When Pam woke up in his bed on Sunday morning, the first instinctual feeling she had was sheer, blinding panic. For a minute it was like the last nine months of her life never happened—no life-altering kiss, no breakup, no heartbroken months of weary depression mixed with relief and a desperate, frenzied sort of hope. She was back in that room that had alternately comforted and stifled her for the better part of her adult life. There were more clothes on the ground than when she’d been living there, and the TV in the corner was new (she’d always thought bedrooms were for sleeping). But the duvet cover was the same blue and white checkered pattern she’d picked out at Target three years ago, and the hamper was the big wicker one her mom gave them when they moved in.

She sat up in bed, careful not to wake Roy, who was snoring softly beside her. As she looked at him—his face so gentle in sleep, his fist clasping the bed sheet against his chest—she felt the panic recede. She felt tender towards him, she realized. A tenderness with history. Millions of words and facts and events that added up to something completely imperfect but also substantial. As his dark eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks, she remembered things. Random things. The way his clean laundry had smelled when she’d put it away; the comfortable weight of his arm across her chest every night as they’d gone to sleep. The Sunday evenings when they’d rented movies (one each, because they never liked the same), and sometimes she’d put her head in his lap and he’d played with her hair.  

Last night, he’d been sweet and funny and kind. The way he could be, when he was in a good mood. And there was something about him lately—something softer, more attentive. It was like he was really trying to see her for once; to figure out who she was now and what kind of person he’d have to be to accommodate it. Before, all the things they’d said to each other had felt predictable. Now it felt like she had the power to surprise him; to put him on his guard. It felt new….it felt really nice.

For the first time in nine months, Pam let herself think that maybe there was a chance with Roy. For the first time in all those days and hours and minutes of hoping and wishing for something…more extraordinary than what she’d known, Pam wondered whether she was just kidding herself. Because what did it all add up to really? A lighthearted friendship (“best friends” was a lie, she knew. You aren’t best friends with someone you only ever see between 9 and 5); a confession in a parking lot on a warm night in May; one perfect kiss in a dark office… But then…nothing. It had been enough to sustain her fantasies for months, to keep her heart racing every time someone knocked at the door, every time the phone rang. To keep her thinking, every day, that maybe the next would be different. But now he was laughing and smiling with someone else and what they’d had was starting to feel a little less special. Sometimes she saw something in his eyes—a flicker or a warmth that seemed to say maybe—but it was fleeting, insubstantial. Roy was solid. Roy was here. 

It wasn’t until he opened his mouth that she realized he was pissed off. No, not just pissed off. Angry. Fuming, even. When he’d walked in that morning, she’d given him the standard “Hey Jim” with a slight roll of the eyes (as if to say, back here again, us versus them…only it wasn’t really true anymore). He hadn’t met her eye; just mumbled hello and shook his head slightly as he walked to his desk. She’d thought maybe he was tired. But the back of his neck looked tense all morning. She knew because she was monitoring it. Just out of boredom.

At eleven o’clock, she counted out four quarters from the pile in her top drawer and headed to the break room. She’d just rolled the second quarter into the machine when she heard him clear his throat behind her. She’d hoped he’d follow her in there, she realized. Not for any particular reason. Just because something might happen. A look or a word…an indication. (But she was back with Roy now and it was good…right?)

“Hey.” She gave him a quick, sheepish smile over her shoulder, then rolled in the last two quarters and punched a button. “I just needed something to do. I’m not even hungry. How pathetic is that?” She chuckled and fluttered her hands awkwardly. Why was she so awkward? She bent down to grab her chips.

“Yeah…” His voice sounded strained. He didn’t move at all, just stood there looking at her with his jaw clenched, like he had something to say but didn’t know how to start. It was a challenging look. Like the one he’d given her over the internship (You’ve got to do something sometime, Pam). And I did, she thinks. I did.

“Umm…is everything ok? I mean…you seem kind of upset.” She gave him a questioning look. It was all an act, this casualness. She knew what it was, or at least she thought she did. When Roy had grabbed her hand at the wedding, she’d seen Jim react out of the corner of her eye. And part of her—she had to admit it—part of her had delighted in the crushed look on his face. Just like part of her rejoiced now at the confusion in his eyes, the tension in his stance.

“I just…” He ran his tongue over his lower lip and looked down. Then he looked right up at her. One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four--

When they finally came, his words were mumbled. “I just want to use the vending machine.”

He walked past her and his sleeve brushed the bare skin of her arm. Such silly, insignificant contact (Then why do I feel it in my chest; my cheeks; my freaking toes?). It was ridiculously, embarrassingly physical, her reaction to him. She wanted to hurt him for this—for making it impossible for her to feel normal. Impossible for her to recapture the easy resignation she’d felt that morning in Roy’s bed.

She turned on her heel, one hand on the door. “Oh, I just remembered.” The words were casual, but her voice was hard in her own ears. “I don’t need you to give me a ride to my art show anymore.” She met his eyes. “Roy’s going to take me.”