Jimmy steps out into the parking garage, cup in hand, and looks to his left, where he expects her to be. Nothing but the presence of her absence. He looks around, somewhat disorientated, while Kim carries on with the daily trend of observing him.
It takes her longer than it should to flash her headlights at him, but eventually she does.
The bona fide smile that recognition plasters on his face is something to behold. It lights up his features more naturally than the fluorescent lights of this space ever will. He lightly jogs toward her, hand outstretched to stop the drink from sloshing, the smile not faltering. When he enters through the passenger side door, he brings with him a gulp’s worth of fresh air.
“Are we hotboxing the car or what?” he says with a light chuckle, faintly out of breath. “I thought smoking in here was off-limits.”
“I just needed to sit,” she says, honest exhaustion coating her voice, the long day catching up to her more than she is willing to admit aloud. “My feet are killing me.”
“Oh, what radically different lives we lead—I've done nothing except sit. My butt’s killing me.”
Kim laughs because, in spite of herself, she finds him genuinely funny. Things would be so much easier if she didn’t.
“I saw you babysitting just now. It was pretty cute.”
He makes a funny face, perilously perching his drink on the dashboard. They can almost hear the commotion outside like it’s coming from within the car, a million muffled conversations and the deep bass of this summer’s greatest hits thumping away at the vibrating glass.
Kim takes a deep drag of the cigarette and Jimmy scans the garage for any sign of life, eyes glassy and unfocused.
“Gimme that,” he says, taking the cigarette directly from her lips.
Kim is not surprised anymore. She has come to expect that very Jimmy move because she hasn’t been able to smoke a cigarette in peace since she started sharing them with him. That bold familiarity has been there since day one, all quiet bedlam and chaste salaciousness, it doesn’t make any sense. It’s like sharing little notes behind the teacher’s back; a badly kept secret.
This time he has taken the cigarette simply to hold it, for he goes in for a kiss almost out of the blue, his head parting the layers of smoke between them and inhaling the pollution from her lungs instead.
Kim is taken aback at first, holding onto his shoulder awkwardly, but gradually she accepts it, giving in.
Seldom keen on ostensible physical affection, Kim enjoys kissing Jimmy a great deal. Why deny it? She finds it comforting, like settling into the warmth of your own home after a long day out in the cold. That feeling is undeniable, and usually brings her joy—today it’s shaded with heartache.
Jimmy goes to separate but Kim grabs onto the nearest thing—his tie—and keeps him close. For all she knows, this might be it, so keep it going. He makes a sound that is half-surprise, half-obscene.
“Well, hello,” he says humorously.
His breath on her lips is sweet and sticky, like orange slices and whiskey shots. Kim moves up from the tie to his face, palming each side, I’ve got you.
Presumably bolstered by liquor, he deepens the kiss and inches towards her, his body almost entirely on the transmission.
The touch of their lips, the taste of his tongue, the brush of her hands on his hair—she can’t deny it is self-indulgence. The temperature rises gradually. It doesn’t help that they are in the middle of the hottest summer since she arrived in Albuquerque, but the air inside the car suddenly feels unbearably calescent.
His hand that is holding the cigarette starts crawling up her body with nefarious intent.
“Okay, hey, hold on, Jimmy—” she says, reluctantly pushing him away amidst a chuckle.
Her brain returns down to Earth; to Albuquerque; to this party. This is the opposite of what she’s supposed to do.
He goes back to his seat almost pleased—almost surprised—that he has gotten so far.
“Sorry, I’m on my third old fashioned,” he says sheepishly, nodding in the direction of his sloping cup. She now sees the glassy, unfocused stare for what it is—drunken Jimmy is transparent. Her resolve wavers. “Watch out, open bar,” he goes on. “Old Jimmy’s a menace.”
Kim tsks. “Such a role model for the little kids.”
“Let them learn early, I say,” he jokes with a pointed finger. Her lipstick is on his lips, so she checks herself on the rear-view mirror, making sure it isn’t smudged. “You know, Tim told me off because his kid wanted to try a sip and I was about to let him. It's that Irish in me—my grandpa used to give me a little shot of brandy when I was misbehaving and nobody even batted an eye. Worked like a charm as well. And look at me, I turned out fine. Well, fine-ish. My point is, it’s harmless fun! Kim, he’s no fun.”
“Wow.” Strangely, it’s that total disregard for conventional rules that draws her out to him like a rat to a cheeto. “I’m surprised he let you talk to him unsupervised after that. I hope you didn't tell him that story.”
“Eh,” he shrugs. Kim rubs her thumb gently against the bottom of her lower lip, trying to fix things. Jimmy notices her actions and sweeps the back of his hand across his mouth, making things worse. “So—what’s up? Something’s up, clearly. I feel a shift in the Force.”
“Well. I have some news.”
“Good news, I hope,” he says. “Looked good from where I sat, at least.”
“It is good.” Kim breathes in and looks at his expression—mostly expectant and hopeful, a hint of melancholy—covered in rosy lipstick. “Seems like they’re going to take me as an associate. Eventually, I mean.”
“Kim, fucking—that’s…” Jimmy tightens his fist and exhales. He makes a strange, twirly gesture with his cigarette hand, as if wanting to celebrate victory but not knowing how. He looks at it like he’s forgotten it was ever there to begin with. “I mean, I already kinda figured, but holy crap, Kim, that’s fantastic! I knew it! Didn't I tell you not to worry?”
"You did." Kim smiles and her chest tightens some more—nothing but unabashed joy for her, her devious plan to eradicate any possibility of her being witness to fear has worked. She continues, “It’s nice to maybe see a light at the end of the tunnel. If I pass the bar, that is.”
“As if it’s in doubt. If I pass the bar—” he repeats with a roll of the eyes. “More like when!”
“Well, get this: Hamlin said he’s going to mentor me. I doubt I’ll see much of him, but I guess it’s a nice gesture.”
“Hamlin who?” he asks, taking a quick drag of the forgotten cigarette. “Hamlin Jr.?”
“Yep. He also wants me to call him Howard.”
“Huh.” His brow furrows, smoke flowing out of his nose. “Is that a double entendre or something? What exactly do you mean by ‘mentoring’?”
“Ha ha, funny.” She is too impatient to wait for the diminishing cigarette back, so she takes a new one out of the pack and lights it quickly. “No, idiot. He’s gonna mentor me for the exam.”
“Pft, like you need that,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. She wants to argue that she probably does, but she doesn’t feel like squabbling. He must see her flinty expression through the fog of liquor and smoke, because he pivots away from the topic. “Taking it next month was out of the question, right? When’s the next one—March?”
“February.”
He makes a whistling sound with his teeth. “That’s a long way away. But,” he adds, “plenty of time to prepare, and be mentored. You’ll pass with flying colors. No flagging at the finish line, you hear?”
“Hm,” Kim pauses. She spots the perfect window of opportunity and jumps through it before she can chicken out. “Speaking of which, we need to have a chat.”
Jimmy is caught mid-drag. The cigarette has burned itself to the filter, reaching his middle and index fingers, but he doesn’t flinch.
Instead, he methodically puts it out on the ashtray near the console, stalling.
“Uh-oh. Just the words everyone wants to hear.” He lets out a semi-laugh that fills her thoughts with nothing but smoke. After that, he sobers up. “Sure, what’s wrong?”
“Well, I—” Kim sighs and passes him the new cigarette. She doesn’t really want it anymore. She’s panicking at the thought of being too presumptuous, too cruel, too lenient. She doesn’t know how to strike the perfect balance between all three, so she changes her approach. “I mean, you know what I’m going to say, right?”
“I may have an inkling,” he says around a puff, but does not elaborate. He wants her to do it.
“I think—I need time to focus on this.”
“Okay…” he trails off, taking it in. “Haven’t you been doing that for the past four years?”
“No. Just… this,” she says the two words slowly, hoping they will mean what she intends them to mean. “Every piece of advice I’ve heard today was, ‘don’t work while studying for the bar, don’t work while studying for the bar, don’t work while studying for the bar.’ Well, too bad—I need a job. It’s already taken me an extra year to graduate, I can’t not pass the bar on the first go. This is why I’m here, I just—I won’t jeopardize this opportunity. I can’t.”
Jimmy looks at her with skepticism. “You being for real? Four years is so impressive. Jesus, Kim, an extra year while having a full time job is nothing. If anything it should’ve taken you longer than that, it's crazy that you don't see that.”
“Well, I was on track before I started hanging out with you, is my point,” she retaliates, then catches herself. He looks at her like a wounded yearling, and she has to look away. It’s taken her fewer than ten sentences to tick the word ‘cruel’ off the list. “I’m sorry, Jimmy. I don’t mean it like that. It’s my fault, not yours. I’ve just been selfishly juggling seven things at once—basically trying to have my cake and eat it, too. It’s made me slack off at work, worsen at school, and kept you at arm’s length, but not really. I need to work, and I need to study for the bar. That’s it. That’s why I’m here; in this city, in this building. I really don’t have time for much else, no matter how much I try to cram you in it. Sex just brings so many expectations that I don’t have the time or mental energy to uphold. I’m sorry. And I don’t think it’s very fair to ask you to wait around for me, after I’ve already wasted two years of your life.”
Jimmy latches onto the last statement like a lifeline, ignores everything else.
“But you haven’t wasted anything. Listen, I know my prospects are not great, okay? I’m not oblivious, I know that. But—I’m trying to change that. I know that I can be better, I—”
“Jimmy, please.”
“Jimmy, please, what? I know what the deal is, and I accept it. I honestly don’t care. I can wait until February, if that’s the issue.”
“That is not the issue. You are not the issue. This is about me, not you.” Kim already feels exhausted, and desperately heartsick for him. “And please, just don’t—don’t say that.”
“Say what?”
“That you don’t care, or that you aren’t good enough.”
“But it’s the truth, so why not?” he says, shiny blue eyes on her like a window to his core.
There it is. She hates it that he is drunk for this—so readily candid, full of self-doubt and devoid of self-worth. For a confidence man, Kim thinks, he is awfully insecure.
“Because it shouldn’t be the truth. It’s not the truth,” she says. “Because you deserve better, and because I care.”
“Okay, I don’t—” Jimmy’s voice hitches, like his words are trapped in his throat. Kim wants to disappear completely. Jimmy probably feels the same—he swallows the words and looks away, shaking his head. She has ground him down.
He is silent for a second, contemplative. Perhaps he is coming to terms with the bitter taste of collapse. After what feels like an eternity, he puffs on the cigarette, then taps the end of the filter with his thumb.
He clears his throat before he speaks, “This is pointless, isn’t it?”
Kim is inclined to agree, whatever he means by it. “What is?”
“This. I’m just wasting my breath here. You’ve made up your mind, regardless of what I say or do, or don't say or don't do.”
“Yes,” she says quickly, unsure of its veracity.
“Okay, then.” Jimmy passes back the cigarette without looking. Half-smoked, Kim stubs it out. He looks out the passenger window for a beat, chewing on his lower lip. “To be brutally honest, it took you longer than I thought it would.”
“Me too.”
And she means it. She means it like a compliment, even if he might take it as a put-down. She never intended for it to get this far. But, what can she do? She likes Jimmy, she has liked him from the start.
That is a fact that’s been tormenting Kim for two years straight.
Before him, she’d notoriously been operating on a more than self-sufficient island: a date here and there, but nothing serious or long-term. Totally fine with her, nothing new under the sun—exactly what she wanted. Her upbringing had taught her how to be unaffected by loneliness or seclusion. In some twisted way, she’s always sought solitude like a drug. It's her penitence.
And then Jimmy popped up from behind a copier, covered in roller ink, riding on his own island of contrition. Too similar to be apart, different enough not to repel each other.
Before she knew it, his island had melded into hers like Pangea. A part of her has known from the beginning that she must take matters into her own hands, or it’ll take two hundred million years for it all to naturally drift apart.
Jimmy looks at her now like she’s a stranger, or very far away. He can’t understand, through the fog of insecurity, that this has nothing to do with his shortcomings. She wishes she could explain more clearly, but she can’t really explain what she refuses to understand herself.
All she knows is this: breaking up with her boyfriend in Red Cloud had been easy; moving to Colorado with nothing but a backpack had been hard. It’s like her goals have been directly tied to the difficulty of their acquisition. Nothing easy is worth having, something’s got to give.
Awkward silence starts to replace the dissipating smoke inside the car. Kim is no stranger to it, so it is Jimmy that speaks first: “Well,” he says, pulling on the handle and opening the door. “I suppose I should go back.”
Kim frets—this has gone exactly how she expected, precisely how she feared. She has her way and is unhappy.
“Are you okay?” she asks, keeping him inside.
“Yes,” he replies simply. “I’m fine.”
“Okay.” But Kim is greedy, she needs more than fine. “Are you sure?”
“Kim, I’m sure.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well—” he pauses, a glint of something in his eye, “ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.”
"Jimmy," she says, amused and pained in equal measure.
He is quoting Michael Madsen’s character in Thelma and Louise, an overgrown man-child in his thirties aptly named Jimmy—all washed-up cool and ‘50s handsome, emotionally stunted. Real Jimmy heartily laughed out loud at the words said by his namesake and then said, that is so me.
She now aches at the memory of watching the film together in his apartment a little over a week ago, a celebratory weekend romp at the expense of her graduating law school, his receiving his community college diploma.
Much to his chagrin, he was completely knocked out shortly after that quote was ingrained in his brain forever. She watched alone and he slept soundly until the Thunderbird was midway through the air, eager to renounce his little nap with conviction once awake.
She pulls threads that connect their first time to their last. A curved line touching at the ends—full circle.
“Is Hamlin taking you out of the mailroom, then?” he asks, seemingly reluctant to leave, one foot out the car. "Today your last day?"
“I think so. He said he’ll have me doing doc review on reduced hours starting Monday,” Kim says. “Out of the mailroom and into the cornfield.”
Jimmy’s smile is lopsided, but genuine. “Well, you gotta start somewhere.”
“True.”
“I’m very happy for you, Kim,” he says with meaning. “I really am.”
Kim nods—but she could cry. “Okay.”
“I guess I'll see you around, yeah?” he says as he steps out.
“Yeah.”
Kim watches him go like she’s an outside observer, detached from herself. The thwack of the door closing makes her jump. He has left his drink behind and she takes it. She doesn’t even drink it—Kim doesn’t like whiskey—just presses the cup tightly to her chest like a cliché.
The jingle of the elevator plays its cheerful tune and, before she knows it, more than thirty minutes have passed.
The thought of returning to the party makes her shiver with a queasiness that starts up in the center of her gut. She doesn’t think she can hear another corporate law story, or search blindly in the background for the things she’s left behind.
Kim shifts her car into gear and drives away from the scene of the crime.
Kim works tirelessly at the living room coffee table. She sits on the floor, surrounded by papers. It is almost midnight and she’s rereading material she already knows by heart, but she can’t sleep.
She is still riding the highs, mulling over the lows. She wants to expunge her conversation with Jimmy from her memory, focus on the brightness of her future. Kim has vowed many times not to be bogged down by sentimentality—for the first time in her adult life, she falters.
Jimmy is her closest friend, whatever that means. It is absurd to apply meaning to words when most of the time words are meaningless, but it is what it is. He is her biggest support, and her greatest distraction. Without him she most likely would have passed the bar months ago, but she’d be a lot less Kim.
She feels regret and backs herself up in equal measure—the timing is all wrong, it’s the way the cookie crumbles.
The knock on the door is soft, like knuckles caressing the wood instead of striking it. Kim doesn’t even hear it, and it takes her a few seconds before her brain wonders if something is astir. At this time? No chance. Her eyes don’t even leave the page. When the second knock comes, a little louder but still gentle, she perks up her head and stills her whole body.
Kim is a big believer in never answering the door unless you are expecting something. That rule garners more strength the later it becomes in the day. There is no way she is answering the door at ten minutes to midnight.
As if materializing from her thoughts, Jimmy’s voice arises from behind the door, even softer than the knocking.
“Kim?”