The Corner Table at Mickey's Pt. 04

This is the finale of the story.

I apologize, but this part is longer than the first three. I had originally intended to split the story into five parts, but I couldn't find a good point where the events had a natural divide and the last two sections would be roughly of equal length. Rather than pick an artificial split and leave everyone off-balance, I decided to post it as a single, long final part.

We pick up at the point where Mallory is just starting to accept that her head doesn't get the only vote in her relationships. And that, just maybe, she's been going about things all wrong ever since Michael. Though, being stubborn, her head doesn't go down without a fight.

--C

At 6:53 a.m. on Monday, Jim's phone rang. "You better be on your way," greeted him when he answered. "Your house is fifteen minutes away and it's six fifty-three."

"I'm sitting in the gym parking lot having a last sip of coffee, and for the record, I live five minutes away. I moved."

"Oh."

He was loitering in the lobby when Mallory breezed in. He glanced at his watch. Six fifty-nine.

She caught the gesture. "One minute to spare."

His mischievous smile acknowledged that he was trying to catch her doing exactly what she forbade him.

"I'd looked up your address just in case I needed to roust you out of your lair," she said. "Imagine how awkward if I'd knocked!" Their smiles turned to chuckles.

Pulling out his phone, he tapped a few times and her phone buzzed. "My new address. Just in case you have to drag me out."

As they passed the desk, she pointed toward the men's locker room. "There's a scale in there, right?"

"Umm, yes."

"Tell me what it says. Shorts, T-shirt, and socks only."

He looked startled and then turned obediently. "Jim," she called after him. "The real number. Don't fudge it out of embarrassment." She saw the facial tic and realized how that had sounded. "That came out wrong. I just meant I won't judge the number."

He nodded, turned to go, then swung back again. "Meaning you won't judge today, just how much it changes by next time?"

She saw the crinkly lines of humor around his eyes and realized he was amused, both at accurately divining what she would do and at himself for being in this situation. It wasn't the first time she'd felt a little rush of pleasure at being around a man who could laugh at himself.

"Jim," she called again. He turned back a second time, cocking an eyebrow to say, What now? "Would you have fudged? No penalties for saying yes, I promise."

"Probably not." He grinned. "Maybe upward."

"Upward?"

"So you'd have been impressed next time."

She laughed. "Go! And the truth, mister!" She made sure not to betray even an iota of reaction when he told her the number.

By the time forty-five minutes were up, she was fairly sure Jim figured he'd either lost twenty of those pounds or was going to die. Maybe both.

Rather than his laid-back ambling from the treadmill to one machine and then another--the workout he'd described when she asked--she had him start with some brisk elliptical. Then ten reps with weights or on the straps, a one-minute break on the stationary bike, and back to the equipment. Repeat. "Soon we'll drop those sixty seconds of rest down."

She pretended not to hear the sotto voce, "Rest?"

As they were leaving, he said, "I just remembered that you said you ran in the mornings because there wasn't enough time at lunch." Jim looked apologetic. "Lunchtimes are iffy for me because it's often the only time customers have to call me."

"So I change my routine. No big deal."

It was a big deal; one she'd put off thinking about. Running was a morning activity because of time. Monday, Tuesday, Thursday were gym at noon, spin class Friday after work, and yoga on Saturday after her run. Wednesday and Sunday were rest days except for her miles.

Shorten the run? That depressed her. Run after work? She preferred the peace of the morning hour rather than the frenzy of joggers the evening brought. And Fridays ... crap! Add in a morning with Jim and that becomes three on Friday which doesn't--

Fuck! Helping him is a pain in the ass. Why am I going along with this? It was the umpteenth time she'd asked herself that. But she'd gone down that rabbit hole over the weekend and knew the answer.

"Hmm." It was as if he was reading her mind. "You also said spin class on Fridays was a thing. Let's stop this. I'll figure something else out."

And let you go back to half-assing your way? No.

She declined to think about the fact that she went from being irked at him imposing on her life, to being irked at him not imposing.

"No, it's okay," she said. It wasn't but whatever.

"What time did you used to go running?"

"Seven, seven fifteen. If it was a nice day and I wanted to go a little farther, maybe six thirty. Don't worry about it, Jim."

"Hmm." He stopped walking, causing her to pause. "I'll get to the gym at six fifteen and do my warmup by myself. From six thirty to seven fifteen you can attempt to kill me which, I think, leaves you time to go running. Thursdays you can give me a list of what to do on Fridays, which means you can go to spin class without doubling up your day. You once mentioned you don't go to the gym on Wednesday, so you and I can skip that one and I'll go for a walk instead. We'll cut out Tuesday lunches if they put too much stress on your schedule that day. All of that subject to your approval."

His memory for her schedule surprised her. The businesslike demolition of her complications in under thirty seconds surprised her even further. A brief thought flickered through her mind. This is what business-Jim is like: decisive and capable. I always liked that part of his stories.

After a second, her thoughts continued. Decisive and yet ... instead of a decision, a proposal. Her mind traveled back to a relationship or two who hadn't granted her the same kind of respect. Yeah, they got turfed in a heartbeat, she thought with a little unkind chuckle toward them. I bet Jim's wife never had to deal with that. Well, not until she ... She pulled her mind away from another unkind thought.

"Sounds good," she said to the man waiting for her response, "but I want you walking every day, not just Wednesdays. At least twenty minutes, preferably double that."

His face fell, but he nodded. "I can do that at lunch. I'll route customer calls to my cell."

Those customers are going to be wondering if you have asthma, she thought, remembering his breathing on that walk to Conti's. Whoa! She bit down before her mouth could open. You can be cranky that he isn't hungry for this. Cranky, not bitchy.

Jim's issue that evening was fairly simple. He could already tell he was going to be sore. Like, really sore.

Suck it up, cupcake!

There was a twang at the memory of Mallory all in spandex.

And while you're at it, suck that up too!

In self-reflective moments, he half-acknowledged that "crush" wasn't quite strong enough to describe the way he viewed her. It was more than that ... and that you'd have to add in "the hots" ... but the principle remained: get over it.

Mallory's evening wasn't so simple. Her weekend went into reruns.

She had walked out of the gym on Friday angry. Angry at Robin for accusing her of having a problem. Angry at Tom for talking about her behind her back. Angry at Jim for ... she wasn't sure what she was angry at Jim for. No, she was sure. Angry at Jim for being so lackadaisical about getting in shape.

She'd stayed angry through the drive home, through dumping her bag and rooting through the fridge for something to reheat. She'd spent a minute getting angrier about that because leftover teriyaki sucked compared to what she could have had if Robin hadn't ruined her desire to go to Mickey's with the others.

Now, as she seared a piece of salmon for dinner, crankiness about food wasn't an issue. Nor did she rehash kidding herself about the men she normally dated. Three days ago, shoving syrupy chicken and slightly soggy broccoli into her mouth, she'd mentally flicked over years of dates and triumphantly seized on one. Aimon! Aimon was just in average shape! See? Not every guy. Unfortunately, that vindication had lasted all of four seconds before another thought had intruded. Aimon was a blind date; you didn't pick him out. And he never got a third date, barely a second.

And once one domino had toppled, she hadn't been able to stop the others. Her rant to Tom and what it revealed. The anticipation she felt coming out of the gym on Tuesdays and heading across the street for lunch. The frantic feeling the second time Jim walked away from her in Mickey's.

Now, she put the salmon on a plate, added some carrots and celery along with a tiny splurge of blue cheese for a dip, and let the argument re-start where it had ended Friday night: You could like Jim ... a lot.

But the response on Monday was no different than it had been on Friday: Yeah, but ... The same image of him in a polo shirt, love handles distorting the waist, led to the same conflict. Jim's ... well, yeah, likable ... but physical things matter too. I want to find a man who wants to look good.

This time, those words didn't jolt the way they had on Friday. Then, she'd heard the dismissiveness and knew that, fundamentally, it was no different than what she'd utterly scorned in Lori--"She's like, 'Ooh, I gotta go get me some stud ...'"--and felt ashamed.

And then, of course, there had been no stopping the memory of Robin's final question that day. "Why are you so reluctant to help a good guy become a little hotter?"

Yeah, why? Why is Jim's piss-poor approach to getting into shape so annoying to me? And why was I so reluctant to offer help? Despite her lack of visible reaction at the time, she'd known exactly what that pause before Robin offered to meet Jim for workouts had meant.

Friday, that question had been enough for her to dump her half-eaten teriyaki in the trash and grab her car keys for a ride to Mickey's. Well, damned if he'll be piss-poor at it now even if I have to drag him kicking and screaming the whole way.

She had thought the matter settled. She'd help him. He'd improve. But her irritation today brought it back. On a vague impulse, she clicked her way to that yearbook picture of number eighty-one, tight end for the Underwood Falcons. There were certain similarities between that man and the headshot of Bobby she'd restored to her bookcase as part of getting-past-Michael: brown hair, relaxed smiles, both seemed young to a thirty-four-year-old's eyes. Both kind of cute.

She focused on young Jim's picture. If I were single, I would have looked twice at that guy too. If he was the same person then as he is now, I'd have done more than look twice.

The conflicted feelings: satisfaction that Jim had stuck it out that morning; irritation that she had had to urge him on; vexation that her morning routine was now curtailed--

Is it really curtailed? Sure, no more stretching five miles to eight in the morning. But you could certainly tone something alongside him and still get your normal run in. That might even take some pressure off lunchtime on busy days. Win–win, to use Tom's phrase.

She remembered the pleasure she'd felt during those few seconds of banter when Jim tried to catch her being late. The amusement they'd shared at the image of her knocking on Lori's door reminded her of all the other times they shared a moment of eyes alit in glee.

You could like Jim, her mind repeated. Actually, you do like him. She recalled the various judgments she'd made that morning, skipping past "lazy at working out" and focusing on "decisive, competent, able to laugh at himself, respectful."

Then a little voice told her what seemed obvious ... probably what her subconscious had decided Friday and neglected to pass along to her conscious brain.

Just satisfy the eyes and there won't be an issue, will there? Stop thinking and do it.

"I hear I have you to thank for ruining my business," Tom said.

"Huh?" Jim said.

"I've lost some Tuesday customers."

Jim caught the note of humor and relaxed. "I'm walking at lunchtime. You've lost two meals and two drinks. If that's your margin of profit--"

"I know. I know. Take it out of your salary."

"How's it going, James?" Shannon asked as she snagged Tom's arm and dragged him out from behind the bar.

"I ache in places I didn't even know I had places."

"That's why I didn't go to the gym today." At Tom's incredulous expression, she continued. "That makes twenty-nine years and seven months in a row." She winked. "Let's go, Thomas. Back in a mo', James."

His heart sank as Lori walked in the door. Just another half an hour till Tom got back and I could have herded her out into the alley or something. He sighed and braced himself.

She moved to the far end of the bar, far from the few scattered patrons toward the front, and sat on a stool. Resignedly, he walked down.

"What can I get you, Lori?"

She shook her head. "Nothing."

"Then why--" He stopped in surprise as she dropped a manila envelope between them.

"I signed them." As he started to respond, she held up a hand to stop him. "I want to say a couple of things."

Jim settled back and waited.

She bit her lip, then started. "Sunday I was in Pittsburgh having lunch with my college roommates. They don't know about our situation. Somehow, we got to talking about the Forbes list that just came out that said MacKenzie Bezos was the twenty-second richest person in the world after her divorce settlement."

Jim had no idea where this was going.

"Then one of the girls joked, 'Hey, Jeff, was the pussy worth it?' It was like someone ran into me with a truck. All I could imagine was someone saying to me, 'Hey, Lori, was the dick worth it?'"

She looked up from studying the bar top's grain. "No. It wasn't. And as soon as I let myself hear that answer, I knew the whole thing was on me. It wasn't you." She gestured at the envelope. "So I signed. I've also told my attorney to approach the judge about canceling the remaining counseling sessions.

"Two other things. One, that man I was in here with the other night. That wasn't an attempt to make you jealous. I'm sure you thought that, but it wasn't. He's a doctor and I applied for a job. He's busy during the day ... doctor, you know? He suggested we meet after work briefly. When he suggested Mickey's, I about had a heart attack, but I didn't want to explain to him, and it wasn't the day you're normally here." She shrugged. "Totally innocent. He was all business, and I was just looking for a full-time job." She gave a wan smile. "Which I got.

"Lastly, please apologize to your girlfriend for me. What I did was not okay, and I know it. I'm sure she doesn't want to hear from me, so will you please do it?"

Jim nodded. He started to say something, but she shook her head. "Don't say anything." She gave the envelope a final push in his direction, stood, and walked out.

It was a Pajama Weekend. Robin and Mallory were deep into a hummus platter and Gilmore Girls. "So, how're the workouts going?" Robin asked between episodes.

"He hasn't skipped a day. He does what I tell him, though I can see him thinking about balking sometimes." There was an edge in Mallory's voice.

"And that bothers you ... why? I mean, he's probably in a lot of discomfort. It's only natural."

"He should want to do this!"

"You don't think showing up every day indicates he wants to?"

"Not as much as he should."

"Ahh." Robin dragged the syllable out.

"What does that mean?"

"You know Jim has a thing for you. So, you feel he should be pushing himself to catch your attention, and it kind of annoys you that he isn't." Mallory started to protest, but the cynical "Really?" expression stopped her cold.

Mallory's face got grumpy. Robin correctly interpreted that as: It sounds so shallow when you say it.

Robin threw her a bone. "I get it. Everybody wants to think someone will make the effort for them." She paused. The bone she'd thrown hadn't been random. Let's just let that thought marinate for a while. Maybe you'll realize what else it means eventually. Then she added, "For what's it's worth, I think it's more that he thinks it would be wasted." Robin put her hand on her friend's arm. "Do you like him? Like, like-like him?"

"I don't know. I like being around him. I'm never bored. He's nice and he listens and everything. But ... you'll think I'm horrible."

"I already do." Robin dodged the thrown celery stalk and grinned. As Mallory continued to struggle to find words, Robin found them for her. "His weight bothers you."

Robin picked up the remote and clicked the screen back into motion. Then she paused it again. "Hon, I don't think you're horrible. Quite the opposite. I just think you're less over some things than you think you are." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a reaction, which was all she hoped for. She pressed the button and they returned to Stars Hollow.

Forty minutes later, Robin's phone buzzed. "Speak of the devil." She held it up so Mallory could see. The screen read: The Jim. They looked at each other in puzzlement.

"Hey, Robin. I was wondering if you and Daniel would like to come out to Maxwell's. There's this band playing, sort of a jazz–bossa nova fusion. Thought you might like it since Daniel said he loves Latin music."

"You're on speaker by the way. I'm with Mallory." There was a tiny exclamation from the phone. "And DH is away this weekend."

"Oh."

"It's Pajama Weekend," Mallory called from the other end of the couch. "No boys invited."

"Okay. Don't worry about me crashing your party." His voice was amused. "I don't want to catch cooties."

Want to go? Robin mouthed.

Mallory gestured toward their old T-shirts and shorts, the hummus platter, Lauren Graham's face frozen on the screen.

It can wait.

"Hello?" Jim said into the silence.

"One sec, Jim," Mallory said.

Do you? asked.

Do you? replied.

Consideration. Nod.

"Jim, meet you there?"

"I'm already here."

As Mallory navigated their way, Robin pulled out her phone. "Just letting Jim know our ETA."

≫ Were you going to invite Mallory?

There was a long pause before a response.

≪ No. Thought it might be weird. Invited Tom and Shannon but they can't get away.

Robin wondered if "weird" meant "why torture myself?" or meant "don't want to tread on the toes of whatever guy I assume she's dating." Some minor comments here and there had made it plain to Robin that Jim had become super sensitive about certain things as a result of Lori.

≫ Do you mind me bringing her?

This time the response was instantaneous.

≪ No.

They got there while the band was taking a break. Jim waved to them from a table he was zealously guarding against poachers.

"Vodka martini, two olives"--"Club soda with a splash of cranberry for me"--"I'm still good with this one, thanks."

"I don't even know what bossa nova is," Mallory said as the waiter took their order away.

"From Brazil. Think 'The Girl from Ipanema,'" Jim answered. He turned to Robin, "So, have you slept with a Brazilian?"

Mallory's mouth fell open in shock.

Robin just grinned. "I don't know. How many is a brazilian?" she asked in a cutesy voice, twirling a curl.

"You've heard that one!" Jim said, pouting. Mallory groaned at the ritual blonde humor.