Practice Makes Perfect

Seventeen

“SO WAIT—WHERE was this great moment between you and Payton? Did I miss it?”

J.D. shook his head, sighing. Sometimes he really regretted telling Tyler anything.

“I didn’t say we had a ‘moment.’ What I said was, at the restaurant, there was a brief second—”

“—You said a ‘brief moment,’ ” Tyler corrected.

Growing agitated, J.D. sat back in the aged leather nail-head armchair, gesturing distractedly.

“Fine, whatever, maybe I used the word ‘moment,’ but I didn’t mean, you know, ‘moment.’ ” He mockingly emphasized the word, tempted to use finger quotes, but he really hated when people did that.

“What I meant to say was, there was a brief period of time at the restaurant when I thought we were . . .” he searched for the right words “. . . getting along.” He decided that was the safest way to describe his and Payton’s interaction earlier that morning.

He and Tyler were in the cigar bar at Crimson, a private club for Harvard graduates. It was an unofficial tradition they had started several years ago: every Father’s Day evening, J.D. and his friends met here to unwind. Some people, particularly in his social circle, sought out the comfort of their therapists to recover from the stress of family holidays. J.D., not a believer in the whole my-father-never-played-catch-with-me psychoanalytical crap, found that a nice, smooth glass of single-malt Scotch did the trick just as nicely, and for about one-tenth the cost. (Yes, fine, Payton had guessed right in her tirade in the library, he liked to drink Scotch, so sue him.)

Being a private club—although a Harvard degree was the only membership requirement—the bar was small. It had been designed to resemble a private library: warm brown bookshelves lined two walls; the other walls were decorated with paintings boasting various equestrian scenes. Leather armchairs, all of which were taken that evening, had been arranged in intimate groupings throughout the room. J.D. and Tyler had been lucky to score two chairs in the back by the fireplace. Their friends Trey and Connor, who had arrived fifteen minutes later, had not been so lucky and were now part of the seatless masses that lined the main bar.

Somewhere around their second drink, J.D. had found himself mentioning to Tyler that he had run into Payton and her mother at the Park Hyatt hotel. His friend had been on his case ever since.

“You thought you and Payton were ‘getting along,’ ” Tyler repeated.

“Maybe more than that, even.”

“That would be a shock,” Tyler said. “Do you have any support for this claim?”

Holding his glass by the stem, J.D. gave the Scotch a swirl, watching the legs run down the side of the crystal. “I don’t know. I thought I saw something different in her look.”

“Now there’s hard evidence if I’ve ever heard it.”

J.D. folded his arms behind his head contentedly. Tyler’s quips had no effect on him today. “Ah . . . my droll friend, I guess you just had to be there.”

Tyler looked him over. “You’re in an awfully good mood for having spent the day with your father. Is there more to this story with Payton than what you’re telling me?”

J.D. shook his head matter-of-factly. “Nope.”

“Then I want to make sure I understand the scene correctly: there was this alleged nebulous look that took place during these couple of minutes at the Park Hyatt hotel where you two somehow miraculously managed to string a few polite sentences together.”

“I think it was a bit more than that,” J.D. said.

“Do tell. Because this is really steamy stuff. What happens next?”

J.D. grinned. “That’s the interesting part—I don’t know.”

“Well, I hate to be the one to point this out, but whatever is going on, the fun’s about to end. Because you and Payton have all of about, oh”—Tyler checked the date on his watch—“less than two weeks left before the firm makes one of you partner and the other of you . . . well, you know.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” J.D. said dryly. As if he needed Tyler to mention it. As if he didn’t already know that fact himself, as if this hadn’t been the very thing he’d been thinking since the moment he’d left Payton’s apartment the other night.

It was the worst possible circumstances. She was the only one standing in the way of his making partner. He needed to crush her. But that desire had ended the moment he had found out how she’d helped him with the deposition.

He wished they had more time.

Tyler was right—he and Payton were speeding toward the end of their eight-year race and there was nothing he could do to change that. Which meant that if there was anything to be done, he had to do it fast.

So the question was: Was there anything to be done?

A few weeks ago, J.D. never would’ve believed he’d be having these thoughts. But things had changed. And not just for him, for Payton, too. Unless he was really, really reading her wrong, that is.

So again, if he wanted something to happen, the time was now.

For what might’ve been the first time in his adult life, J.D. didn’t know what to do. He cleared his throat. “I need your advice, Tyler.”

His friend did not seem particularly surprised by this lead-in. “Lay it on me. But first—shall we?” Tyler pulled a black leather cigar case from the inner pocket of his corduroy jacket and offered one of the cigars, a Padron Millennium 1964 Series, to J.D. It was part of their Father’s Day tradition, an homage to the time when they were kids and had discovered J.D.’s father’s premium cigar collection in a locked cabinet in the den. It had been a Padron that they had smoked that day, out on the verandah, thinking they were hotshots, not realizing that shortly thereafter both of them were going to be violently ill for the next twenty-four hours for amateurishly inhaling the smoke.

J.D. took one of the cigars out of the case. Tyler pulled out a matchbook, lit his cigar, then he handed the matches to J.D. After lighting his own cigar, J.D. eased back in his chair, puffing and rotating and tasting—not inhaling—the smoke.

After they sat in silence for a few moments, Tyler glanced over. “I can start you off, if you’d like.”

“Oh, this should be good—by all means.” J.D. gestured for him to proceed.

Tyler raked his hand through his hair to get it mussed just right. He casually leaned back in his chair, then raised one eyebrow in an over-the-top smirk. “Tyler—I’ve been thinking about a few things—”

J.D. held up his hand, offended. “Hold on. Is that supposed to be me?”

“Don’t interrupt. It takes me out of character.” Tyler went back to his impersonation. This time, instead of the sly eyebrow and smirk, he folded his arms across his chest, held his cigar aloft, and sighed melodramatically.

“Tyler—I’ve led quite the charmed life, haven’t I? I drive the right car, I wear the right clothes, and I’m fantastic—if I do say so myself—at every sport I play, and well, let’s be honest here”—he winked ever-so-proudly—“women love me.”

J.D. was not amused. “Your life has hardly been any less char—”

“But, Tyler,” Tyler went on, talking over J.D., “lately I’ve begun to suspect that something’s missing from my perfect existence, that perhaps there’s something more I want, a certain female, perhaps, who, shall we say . . . intrigues me.”

Tyler paused here and looked at J.D. expectantly.

“Oh, is that my cue?” J.D. asked sarcastically. “Now am I supposed to be me or you?”

“I could keep going if you like.”

“Thanks, I think I can take it from here,” J.D. retorted. “You’re worse than she is,” he grumbled under his breath.

“Admit it, you love it,” Tyler said. “You subconsciously feel guilty about your overprivileged upbringing, so you purposely hang around people who castigate you for exactly that as a form of self-flagellation.”

Now that J.D. laughed at. “I didn’t realize you were still TiVo’ing Dr. Phil.”

“Ha. Try Psych 101. Your ego is trying to balance the desires of your id while not upsetting the goals of your superego.”

J.D. rolled his eyes. “Speaking of superegos, if we could get back to the subject of Payton—”

“Please—you’d just love for your id to be all over that superego.”

J.D. paused. He wouldn’t have put it that way, but come to think of it . . .

“Help me out here,” he said to Tyler. “Give me your honest opinion. Do you think it would be totally crazy if I—”

“No fucking way!”

The shout, resonating through the bar, came from behind Tyler. Recognizing the voice as that of their friend Trey, J.D. glanced over and saw him shaking hands with some other guy—whose back was to them—whom Trey was obviously excited to see. Momentarily tabling his conversation with Tyler, J.D. watched as Trey gestured in his direction. The mystery guy turned around.

Surprised to see a face he hadn’t seen since law school, J.D. stood up, grinning, as the man walked over.

“Chase Bellamy . . .” J.D. said, extending his hand in greeting. “What are you doing here?”

Chase slapped him on the shoulder. “J. D. Jameson. It’s good to see you.” He pointed to Trey, explaining. “I ran into Trey the other day when I was coming out of court. He told me about this place and said I should stop by tonight.” He looked J.D. over. “I haven’t seen you since graduation. You wished me luck and said something sarcastic about saving the world.”

J.D. grinned. Say something sarcastic? Who, him? While he and Chase hadn’t hung out regularly in law school, he liked the guy well enough. He could sum up Chase Bellamy in one word: harmless. A bit of a liberal do-gooder, and maybe too agreeably passive in J.D.’s mind, but harmless. He remembered a strident debate he and Chase had once gotten into in their Constitutional Law class, over the Second Amendment’s right to bear arms. What he recalled most distinctly about that debate was that Chase had given up far too easily.

“So the last I heard, you were in D.C. working on a campaign,” J.D. said. “Are you living in Chicago now?”

Chase nodded. “I just moved here a few months ago—I’m doing pro bono work with the Chicago Legal Clinic.”

J.D. smiled. Of course he was. He introduced Tyler, who had been in the law school class below them. The three of them quickly fell into talk about work.

“So what about you? Where did you end up?” Chase asked.

“Ripley and Davis,” J.D. told him.

A look of recognition crossed Chase’s face. J.D. assumed this to be an acknowledgment of the prestige of his firm, until Chase remarked, “Oh, I know someone else who works there. Are you in corporate or litigation?”

“Litigation.”

“Then you probably know her—Payton Kendall?”

“Sure, I know Payton.” J.D. grinned. Funny. Small world. “How do you know her?” he asked. Strange, he hadn’t meant for his tone to sound so proprietary.

Now Chase grinned. “Actually . . . we’re dating.”

J.D. probably would’ve been less stunned if Chase had hauled off and punched him straight in the gut. He cocked his head. “Wait—Payton Kendall?” As if there were just too many Paytons floating around the litigation group to keep track of.

“Yes, Payton Kendall.” Chase looked him over curiously. “You seem a bit surprised.”

It didn’t matter, J.D. told himself. Really. He was fine with it.

He shook off Chase’s question. “No, not at all. Why would I be surprised? You and Payton have a lot in common. Good. Yes. That’s great. Tyler, did you hear that? Chase here is dating Payton Kendall. You know Payton, don’t you?”

Tyler gave J.D. a look that said he quickly needed to shut up.

Too late. Chase seemed to suspect something. “Wait a second . . . I just realized what’s going on here. You’re the competition.”

“The competition?” J.D. asked loudly. “Why, whatever do you mean?” Christ, now he sounded like he was doing bad dinner theater. He needed to pull his shit together.

“Payton didn’t mention any names, but she told me there was stiff competition in her bid to make partner,” Chase said.

J.D. blinked. Oh . . . competition for the partnership. Of course.

“You’re in the same class as her,” Chase continued. “It’s you she’s talking about, isn’t it?”

A few weeks ago, J.D. would’ve been pleased to hear Payton describe him as “stiff competition.” But now he had thought things were different.

But why was Chase asking him about this, anyway? This was his personal business with Payton. No one else’s.

“Payton and I are both up for partner this year, yes,” was all J.D. said.

But then he wondered just how much Chase knew about recent events. He could only imagine how Payton might have described certain situations—in particular, certain situations involving, say, a shoe and perhaps a couple of peeky-cheeks—to outside third parties. And if Chase did know about said certain situations, well . . .

J.D. did a quick assessment. Chase appeared to be about five-ten, maybe one-sixty, one-sixty-five pounds. No problem. If the little tree-hugger started swinging, coming in at a lean six-two, J.D. was quite certain he could hold his own.

But Chase, being Chase, merely grinned good-naturedly. “Well, Jameson, I’d love to wish you luck in making partner, but I guess I have a conflict of interest.” With that, he stuck out his hand. “It was good seeing you, J.D.”

Harmless, easygoing Chase Bellamy. He really was the kind of guy no one could find fault with. The kind of guy who never got angry or annoyed. The kind of guy who preferred to amiably let things roll off his back rather than stick it out and fight. The kind of guy that Payton liked, apparently.

And J.D. knew that he was not that kind of guy.

Furthermore, he would never be that kind of guy. Frankly, he didn’t want to be that kind of guy. He just wasn’t wired that way.

So with that in mind, he shook Chase’s hand firmly.

“It was good seeing you, too, Chase,” J.D. said. “And good luck. With everything.” He even managed a polite smile.

After all, while he might not be the kind of guy Chase was, he could at least still be a gentleman.

J.D. AND TYLER waited outside the bar, trying to catch a cab. In addition to being unseasonably cool that evening, it had begun to rain, and finding an available taxi was proving to be a challenge.

Tyler hadn’t brought up the subject of Payton since their conversation with Chase and for that, J.D. was grateful. He wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about her right then. He needed to sort through his thoughts, to process this new development that she was dating someone, and figure out exactly what that meant. If it meant anything.

An open cab finally pulled around the corner, and J.D. and Tyler agreed to share it. As the cab pulled away from the curb, J.D. glanced out the window and saw everyone running in the rain with their collars turned up and purses over their heads. The weatherman had predicted a cool and clear evening, so now people were scrambling.

“In answer to your earlier question, no, I don’t think it would be completely crazy.”

J.D. glanced over at Tyler. All joking aside, they had been best friends since grade school and normally he put more weight in Tyler’s opinions than pretty much anyone else’s. But things had changed in the past couple of hours.

“It’s not that simple anymore,” he said. “Actually, it wasn’t simple before, and now it’s even less so.”

“Why? Because of Chase?” Tyler asked.

“In part because of Chase. It certainly suggests I misinterpreted things.”

“You don’t know jack-shit about their relationship. Who knows how long they’ve been dating? Or whether she’s even into him? Chase might be nice, but I don’t see Payton with him for the long haul.”

“It’s also quite possible she still detests me.”

Tyler dismissed this with a wave. “You’re going to let a thing like that stop you?”

“I was thinking intense despisement might be an obstacle in pursuing her, yes.”

“No, see, that’s what makes it all the more interesting,” Tyler said. He adopted a grandly dramatic tone. “ ‘Does our fair Ms. Kendall truly loathe the arrogant Mr. Jameson as she so ardently proclaims, or is it all just a charade to cover more amorous feelings for a man she reluctantly admires? ’ ”

Up front, the cabdriver snorted loudly. He appeared to be enjoying the show.

“Psych 101 again?” J.D. asked.

Tyler shook his head. “Lit 305: Eighteenth-Century Women’s Fiction.” He caught J.D.’s look and quickly defended himself. “What? I took it because of the girls in the class. Anyway, I see a bit of a P and P dynamic going on between you and Payton.”

J.D. didn’t think he wanted to know. Really. But he asked anyway. “P and P?”

Tyler shot him a look, appalled. “Uh, hello—Pride and Prejudice?” His tone said only a cretin wouldn’t know this.

“Oh right, P and P,” J.D. said. “You know, Tyler, you might want to pick up your balls—I think they just fell right off when you said that.”

Up front, the cabdriver let out a good snicker.

Tyler shook his head. “Laugh if you want, but let me tell you something: women go crazy for that book. And even crazier for men who have read it. If I plan to bring a girl back to my place, I might just so happen to leave a copy of it sitting out on my coffee table and, let’s just say, hijinks frequently ensue. And you know what? It’s not a bad bit of storytelling. I like to put on a nice pot of Earl Grey tea, maybe a slice of almond biscotti, and—yeah, that’s fine, keep right on laughing, buddy, but I bet I’ve gotten laid more recently than you.”

“Hey—not that I’m not thoroughly amused at the thought of your little tea cozy and you wrapped up in a blanket reading your book—”

“I didn’t say there was a blanket.” Tyler paused. “Fine. Sometimes there may be a blanket.”

“—but my question is, were you going anywhere with this, or is it just some sort of weird sharing moment?”

Tyler had to think. “Where was I going with this . . . ?” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, yeah—Pride and Prejudice. Women and the whole Darcy complex. For Payton, that’s you.”

“I thought Darcy was the asshole.”

Tyler smiled fondly. “You know, he really kind of is.”

“Great pep talk, Tyler. Thanks.”

“But he doesn’t stay the asshole,” Tyler said. “See, you just don’t understand women the way I do, J.D. They want it all: a career, apple martinis, financial independence, great shoes; but at the same time—and this they’ll never admit—they are drawn to patriarchal men who are dominant and controlling. That’s the essence of the Darcy complex. He may be an asshole, but he’s an asshole that gets the girl in the end.”

J.D. rolled his eyes. This entire conversation was just so ridiculous.

But still.

“And how does he accomplish that?” he asked.

“Oh, it gets a little complicated,” Tyler said. “See, Lizzie has this troublesome younger sister who runs off with the guy she originally thought she liked—wait, back up—to really understand, I should start with the visit to Pemberley, because it actually starts with the aunt and uncle, see—her uncle loves to fish and Darcy asks—”

J.D. held up his hand, very, very sorry he asked. “The short version please. We’re already at your stop.”

Tyler looked out the window and saw that the cab had indeed pulled up in front of his building. He turned back to J.D. “Okay. The short version, the very short version: he gets the girl by being nice to her.”

J.D. waited. “That’s it? He’s nice to her? That’s so . . . lame.”

“Look, if you want to win Payton over—”

J.D. stopped him right there. “Hey, we’re only speaking in hypotheticals, okay? I haven’t decided that I want to win anyone over.”

“Oh. Then my advice is that you should start there. Figure out what you want.” With that, Tyler got out of the cab and darted through the rain into his building.

Great. Thanks for the help. J.D. gave the cabdriver his address. He stared out the window as the taxi made its way the six blocks to his building. When they arrived, J.D. reached through the divider and handed the cabdriver a twenty and told him to keep the change.

The driver turned around. “Hey—your friend back there was giving you some pretty strange advice.” Around fortyish and wearing a ragged flannel shirt and a Sox cap that had seen far better days, the guy had one of the thickest Chicago accents J.D. had ever heard. “He seemed a little off the wall, if you know what I mean. I don’t think I’d listen to him if I were you.”

J.D. grinned. “I’ll take that under advisement.” He opened the door to the cab and stepped out.

“Because everybody knows that Darcy doesn’t win Lizzie over just by being nice.”

J.D. stopped. He looked back over his shoulder.

The driver rested his arm on the divider. His rolled-up sleeve revealed a tattoo of a black scorpion that covered his entire forearm. “See, it’s all about the Grand Gesture. That’s how you get the girl.”

“Thank you,” J.D. managed to say.

The driver shrugged. “No prob-lem. Frankly, it sounded like you could use all the help you can get.”

He put the cab into gear.

“And listen—tell your friend to try English Breakfast next time. It’s a little more robust. Earl Grey is really more of a Sense and Sensibility kind of tea.”

AT HOME LATER that night, after J.D. had done the final checks for the evening of his email and work voice mail and cell phone voice mail and home voice mail and was satisfied that there were no work matters that required his immediate attention, he thought about Tyler’s advice. Figure out what you want. And it was then that J.D. realized.

He didn’t know.

As he had told Tyler, things weren’t that simple. Chase did complicate things. Of course he did. Maybe Payton really liked him. J.D. could see the two of them together—with all they had in common, they just seemed to make sense.

Tyler had been dismissive of this, and maybe to him Chase and every other obstacle just made the whole Payton issue a better intrigue, but then again, Tyler wasn’t up for partner that year. Tyler also wasn’t competing with Payton for only one partnership spot. And Tyler certainly didn’t have the history he had with Payton. Eight years of history.

It was a long time. It struck J.D. then, that he had become so swept up in beating Payton that he hadn’t directed his anger where he should have: at the firm. They were the ones who had put him and Payton in this position. Making partner was never a guarantee, but after all his hard work he deserved better. She deserved better.

But what bothered J.D. most was not the unfairness of the firm’s decision. Rather, it was the fact that when he looked back on the past eight years, he wasn’t necessarily proud of his own behavior. He had regrets, and there were things he wished he could go back and do differently. There was that one thing in particular that even Tyler didn’t know about . . .

Figure out what you want.

J.D. knew that he wanted to scrap the past. To start over. For the next fourteen days at least, he wanted to do things right. If he couldn’t change the fact that things had to come to an end with Payton, he could at least change the way they ended.

It wasn’t much, J.D. realized, and it certainly didn’t answer all the lingering questions.

But it was a start.

EARLY THE NEXT morning, Payton rushed around her office, packing up her trial briefcase. Yes, now she wished she had packed it the night before, but her mother had taken a late flight out and Payton hadn’t seen the need to make a special trip into the office at midnight. A good trial attorney should be prepared for anything, she knew, and that’s why she always built in extra time, particularly since she took the “L” to work. Ah, those little tricksters at the Chicago Transit Authority, she could always count on them to keep things spicy. Because, really, who didn’t want to spend an extra fifty-five minutes in the packed, hot, smelly car of a train that inexplicably moved only three miles an hour the entire trip downtown? That was fun stuff.

Payton grabbed the case files she had reviewed over the weekend and stuffed them into the large, boxy trial briefcase that weighed nearly a ton. She hoped Brandon would show up soon so she could pawn the thing off onto him—after all, wasn’t that what junior associates, and men, were for?

Payton heard a knock on her door and looked up. Instead of Brandon, she saw J.D. standing in the doorway. He was armed with a Starbucks cup.

Blimey.

“I noticed that you seem to be running late,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d have time to grab this on your way to court. Grande sugar-free vanilla latte, right?” he asked, gesturing to the coffee. “I’ve heard you say it to Irma a few times,” he added quickly.

He held the cup out to her.

Payton looked at it, then back at J.D. It was a trap, it had to be. She remained where she stood.

The corners of J.D.’s mouth curled up. “No, I don’t plan to throw it at you.”

Payton smiled. Ha-ha. Throw it at her? As if that had ever crossed her mind.

“That’s not what I was thinking,” she assured him as she walked over and took the cup. He certainly was taking their truce seriously, she thought. How sweet.

She subtly sniffed the coffee for poison.

J.D. smiled again. “And no, I didn’t put anything in it.”

Payton took a sip of the latte.

J.D. winked. “Nothing that can be detected by its smell, anyway.”

Payton stopped, mid-swallow, and held the liquid in her mouth. He was kidding, of course. Payton smiled and shook a finger to let him know she was in on the joke. Ah, J.D. you funny guy, you. She looked around her office. Seriously, why was there never a spittoon around when you needed one?

“I’m kidding, Payton,” J.D. said. “You don’t have to act so shocked. I’m just trying to be . . .” He hesitated. “Nice?”

Payton swallowed. “Nice?”

J.D. nodded. “Sure. Call this, you know, a gesture.” He looked around her office. “So how’s your trial coming along? From the little I saw the day your shoe, uh . . . and then you . . . well, you were there, you know what happened—it looked like the jury’s on your side. What do you think?”

Payton stared at him. “Seriously. What are you doing?”

J.D. blinked innocently at her. “What do you mean, what am I doing?”

“First the coffee, and now you’re—what—making idle chitchat? Is that what this is?”

J.D. shrugged. “Sure.”

“Another gesture, I suppose?” she asked.

“Exactly—another gesture.” J.D. smiled. “So now there’s been two gestures.”

Payton carefully looked him over. “Are you sure you’re okay?” He was acting so bizarre right then. Maybe he was ill.

“I’m fine,” he said. “You were going to tell me about your trial?”

“Well . . . things are going good, I guess. Assuming there aren’t any surprises, we should start closing arguments in two days. Thank you for asking.”

“Of course.”

Payton waited as J.D. continued to linger in her doorway. Was there . . . something else? “I really should get going to court.”

“You really should,” he agreed.

Still, with the lingering.

Payton gestured to her coffee cup. “Thank you for the Starbucks?” Maybe he was waiting for a tip.

J.D. seemed pleased with this response. “You’re welcome.” He straightened up. “Well, then. Good luck in court, Payton.” With a nod, he turned and left.

Payton shook her head as she watched him leave. Whatever the hell that was, she had no clue.

In eight years—all their fights, coffee-stained suits, peeky-cheeks, and everything else considered—that had to be the oddest interaction she’d ever had with J. D. Jameson.