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Kim’s sneakers squeak against the shiny linoleum, each footstep echoing in the empty hallway. She treads carefully through the colored tiles, making a neat line through the white squares and avoiding the decorative reds, blues, and yellows that dot the floor.
Tap, tap, tap. The plastic ball on her hair elastic slaps lightly against the center of her back, her braid keeping pace.
Bursts of sound come from each room she passes: the light scrape of chalk against a blackboard punctuated by a recitation of numbers; the enthusiastic lilt of a man’s voice followed by raucous laughter; piano notes drifting through the music room’s double doors, a choir beginning to crescendo.
She imagines Angela still sitting at her desk behind Kim’s empty chair, feet hooked daintily at the ankles, smiling smugly as her friends giggle on either side of her.
Kim turns the corner and sunlight streams into view, pouring through the wide windows of the front door, bisecting the angles of the floor tiles. Her pace slows as she approaches the entryway labeled ADMINISTRATION, a glint reflecting off the gleaming, metal nameplate.
Glancing to the right, she considers the inviting warmth of the spring afternoon and thinks about how she could just walk out, how no one might notice for hours. Where’s Kim Wexler? one of her teachers might ask, momentarily puzzled, before moving on to the next student.
Or maybe Angela would pipe up and innocently say: Gee, I dunno, last time I saw her she was on her way to the principal’s office.
She curls her hands into fists, taking a deep breath as the phantom of Angela’s voice evokes an echo of her earlier whispers: “Nice ponytail, Kimmy, where’d you get it—your grandmother’s house?”
She had wanted them for weeks; it was rare that she ever asked her mom for anything, but this seemed feasible. Just a pack of hair elastics from Village Pharmacy that could be grabbed with the toilet paper. Kim had been eyeing the bright pink ones with a matching elastic, imagining how they’d pop against her cousin’s plain, hand-me-down t-shirts; how if her classmates wouldn’t stop mocking her long, cuffed jeans or her scuffed Keds, these might save her from ridicule for at least one day.
But her mom had come home from work and pulled a faded cardboard backing out of her bag, blue beads strung onto dark elastic threaded with gold. Kim’s thumbnail scratched over the bright orange Dollar Store sticker as she forced a smile, the accessory hanging limply in her hand as she hugged her mom around the waist.
She made it three hours into the day before Angela’s whispers began, the hushed sounds twisting around her neck and settling on her shoulders. Each biting remark was followed by muted laughter, and Kim’s posture had tensed with the weight of it.
So when Angela had reached out and snapped the elastic against her back, Kim had finally whipped around through the sting, fingers turning white as they gripped the back of her chair to deliver the round of piercing words she’s been biting back all day (all year). Kim parrots her mother’s phrases about Angela’s father and his clueless, spineless wife; watches with satisfaction as Angela’s mouth forms a surprised O, her friends visibly sinking into their desks.
It was worth it, she thinks, to watch her teacher’s eyes widen as Angela repeated what Kim had said into their ear, the disappointed grimace that had formed as she motioned Kim up to the desk.
She blinks, still frozen in place outside of the office, the vision of her classroom disappearing as afterimages of sunlight pop and fade out of her vision.
She won’t run, she decides; whatever punishment is coming will find her eventually, but maybe after the final bell rings she’ll stop by Svensen’s. She’ll get herself the set of hair elastics she’s been eyeing—or maybe something nicer, something that will actually make Angela feel jealous. Something that will make Angela’s friends feel stupid for underestimating her, again.
Kim feels better with a plan.
Squaring her shoulders, she reaches for the knob.
She watches people stroll around HHM’s campus like bears emerging from their caves, tentative animals squinting up at the sky as they come out of hibernation. A third-year associate slips her blazer off her shoulders as she walks from one building to another, heels clicking past them on the concrete. In the distance, she sees a man step out of a side door and bring his cell phone to his ear, leaning against the windowpane of glass and tilting his face up into the warm, spring glow.
“Kim?”
Jimmy is looking sideways at her, swallowing a bite of food with an open mouth. He’s loosened his tie to eat and his hair is falling over his forehead, giving him the appearance of just having rolled out of bed. She has an urge to smooth it back, amused by how he’s managing to make this new cut look messier than the mullet he chopped off last week, as if he’s somehow having more trouble taming a practical trim.
“Earth to Kim.” Jimmy waves a hand in front of her face, chip crumbs on his fingers. “It doesn’t count as a break if you’re just going to keep reading Criminal Procedure in your head.”
“Sorry,” she says, shaking her head. A couple of strands of hair fall out of her clip at the movement, and she reaches up to tuck them behind her ear. “What did you say? Too much unused green?”
“All this land.” Jimmy goes back to his rant, waving a hand in front of them. “Chuck probably pays the big bucks to keep it so lush, and for what? So all these suits can admire it from behind glass?”
Her attention is pulled to a group of associates across the lawn with their sleeves rolled up to their elbows, one of them pantomiming throwing a football.
“Feels like a desert delicacy out here,” he mumbles through a crunch and she pulls her gaze back to him, tucking another loose strand of hair behind her ear. “We should be using it. Let farm animals graze, or something.”
Kim’s lips curve into a smile. “Farm animals, huh?”
“Or picnics. Mandatory picnics.” He drops his bag of chips on his lap, turning to her. “Once a month, all these stiffs have to kick off their dress shoes and get back to the salt of the earth.”
Kim imagines her fourth floor delivery route sitting uncomfortably on the ground on a checkered blanket, their mouths curved down into the same displeased line as when she deigns to drop anything into their mail basket.
“Sounds like a real morale booster,” she says, but she’s not even sure Jimmy hears her, his fingers snapping like he can’t get his next thought out quickly enough.
“They could have someone do hair braiding,” he says excitedly. “Or face painting.”
“Hm.” Kim swallows a bite. “Are you sure you’re not just trying to plan a state fair?”
“Couldn’t hurt to make them live a little.” Jimmy picks up his bag of chips again, gesturing to her with an elbow before peering inside and raising it up, funneling the crumbs into his mouth.
“You could even get in on the hair stuff, too,” he munches thoughtfully, wiping a hand on his slacks. “Help keep it out of your face during study breaks?”
She looks down, busying herself with brushing crumbs from her lap. Her hair falls from behind her ears once again, a betrayal in real time, hiding the burn in her cheeks at the acknowledgement of how much he notices.
She’s certainly felt him watching her, hasn’t discouraged how quickly he learned how she takes her coffee depending on how much sleep she got the night before, and exactly how many hours it’ll be before she needs a smoke break, and just when she’ll want her phone to ring after dinner to distract her from studying, but to hear him confirm it so plainly and openly—
“Actually, picnics may not be the right idea,” Jimmy says gravely and she tilts her head back up, hair falling away and revealing his solemn expression. “What sides would they serve? Possession is nine-tenths of the slaw.”
Kim’s face crinkles in confusion for a moment and then she laughs loudly, shoulders shaking with it, the remains of her lunch threatening to slide off her lap and onto the ground.
He’s grinning, reaching out for her trash as he gathers his own and Kim lets him take it, palm curling under his hand and brushing his knuckles as she helps him steady the pile. He jogs past her towards the trash can and tosses it all in, still beaming when he turns around, pumping his fist like he just sank a basketball from half-court.
This time she doesn’t look away. He’s infectious.
She grins back.
The stillness of the room seems to hum, the quiet buzz from the computer the only sound as Kim’s fingers hover over the keyboard, eyes drifting back and forth where the cursor wavers between one paragraph and the next. She taps a period and lets the cursor blink at her for a moment before hitting delete, pulling her hands back and worrying her lips between her teeth.
There’s a sigh following a rustle of papers and she glances over at Jimmy, sprawled out on the carpet, his back against the filing cabinet. He’s balancing a legal pad on his raised knee and she watches him frown, flicking back a page of notes, leaning forward to squint at the open textbook on the floor below him.
The off-hours lights cast dim shadows over the open threshold of her office, stopping just short of the toe of his dress shoe. She imagines a protective bubble around this corner of the building, snugly holding them inside the eye of the storm, leaving the rest on the periphery.
“Getting restless?” she murmurs in his direction and he looks sideways at her, blinking as if he just emerged from a haze.
“You could say that.” He clicks his pen, tossing it onto the floor. “I think my eyes are crossing.”
Kim makes a sympathetic sound, leaning her cheek on her palm. “You should go home and get some rest. Or at least go find an empty table.”
“And leave you here to fall asleep at your desk?” He shakes his head, wincing as he pushes himself up to stand. “Not a chance. Come on, let’s both call it.”
She hesitates, glancing back towards the screen, but she knows he’s waiting for her. She knows the only reason he settled onto the floor of her office and eventually opened a textbook was because she had said just fifteen minutes, Jimmy, and here they are an hour later. And despite meaning her wish for him to get some rest—or at least save himself some back pain—she’s reluctant to release the contentment of this moment.
Still, she nods, reaching around her monitor to flick off the screen, not bothering to power the computer all the way down. She’ll be back in a few hours. She grabs her briefcase as he bends down to gather his study materials, shuffling papers together.
He flicks the light switch as they exit her office, and they’re both silent as they make their way towards the elevator. This is hardly her first time here this late, but something about walking alongside Jimmy makes her feel like the two of them are emerging after the first snowfall, the muted fluorescents shining on empty cubicles like sun breaking through the clouds.
The familiar chime of the elevator brings her out of her reverie and she follows Jimmy into the brightness of the overhead lights, watching him lean against the rail along the back wall. His body curls in on itself as he shifts the load in his arms to one hand, scratching at his temple.
He stifles a yawn and meets her gaze, tilting his head to one side. “Good?”
“I’m good.” Kim unconsciously shifts her weight to mirror his position. “You good?”
Jimmy nods, a familiar sleepy smile tugging up the corners of his mouth as the elevator chimes again, opening to the garage level. The click of her heels echo as they push through the double doors, heading towards the only two cars waiting at the end of an empty row. Solitary islands in a sea of gray.
Kim’s taillights flash as she hits the button on her key fob and Jimmy shoots a glance over at her, a faux scowl on his lips.
“Show off,” he mumbles, reaching into his pocket for his own key ring and she chuckles, elbowing him as she breaks away towards her car.
Opening the passenger door, she tosses her briefcase onto the seat and shuts it behind her, turning back to Jimmy as he deposits his pile of study materials into the backseat of his Esteem. He closes the door with his hip and spins around, the slam echoing around them.
“Wanna crash at my place?” His tone is hopeful, keys jingling from his fingers, and Kim has to bite her lip to stop herself from immediately agreeing.
“Not tonight,” she says, taking a step closer to avoid having to look directly at his disappointment. “I have to be back to finish that brief before it’s due at 9 o’clock, and—” she shakes her head, their noses nearly brushing now. “Not tonight.”
She leans in and kisses him chastely, lightly gripping the lapels of his jacket, her lips pressing softly against his. His hands creep inside of her blazer, the pads of his fingers sliding against her silk blouse, and she shivers at the pleasant zip of friction as she leans further into him.
Jimmy’s tongue brushes her lips and she opens her mouth against his, her head tilting to one side as he maneuvers her backwards. Her arms wind around his neck, the inside of her elbows brushing his collar and he tightens his grip on her waist, trapping her back against the side of her car.
One of Jimmy’s hands floats from under her blazer to the back of her neck and she lets out a breathy groan, cheeks growing hot as the sound echoes in the empty garage. She knows Jimmy hears it too, can feel him smiling against her lips as his hand continues up, fingers prodding at the tight clasp in her hair.
He continues to nudge around her updo, his thumb pressing at the base of her skull for leverage, smile fading as he makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. It’s nothing, but sudden, overwhelming guilt twists in her gut: He doesn’t deserve more frustration.
He doesn’t deserve to stay up all night studying after working all day. He doesn’t deserve to have to sit on the floor while trying to cram case law into his head. He doesn’t deserve to have to wait around just for the chance that she’ll grant him a couple of hours—that wasn’t why he stayed tonight, she knows that; but she finds herself pulling away, catching her breath as she watches his eyes open, brow knitting together in confusion.
His blue eyes—darker than usual—scan her face, his chest rising and falling rapidly with her own.
“Okay,” she says, taking a deep breath and softly squeezing his arms, ducking out of his grip. “Night, Jimmy.”
Hustling around to the driver’s side of the car, she slides into the seat and starts the engine, peeking to ensure he’s out of the way before backing up and shifting gear.
She feels a sense of both regret and relief as her car glides forward, glancing into the rearview mirror just before she turns the corner to see Jimmy smoothing his tie, still watching her go.
She brings her gaze forward again, following the charted path of exit arrows.
The curling iron beeps from its place next to the sink and Kim glances down quickly before looking back to her reflection in the mirror, applying a final swipe of mascara to her eyelashes. She dips the mascara brush back into the base and maneuvers it towards her right hand, the fingers emerging from her cast holding the tube in place while she twists it closed.
Pulling a clip out of her hair, she watches it tumble down around her shoulders, grabbing her hairbrush before stepping back and leaning through the doorway.
“Hey, Jimmy?”
She hears an affirmation in return, the sound of silverware clinking against a bowl as he places it in the kitchen sink. He pads through the doorway, wiping the fingers of one hand on his white undershirt and holding a mug to his lips with the other, swallowing a gulp of coffee as he sets the cup down on the counter.
“At your service,” he rubs the palms of his hands together and she hands him the hairbrush, turning to face the mirror as he steps behind her.
He runs the brush through her hair, creating a part down the middle and then gently sweeping it flat, gathering it into his palm. Kim hands him a clip over her shoulder and watches him in the mirror, his face scrunched up in concentration as he gathers it all into the clasp, his expression brightening as he snaps it into place.
Reaching for the curling iron, he separates one section from the rest and winds it around the wand, eyes flicking up to hers in the mirror while he waits. He flashes a grin before pulling it back and admiring his work, fluffing the curls in his palm and methodically moving on to the next section.
He’s become adept at this after a few weeks—and a couple of burns—not just the act of styling her hair, but learning how to untangle it without twisting in all the wrong ways, or how to gather it together without pinching her scalp.
She’s gotten used to doing most things one-handed, but it frustrates her that there are some tasks she simply cannot do without help. Those first few mornings, Jimmy always happened to be nearby and jumped in before she had to ask, ready with a quip about how all his practice working the clasp of her bras was coming in handy, or pantomiming pointing the curling iron at her hair and frowning when nothing happened. (“You said it was a curling wand, right?”)
After a few days, she realized what he was doing, but let him carry on like she hadn’t noticed he was getting out of bed earlier than usual since the hearing, taking his time with the morning paper or pouring a second bowl of cereal until he saw her head into the bathroom.
And after a few more days, she identified something else familiar: He liked feeling useful.
So when Kim arrived at the parts of her morning routine where she now needed help, she started asking him. She’d get as far as she could before calling out a “Hey, Jimmy?”—like it had just occurred to her that she could use a hand. And without fail, he’d come ambling in.
Sometimes, she’d tell him about her day ahead, sometimes they’d talk about where to pick up dinner that night, but other times she would just watch him in the mirror, the faint hiss of the curling iron the only sound between them.
Today is one of those days, and she watches him finish the last few strands of hair, feeling the warm curls at the nape of her neck.
“All set.” He switches off the tool, placing it back onto the counter and grabbing his mug.
“Thank you,” she says, angling her head to look over her shoulder in the mirror. “You’re getting good at this.”
“Maybe I have a new calling.” He leans a shoulder against the door frame, wiggling the fingers of his left hand in the air. “Prom season is coming up.”
She rolls her eyes in the mirror, her lips twisting to suppress a smile.
“You can’t rob the law of Jimmy McGill,” she says as she turns, softly kissing his cheek as she scoots past. “We need him.”
She goes to the closet, sifting through hangers.
“Yeah?” Jimmy says after a beat and she turns to look at him, surprised.
“Yeah,” she confirms decisively, pulling a cardigan from its hanging place and holding it out between them. “Can you help me with this?”
Kim’s neck cranes backwards and she cries out, her legs shaking, thighs pressed against the sides of Jimmy’s head. One of her hands shoots out to press firmly against his forehead and she’s gasping, shuddering, torso curving upwards as his hands firmly grip her hips.
The hand on his head softens as she comes down, nails scratching gently at his scalp, and Jimmy brings himself up onto his elbows, his grip loosening. Sparks fly up her spine as he slides his palms through the crease of her legs and she sighs, letting her legs flop down onto the mattress.
“Should I put the wig back on?”
Jimmy grins up at her, settling his chin on her bare stomach and she giggles, bringing the back of her hand up to her mouth to stifle the sound. She feels loose, like the day’s tension has dissipated all at once; a light, fuzzy feeling simmering in her veins.
“The fake tan could keep me going for sure,” she says, teeth scraping her skin as another laugh escapes. The heavy rise and fall of her chest is slowing as she looks down her body at him, and his expression is so open that it nearly cracks her in half.
She drags him up and slides herself down at the same time, head landing on a pillow as they crash together, a sloppy clash of lips and tongues. When they break apart, she chases his mouth, neck straining to nip at his lip, but Jimmy pulls back to look down at her.
“You look like—” He stops, laughing into the space between them. “No, nevermind.”
“What?” Kim’s eyebrows raise, her head tilting beneath him. “What were you going to say?”
His face is sheepish. “You look like an angel.”
She smirks, but he barrels on: “I mean literally, in the biblical sense—” he waves a hand around her head, balancing carefully on one arm. “Your hair is like a halo.”
She bursts out laughing, winding her arms around his neck and he joins in, the two of them trembling with it as Kim clutches him tightly to her chest. She feels drunk on the half of a beer she opened when they got home, like the carbonation is spreading to her extremities and she might float away if she doesn’t keep holding on to him.
“In the biblical sense, huh?” She asks when they’ve stopped, pushing at his shoulders to look at his face. “Is this what the nuns in Cicero taught you about angels?”
She snakes a hand between them as she speaks, sliding two fingers into the elastic of his boxers and gliding them across his torso.
“I think,” Jimmy starts, swallowing as she snaps the elastic against his abdomen. “I think they’d send me straight to confession.”
She lightly scratches her fingernails above the waistband now, up to his belly button and then back down. She can feel him growing hard against her and rubs a palm over his underwear, slowly pushing her hand inside, finally closing her fist around him.
“Hmm, confession,” she says and he drops his head down, breathing a groan into her collarbone. “Anything you want to own up to? I hear you’ve been up to some nasty stuff.”
She starts to move her hand slowly, gathering moisture and slickening her way back up, twisting her wrist until she suddenly stops. He makes a guttural sound in the back of his throat and she smiles, her cheek pressing into his hair.
“Well?” She says, holding still. He brings his head up and his gaze is hazy, confused; eyes searching her face like he’s trying to place what she wants. “Anything to get off your chest?”
“Kim.” His voice sounds thready, pleading. “Kim.”
She moves her hand ever so slightly and then pauses again, holding eye contact.
“The pizza is on the way,” he says helplessly, and she laughs, she can’t seem to stop laughing.
“Better be quick, then,” she says as she leans up to push his boxers off, scooting down until he’s cradled in her hips and helping guide him into her. Jimmy releases a sigh, pressing kisses to her chest, her neck, the underside of her chin as he begins to rock his hips.
Her mouth falls open, hands flying above her head as he sets the pace. He lightly grips her elbows as she rolls her hips, surging up to graze her teeth along his jawline and sinking back down into the mattress when he presses his lips firmly to hers.
Her breath starts coming out in sharp staccato bursts, punctuating the air with each movement of their bodies and she lets herself be held gently in place even as her chest arches upwards, and it’s as if she can feel the air igniting between them when the sensitive skin of her chest drags along his.
“Jimmy,” she says, voice low and he releases her, twining his own arms under his shoulders as his movements get faster. “What we did today…”
She trails off, letting it hang in the air, and then she turns her head to whisper in his ear: what they’ve done, what they’re going to do; letting her nails scratch along his back when she presents a proposition she hasn’t yet vocalized and he pulls back, surprised.
But he doesn’t stop moving, and it makes her lips twist in a lazy grin, relishing in the ability to get this reaction out of him and taking that moment to clench her thighs together and grab his biceps, rolling them over until she lands above him.
They readjust, hands clumsily knocking against each other and then Jimmy slides the fingers of one hand through hers, gripping tightly as she moves above him.
She closes her eyes and she can feel it now, the energy crackling around her head like light, inside her, radiating around the two of them. It feels almost crushing, but in an almighty, powerful way—and he doesn’t even know about what Cliff said, she thinks as his thumb brushes against her and she gasps, she can’t wait to tell him about what Cliff said.
Kim opens her eyes, disentangling their fingers to plant both palms on his chest.
“Alright, then, James McGill,” she says, and she can feel her own heat searing into his skin. “Confess your sins.”
Kim strikes into the soil, pulling up a mound of dirt and carefully repeating her motions until she has a perfectly even hole in the earth. She exchanges the handheld shovel for one of the packets of seeds sitting next to her, the tips of her slide sandals digging into the lawn as she tears open the top, squinting at the label. Sprinkling them into the dirt, she grabs for the shovel again, scooping the pile back and patting the top.
Shifting slightly to the right, she begins the process over again.
The sun beats down on the back of her neck and she can feel sweat pooling on her shoulder blades, gathering at the waistband of her leggings.
“Hiya, Kim!”
She turns around, bringing one hand up to shade her eyes and sees her neighbor standing on the sidewalk, one arm raised in a wave, the other holding his dog’s leash.
“Beautiful day!” He calls again and she smiles, lips together, pulling her hand from her forehead to return the wave.
“It sure is,” she agrees, and he moves down the block after his dog, satisfied.
She wipes her damp bangs away from her forehead, sitting back on her heels. She can’t get used to the humidity—didn’t realize how much she had become accustomed to the dry heat of the desert, the way it would sneak up on you like sand prickling at the back of her neck. In Titusville, it sometimes feels too thick to breathe, like Kim is slicing through the air every time she steps outside.
She could go inside and find something to tie her hair back with, she thinks. Instead, she lets a bead of sweat trickle down the side of her face, feels it drip down her chin and land on the collar of her shirt, a dark spot blooming on the muted cotton. She throws her hair over her shoulders and leans back into the task.
Not long after her move, she had gone to the salon and asked for something different. When the stylist asked what she had in mind, she repeated herself: something different.
But when that was met with a look of concern, Kim had shifted gears: What do you think?
A rich brown would look nice with your skin tone, the older woman had said thoughtfully.
Kim nodded.
We could do some soft layers to frame the face. And bangs. And you know what else would compliment that lovely new look? A beautiful French manicure.
It would, Kim had agreed.
She’s due for her next weekly appointment on Tuesday.
She finishes planting, gathering up the empty packets of seeds she had purchased at the hardware store. She had stood in front of the rows of pinks, whites, and yellows for so long that the owner had approached her to see if he could help.
What would you recommend? Kim had asked.
As he dropped the tiny packets of seeds into a paper bag, she listened to him talk about each flower’s needs, head bobbing along in acknowledgement. Then she had accepted the sack, dutifully promising she’d be back to report on the progress of her garden.
She glances up at the sky as she pushes herself to her feet, exhausted from the sun, smacking her tongue against the dry roof of her mouth. At the same time, her stomach rumbles and despite the muggy afternoon, she finds herself craving a Thai iced tea.
I’ll pick up some takeout for dinner, she thinks, maybe find a place that has—
She shakes her head. No, Glenn is coming over for dinner. She’s making his favorite chicken ranch pasta bake.
She wipes the back of her hand across her face one last time, heading for her front door.
Chicken sounds good.
“I like it,” Jimmy confirms and she purses her lips self-consciously, planting her hands on the table and leaning her head back. The ceiling is rough, like someone attempted to smooth over its coarseness but instead left craggy, irregular patches amongst the gloss.
The metal feels cool under her palms as she brings her gaze back down across the table, Jimmy’s eyes thoughtfully scanning around her face.
“It’s very Dark Passage,” he says, bringing his hand up to motion around his own hair, eyes sliding back to hers. “Bacall, of course.”
“Are you Bogie, then?”
“Yeah.” One corner of his mouth turns up and he glances quickly down at his prison jumpsuit. “That’s me. Humphrey Bogart.”
She feels like she’s walking a fine tightrope, easily falling back into their old banter but with an emotional upfrontness that feels blunt and raw, like being able to speak a language fluently but realizing halfway through a sentence that the meaning of the word you’re searching for has changed.
They’re who they’ve always been, but they’re these new people, too.
It hit her the first time they were discussing Kim’s situation in Albuquerque and she had volleyed a joke about Oakley’s ineptitude—he had calmly and firmly set a boundary, he didn’t want to talk about that.
At first she had thought he meant the law in general. So she tried not to offer any details about the work she’d been doing at Central Florida Legal Aid, would touch on the caseload and particulars of learning how to navigate the office, avoiding any specifics. But then he started asking: What types of cases do they see? What was the defense for that one? And the judge ruled how?
She quickly realized that it wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk about practicing law, but he didn’t want to talk about his case. From the way he maintained those boundaries and began to open up about his days in prison, she got the sense that he had decided the penance he deserved—and of all people, who was she to argue with that?
She looked up everything she could about it anyway.
She thinks that’s why she’s nervous today, and she can tell Jimmy is still able to sense that. But the more she turns it over in her head, the more it takes shape—like she can see it spinning and becoming more solid, a pearl forming inside the soft belly of a shell, iridescent flashes beginning to glint on its surface.
“Jimmy,” she starts, and then immediately hesitates.
He tilts his head, looking across the table and despite the jarring bright orange color against his skin, thinning hair, or the wrinkles lining his face; he looks so much like the floppy-haired man that had sized her up from across the mailroom that her chest constricts. She takes a deep breath and feels her ribs expand when she lets it go, shared optimism from all those years ago brimming out of her.
“I have to tell you something.”
He straightens his head, swallowing slowly, and she watches the line of his throat, the way his fingers twitch on the table.
Then his face breaks into a timid smile and he opens his hands towards her, catching that hope in his palms.
“What did you find?”