The Partner Track: A Novel

by Wan, Helen

  When I swiveled back around, Tyler and I exchanged a loaded look.

  “Okay,” he said quietly. “Basic rule of thumb. Never ask a gay man why he’s not having a martini in front of two jocks, especially not at a dive bar with sawdust on the floor.”

  “Sorry,” I said, and meant it. He had a point, and it hadn’t occurred to me. And it bothered me that it hadn’t occurred to me. It seemed like the kind of thing that should have.

  But then I narrowed my eyes at him and said, “Well, what about you?”

  Tyler blinked. “What about me?”

  I rolled my eyes. “What was all that ‘A girl playing ball? This I have to see!’ crap? I half-expected you and Hunter to start licking Jell-O shots off of some sorority girls and then go play beer pong.”

  Tyler burst out laughing, and I could tell I was forgiven.

  “Touché,” he said, bringing his mug up to my beer bottle and giving it a conciliatory clink.

  We sat in companionable silence for a while, sipping our drinks and taking in the crowd, and I was basking in the glow of my base hit and the way I hadn’t played that much like a girl when Tyler said, “So, I got my subpoena from Dr. Rossi today.”

  “What?”

  “I got a personal handwritten note from Dr. Rossi through interoffice mail, telling me he would like to have a ‘friendly chat’ with me at my earliest convenience.”

  I was quiet. I had already had several meetings with Dr. Rossi—but I’d drawn the line at trying to draft anyone else. Predictably, most of the associates were treating Dr. Rossi and the Diversity Initiative as a big company joke. No one ever came to see Rossi in his office except for the few partners on the Diversity Committee, me, and the occasional hapless first- or second-year he’d succeeded in corralling for a mute, unhelpful, ten-minute noninterview. He was still hidden away in his dark, untrafficked corner of the twenty-ninth floor, which, owing to Rossi’s argyle sweaters and mild manner, had been nicknamed Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, courtesy of some fourth-year wit in Tax.

  “And?” I said encouragingly. “Are you going to go talk to him?”

  Tyler sighed. “I don’t want to be interviewed for the firm’s little diversity report, Ingrid. You know that.” He paused, then added, “Especially not now, when I’ve already got one foot out the door.”

  “I know,” I said. “But, I mean, Dr. Rossi’s really not that bad.”

  He looked skeptical.

  “Like when I’m telling him about some of the stuff that goes on around here? Like the Corporate guys’ weekly squash court reservation at Chelsea Piers? And how no women are ever invited to play? I mean, I don’t even think I’m supposed to know about that. And Rossi was totally not surprised to hear this. He gets it.”

  Now Tyler looked alarmed. “You told Rossi about the Corporate guys’ standing court reservation? You don’t think that’s a little too much information?”

  “Maybe,” I admitted. “But, I mean, I’ve talked with the guy a couple of times now, and I actually think he believes in what he’s doing. He’s just so earnest. He genuinely thinks he can level the playing field a little. I figure, least I can do is give him the benefit of the doubt.”

  Tyler gave a short, bitter laugh. “Sounds like you’ve been drinking the Kool-Aid. You think they’re going to level the playing field just by interviewing a couple of us lawyers with melanin and having us spill our guts? Come on, Ingrid. You’re too smart for that.”

  “Well, I’ve hardly been spilling my guts, Tyler,” I said mildly.

  “Okay, maybe that wasn’t fair.” Tyler looked serious. Concerned. “Look, I just don’t want to see you get played, that’s all. Make sure you protect yourself.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I said, punching him lightly in the arm.

  He shook his head. “I mean it, Ingrid. Don’t get yourself too closely tied up in this whole ‘diversity’ bullshit, you know? You were doing just fine on your own. SunCorp loves you. Adler loves you. You’re golden.”

  I paused. “One thing has nothing to do with the other.”

  He laughed. “Oh, sweetie. You have a lot to learn.”

  Fuck you, Tyler.

  Tyler Robinson did not have a monopoly on being a Minority Darling. I’d lived it for thirty-odd years, too. And I was sick of all this cynicism. What was wrong with trying a different tack?

  “So this is just the way things are, huh? It’s not worth sticking our necks out to change anything, because no one cares?”

  Tyler flashed me an angry stare. “Oh, you’re wondering if the firm really cares? Just take a good look at Hunter and Matt and those other pricks. They go onstage and sing the freaking N-word and the firm doesn’t do a damn thing about it.”

  I was incredulous. “So why do you think they hired Rossi?”

  He shrugged. “Damage control. Just covering their asses.”

  “Okay, so if Rossi’s such a joke, you got a better idea?”

  “Yeah,” he snorted. “How about we just wait around for the old white guys in charge to die off.”

  “Oh, that’s really helpful, thanks. I think I’ll suggest that at our next committee meeting.”

  He pushed his empty glass away and crossed his arms in front of him. “Hate to break it to you, but bringing in an expensive consultant isn’t going to change a damn thing around here.”

  “Well, especially not if people like us refuse to tell him anything,” I said.

  We glared at each other.

  I was reeling. This was the first disagreement Tyler and I had ever had. Not counting the moment he’d stormed off at the firm outing, we weren’t used to any sort of tension between us. Tyler Robinson was the one person I depended on to get it, my only friend at the firm who’d laugh with me at egregious instances of white hetero male cluelessness behind his closed office door. And I knew I was the only one he confided in, too. Being on opposite sides of an issue—especially this one—made me sad and uneasy. I’d already lost Murph. I couldn’t afford to lose Tyler, too.

  Tyler seemed to be reading my mind. His voice softened. “Look. It would be different if I believed anything was ever really going to change.”

  I grinned. “Wow. That’s the first time I’ve ever been accused of being an optimist.”

  He didn’t crack a smile. “Just pick your battles carefully, that’s all. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  Murph reappeared next to me, which Tyler took as a cue to look at his BlackBerry and slide off his bar stool. “It’s getting late,” he said. “I should get going.”

  Murph didn’t protest. “Okay, later, man.”

  “Later.”

  Tyler gave me a meaningful look and left us alone.

  I took a slow sip from my Amstel, still thinking about Tyler’s parting shot. When I set my beer back down, Murph was looking thoughtfully at me. I spoke first.

  “So,” I said brightly. “Getting anywhere with the new Litigation paralegals? The brunette one’s really pretty.” I was trying as hard as I could to sound natural, to get back to that easy, carefree banter that had once come so easily—but had eluded us ever since the outing.

  “Nah,” Murph said, grinning in the direction of the jukebox. “Forster’s doing just fine, though. Figured I should get out of there, stop cockblocking him.” He hopped up onto the bar stool next to mine and lightly brushed against my arm. “I wasn’t interested anyway, if you want to know the truth.”

  “Really. Why not?” I asked. I kept my tone light and noncommittal.

  “It’s just—you’d be really proud of me, Yung—I think I’m finally reformed,” said Murph, and he sounded like he might be kidding, a little, but only just.

  “Well, this is news. Reformed, you say. How so?”

  “The way I see it,” said Murph, and his tone was jocular again, “I’m already thirty-five years old. That’s halfway to seventy.”

  “You’re ancient,” I agreed.

  Murph grinned. “Exactly. And so, at some point, I have to get serious. I me
an, I can’t be chasing twentysomethings around the rest of my life, can I?”

  “Well, if anyone can, it’d be you.”

  “You know what I mean. I don’t want to be That Guy who’s forty, never been married, trolling his nephew’s wedding reception for bridesmaids, you know?”

  I nodded. “Nobody wants to be That Guy.”

  “So, then.” Murph swiveled his bar stool around so that his knee was unmistakably touching mine. “You see my dilemma.”

  I smiled. And, newly minted optimist that I was, I decided to seize the moment.

  Lowering my voice conspiratorially, so that Murph had to lean in very close, I fixed him with my most inviting smile. “I think I do, but the question is—what are you going to do about it?”

  I expected Murph to grin and say something flip, but his expression changed. He looked at me for a long solemn moment, then pressed his mouth right next to my ear and whispered, “What I should have had the guts to do at the outing.”

  His breath was warm and close against my neck, and I flushed with pleasure. I tried to contain the tingling that started in the base of my stomach and was radiating through the rest of me. I cast about for something witty to say, but all I could manage was “So why didn’t you say anything to me that night?”

  He paused a beat and put one of his hands over mine, looking straight into my eyes. “You’re not my usual type, Yung. I don’t normally date women who are smarter than I am. I really don’t want to screw this up.”

  It was the best thing anyone had said to me in a very long time.

  “So, don’t screw it up, then.”

  He grinned, and suddenly something about the old Murph was back. “Well, I’ve been a complete gentleman so far, don’t you think? I didn’t even come home with you when I could have.”

  I blushed. “What are you talking about?”

  “The night of the outing. When I put you in the cab. You told me to get in.”

  I was mortified.

  “You heard that?”

  He nodded. “But I didn’t think I should take advantage of you in that state.”

  I tried, unsuccessfully, to stop blushing.

  Murph tilted his head toward my empty Amstel bottle. “Another drink?”

  I looked around. Murph and I were the last ones standing.

  “No.” I smiled at him and slid off my bar stool. “Let’s get out of here.”

  NINE

  Murph still lived in the same Tribeca loft I remembered from that long-ago Halloween party, except now he had the whole gorgeous place to himself. As a thirty-five-year-old bachelor with no kids (that he knew of) and no obligations except to the international law firm of Parsons Valentine & Hunt LLP, this was doable on his salary of three hundred and twenty thousand dollars a year. Before bonus.

  Murph opened the front door and stood aside to let me in. I took a few tentative steps into his apartment. When I turned around to say “Nice place,” he was leaning down and coming in toward my face at an angle that made me think he was going for my cheek. But as I tilted my face to the side, I realized I’d guessed wrong, and his lips landed half on my mouth and then skidded wetly off to the left.

  “Whoops.” He laughed.

  I laughed, too. We broke apart awkwardly. I took a deep breath in and said, “It’s been a while.”

  Murph gave me an odd look, so I clarified quickly, “Since I’ve been here, I mean.”

  “Not since that Halloween party I threw back when we were first-years,” Murph said. So he remembered. “Not to brag, but I’ve got to say that party was pretty legendary.”

  I smiled. “It was.”

  “So,” said Murph, gesturing around the living room. “Want the grand tour?” he asked me.

  “Sure.”

  He remained in one spot and pointed around the enormous space. “Office, kitchen, living room. Bathroom’s over there, bedroom’s through there.”

  I nodded. “Very nice.”

  It was nice. I could easily imagine Murph living his life here. I noticed his bookshelves first. They were hard to miss. They reached from the floor to the ceiling—crammed to overflowing, with books jammed spine in, spine out, lying facedown, any way they would fit. Had Murph actually read all these? Personally, I didn’t like to display any books in my living room that I hadn’t actually read. It seemed, somehow, dishonest.

  In the center of the living room sat a battered and fraying beige sofa that would have been at home in a frat house. On the opposite wall was mounted a brand-new, state-of-the-art, jumbo-screen plasma TV. I smiled. This was the kind of contrast common to thirtysomething bachelor apartments in Manhattan.

  “Sit down, make yourself at home.” Murph walked backward to the stainless-steel kitchen. It looked a lot like the one in my own apartment. Spotless. “You want something to drink?”

  What I wanted was a gin and tonic, light on the tonic. But I had to pace myself. My face sometimes flushed a deep red after about two drinks, especially when I was nervous, and I didn’t want to spend my evening worrying about the dreaded Asian Blush.

  “Just some water would be good right now,” I said.

  He filled a tall drinking glass with water and ice, and walked it over to me.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “No problem.” As he walked back to the kitchen, I looked down at my hands. They were shaking a little. Get a grip! Don’t blow it! I held the glass firmly between my knees to silence the ice cubes.

  Now that I was actually—finally—here in Murph’s apartment, I was beginning to second-guess myself. We had been friends and colleagues for so long that this felt incredibly surreal, a little dangerous.

  I perched on the very edge of Murph’s sofa and glanced down at the ancient fabric as casually as I could, looking for beer stains—or worse. Finding nothing too alarming, I settled back against the cushions. The couch was surprisingly comfortable.

  Something soft and warm rubbed against my leg. Startled, I looked down and saw a small gray cat with four white paws staring intently at me.

  I froze. Murph had a cat? I was a dog person myself.

  Murph was rummaging in the freezer for more ice.

  The cat was still regarding me.

  “Oh, you have a cat?” I asked, keeping my voice as neutral as possible.

  “What?” Murph spun around. “Oh, yeah, him. He’s my sister’s cat. I’m pet-sitting for her while she and her boyfriend are in Costa Rica.”

  “Oh. Pet-sitting,” I said. I reached out and gave the cat a tentative stroke. “What’s its name?”

  “Steve Buscemi.”

  “Steve Buscemi?” I repeated. “That’s his name?”

  He laughed. “Well, my sister calls him Mittens. But, I mean, I wasn’t going to live with a cat named freaking Mittens for a month. So I temporarily renamed him.”

  “Why Steve Buscemi?”

  Murph shrugged. “He’s small, but he’s really tough. And my sister found him in the alley next to her local firehouse. Did you know Steve Buscemi used to be a fireman before he got into acting?”

  “Yeah,” I said. This fact had always impressed me, too.

  I stroked Steve Buscemi, and he purred beneath my hand.

  Murph was making himself a drink. Then he switched off the kitchen light and made his way toward me. Most of the light in his apartment had been coming from the kitchen, so the room was now noticeably dimmer. Yet it wasn’t quite dark enough to remark upon. I smiled.

  Murph knew exactly what he was doing.

  Now he lowered himself down next to me on the couch. My stomach tensed, and I suddenly felt very warm. I glanced at his drink and envied him. He was having what looked like a gin and tonic.

  “So,” he began, turning to me.

  “So,” I repeated.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he said quietly.

  “So am I.” I took a tiny sip of water, not because I was thirsty, but to buy myself a few seconds. Now that we’d been delivered from the noisiness of the bar i
nto the utter privacy of his apartment, I was lost. I was so pathetically out of practice at this.

  For the first time in a long time, I was actually at a loss for words. I was just very, very conscious of Jeffrey Devon Murphy sitting an inch away from me on his couch.

  Steve Buscemi leapt onto the sofa and padded across my thigh and into my lap, his tiny paws sliding a little on the slippery plane of my leggings. I scratched behind his ears, grateful for the distraction.

  Murph laughed and said, “He likes you.”

  He likes you. For some reason this made me think of the childhood game he loves me, he loves me not that my friends and I used to play at recess. We’d rid countless daisies of their petals, one by one. We’d also played a similar game with an apple, where you twisted the stem around and around as you recited the alphabet, and whichever letter you were on when the stem came off was your future husband’s initial. First initial or last? I’d asked the older girl who taught me the game, but she didn’t know, either. Even now, at thirty-three, I couldn’t eat an apple without reciting the alphabet and twisting off its stem.

  Murph set his gin and tonic on the table. I snapped to attention. Here we go. I smiled to myself, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear, wetting my lips, trying subtly to push Steve Buscemi out of my lap and onto the floor.

  But Murph stood up and walked away.

  “Anything special you want to listen to?” he asked, his face bathed in the glow from his laptop.

  I shrugged. “Surprise me.”

  After a couple of quick clicks of the mouse he sat back down next to me on the couch, almost imperceptibly closer this time.

  I smiled in recognition as the first few unmistakable cool bass notes from “Son of a Preacher Man” filled the room.

  “You remembered,” I sighed, and then immediately wished I hadn’t. It was a naked admission of how well I remembered that long-ago night here at Murph’s apartment, when I’d felt his warm breath on my neck and shoulders, his lips and late-night stubble on my bare skin. I wondered with a shudder if Murph had any idea how many times I’d recently replayed that memory in my head.