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Howard passes her by in the hallway, eyes averted, adjusting his cufflinks. He stops at the elevator, waiting, looking everywhere but her direction. She continues down the hall, the staccato click clack of her knock off Louboutins increasing in tempo as she rounds the corner, then abruptly stops. She’s greeted by a scene so still it could be a photograph. The door to the mailroom is closed and his shoulders are slouched in a way she hasn’t seen in months. He looks like the version of himself that flew in on the redeye with a single suitcase and no home of his own, folding in on himself like the house of cards life he’d built in Cicero when the prospect of potential jail time was dropped on the table he’d built its foundation on. Kim takes a deep breath. And knocks.
He doesn’t acknowledge the knock or the creak of the door as she slips through it, allows it to close again. He sits stock-still, back to her with his hands on his thighs, posture weary. She approaches gingerly, quietly, and when she rests her hand on his shoulder, he jumps.
“Jimmy?”
There’s a pause. “Hey, Kim. How goes it?” He’s trying for levity, that trademark candor and charm, but it falls flat and he won’t meet her eyes. She squeezes his shoulder.
“What did Howard say?”
They are rarely this direct, their friendship built on snark and wit and the ability to talk in intricate circles, like well-choreographed dance partners or perhaps as a talented jazz musician plays, the music flowing freely and never the same twice, misunderstood by the masses and appreciated by few. Either way, there’s an art to the way they communicate and a delicate tension that Kim is straining, on her way to breaking, and Jimmy is trying to save with silence. He continues staring ahead, eyes glazed.
“Jimmy? Hey…” She steps around him 90 degrees and plants her feet in front of him, her hand never leaving his right shoulder. “Talk to me.”
His gaze is trained just past her, on a faded painting one of the associates no longer wanted hanging in their office, and she feels a bit helpless which is not a feeling she enjoys. But neither of them is good at this part, letting the other in, and nothing good has ever come of pushing him. So, instead, she bends forward, leveling their eyes and touches her free hand to his face. She cups his jaw, fingers bracketing his ear, thumb caressing his cheek.
“Who do I need to beat up?” She asks. His chuckle surprises them both, bouncing off the glass walls and the stacks of stuffed envelopes blanketing every surface of the room.
“Oh, probably God,” his eyes drift to hers, “or Buddha or someone like that. Whoever’s in charge of fate.”
“Hmmm,” she wonders. “Fate? Really?” Her hand still rests on his cheek.
“Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Her voice is soft. “I never really took you for a ‘believes in fate’ kind of guy.”
There’s a silence now, full and heavy, but pleasant, like a weighted blanket or that feeling you get when the one person in the world you love rests their head on your shoulder, your chest. Kim’s thumb grazes back and forth across his cheek and he can’t quite meet her eye when she’s looking at him like that, touching him like that, so he lowers them to his lap, exhales deeply.
She can feel his lip start to tremble in her hand and he’s horrified at the single wayward tear that streaks down his face and lands on the soft skin of her thumb. He feels ashamed and vulnerable doing this in front of her, crying, facing the rejection he knows deep down that he deserves. Who is he to believe in second chances when he’s already burned through more of those than any one man like him deserves in a lifetime. He’s just proven to himself and Chuck and the world and Kim that he’s still plain old Slippin’ Jimmy. What is his law degree worth, anyway? You put lipstick on a pig, it’s still a pig. That’s what Chuck always used to say, anyway.
And he knows there will be more tears to come, but not here. He won’t let more fall in front of her, won’t give her the burden of comforting him through his failure. Maybe in the car, later, stuck in traffic on the way home or in the shower after his microwaved salisbury steak. He’s always liked the shower as a place to cry—it’s private by nature and no one asks why your eyes are a little red-rimmed afterwards.
Too much time has passed and her hand is still holding his jaw. He owes her an apology or at least eye contact, so he glances up, expecting to find some discomfort, embarrassment in her eyes or maybe even a pitying frown. He’s become an expert in her subtlety, a professional at spotting the truth of her emotion she so deftly buries. Instead, he finds an earnest look, a gentle, closed-lip smile, sad and serious and, dare he hope, loving.
She sweeps her thumb once more beneath his eye, tenderly, like his mother might have, takes a small step back, clears her throat, says, “I could use a cigarette. Or a drink.” His brows knit together. “Yeah, definitely a drink.”
“Kim,” he says, glancing at the clock hung high above her head, “it’s barely 3 o’clock.”
“And?”
“Well," he gestures vaguely, "billable hours and all that.”
“They’ll be fine without me for an afternoon.”
He raises his eyebrows; she raises hers in return.
“But…”
“Listen, Jimmy. I’m going to get a whiskey neat at Louie’s with or without you. You have ten seconds to decide.”
It’s a thought he’s had before, and will most likely have again and again for the rest of his life, but he has never been more grateful for Kimberly Wexler than in this very moment. He doesn’t deserve her, he knows this, but he tries his best to. And it’s in moments like these that he re-commits to his goal: be the kind of man Kim deserves, the kind of man she can be proud of, the kind of man she could maybe even love someday, if he plays his cards right.
“Well? You coming?” She’s halfway through the door, twisted at the waist to look back at him, faux impatience creasing her forehead.
He sighs. “Oh alright.”
Hiding his grin, he turns to pop the plastic lid back over the abandoned cake. She’s tapping her foot on the tile as he shuffles towards her.
“What? It’s no devil’s food, but it’s still one helluva cake. I don’t want it drying out just because you want to play hookey mid-party.”
Her eyes roll to the ceiling as he walks through the door she’s holding. “Hookey? What are we? In junior high?”
“I’d say HHM feels a little more like high school, wouldn’t you? Still under the thumb of our parents, but with a few more privileges.”
She snorts. “Speak for yourself. I still have to ask to go to the bathroom.”
Just then, the sound of footsteps approach them from down the hall, Burt’s baritone garbled but strong against the beige walls. Jimmy puts his arm out, stopping Kim mid-stride.
“Well then. We better get out of here before someone asks for our hall pass.”
Kim’s startled giggles echo through the stairwell as Jimmy grabs her waist and pulls her through the door.