There was nothing in her life that made as much sense to her as her friendship with Jim. She worked hard to keep it that way. Whenever things got a little unclear—when he left his hand on hers for just a moment too long, or when she caught him looking at her in a way that she couldn’t really define—she went home to Roy and made dinner and spent the whole night telling herself how lucky she was to have two guys in her life who made her feel safe. Not wanted. She was careful not to think about being wanted.

And she might have been able to keep that balance going, that careful see-saw with Roy on one side, Jim on the other, and her in the middle, trying to hold everything in its place. She had gotten good at that, and she was starting to believe that she was strong enough to hold everything forever.

But Jim made that impossible. He wanted her; he told her he wanted her. And she felt everything fall out of place.

When he walked away, she hadn’t turned around to watch him go. It wasn’t because she didn’t want to; it was because she couldn’t. Seeing Jim leaving her behind was not part of the balance. It didn’t make sense.

She heard her own words echoing around her in time with the sound of Jim’s fading footsteps. “I can’t,” she had said, and she had been telling the truth. But the question mark that she hadn’t meant to put at the end of the sentence haunted her, because it meant that there were other truths that would never quite make sense.

            “I want us to work things out,” he said. “I think we need to give it another shot.”

            She pulled her hair back into a neat ponytail. He had always been impressed with how smooth and graceful her movements were, even when she was angry. She ran her hands down the length of her brown hair and said, simply, “I can’t.”

            “What about Sasha?” He had meant for it to sound like a demand, something strong and serious. But his voice wasn’t made for that kind of tone. God, he sounded so weak.

            “I’m taking her with me. We’ll make a plan, we’ll get things figured out. It will be fine.”

            “Come on, sit down.” He sat down on the bed next to the suitcase she had just finished packing. “I want to talk about this. Really talk.”

            “Don’t use your HR bullshit on me, Toby. I’ve heard it all. I’m tired of it.” She picked up the suitcase and sighed. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

            “Where will you be staying?” His voice sounded even shakier, even more scared and small. This was why she was leaving him. He wasn’t enough for her. Not even his voice was enough.

            She didn’t answer. She just opened their bedroom door and left him behind, sitting on the bed that he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep in alone.

            She tugged on his sleeve like a child. Sometimes that was endearing. Sometimes he liked that about her. But right now, he wanted to swat her hand away and tell her to leave him alone.

            “It won’t be that bad,” she said. “Come on, Ryan, please?”

            God. The whining. He wished he had known that her voice was this annoying before they hooked up. Why did he think she was shy?

            “My parents get all weird when you don’t come with me to things. And I’ve met, like, seven guys that they think I should get married to instead of you.”

            “Kelly, we’re not getting married.”

            She leaned her head to the side and pouted. “Why are you being mean?”

            “I’m not trying to be mean.” He sighed. “Look, I told you already. I can’t.”

            “I promise, we can leave in time for you to meet your friends.”

            “No, Kelly. Please, just drop it.”

            And she did. Which was weird. Maybe he had pushed it a little too far this time. He watched as she stood up and left the break room without another whimper or another tiny frown. Part of him felt like following her, making sure she wasn’t too mad, apologizing. Maybe he could get her to smile again. But then he’d have to go to dinner tonight, and that was the thing—he just couldn’t do it.

            When was the last time she had giggled? Not the nervous little laugh she sometimes did at work, when Michael was trying out a new bit and wouldn’t leave her alone. This was not the same. This was real laughter, real happiness.

            “Stay a little longer.” He picked up her wine glass and started to pour her a little more of the Riesling he had ordered.

            “Oh, no, don’t—it’s lunchtime!” she said, still laughing. She felt giddy. “I’ve had too much already. I really should get back to work.”

            “Work will still be there after one more glass of wine. Come on, Phyllis. Drink up.”

            They smiled at each other, clinked their glasses together. This time she didn’t giggle.

            “Stay a little longer,” he said again.

            “I can’t,” she demurred. Then she picked up her glass and stayed through two more glasses of sweet white wine.

This. Is fine. No problem. Think on your feet. You can do this. Go.

            But they’re all watching. They’re waiting. You have to tell them something.

            They’re scared. Come on, big man. Be the fearless leader.

            Are you going to let them walk away? Are you going to let them disrespect you?

            “Hot dogs!”

            WHAT?

            “Free hot dogs!”

            Yeah, that’s going to help. Good thinking.

            The wedding is in three days. You have your tux. You hate the damn thing, but you rented it anyway, because it was what Pammie wanted and this is her wedding and, you know, big deal. Who cares. Because now you’re not going to have to wear it.

            Darryl comes to pick you up so you can crash at his place for a few days. All you have is your uniform, which smells because she didn’t have time to wash it, but you’re not going back to work for a couple of weeks anyway. So yeah, big deal. It’s cool.

Later, when you’re drinking your seventh or eighth beer—it gets hard to keep track—Darryl slaps you on the shoulder and says, “Dude, it’s for the best. You weren’t meant to be tied down.”

And you nod, and you try to laugh, and you think that maybe it won’t be so bad, being single again. But all night, no matter how much you drink and how many hot girls shake their asses in your face, all you can think is, I don't want to be by myself. I can’t.

            How many times has she told herself that this is absolutely ridiculous? How many more times will she have to tell herself before it starts to sink in—finally—and she can go back to her normal, solid, stable life—finally?

            But he’s standing next to her in the elevator, and he’s smiling a little in that way that makes her think of the shy boy in high school that she always wished she had made out with, just once, just to see what it would be like. And when he says her name, it sounds like her first boyfriend, who would call her house and ask for her politely, even if she was the one who had answered the phone. “Jan,” he would say. “May I please speak to Jan?”

            And so even though part of her brain is screaming constantly, telling her that this is ridiculous and it’s not helping her move on and it’s certainly not going to go anywhere, telling her that she’s stupid for even trying and she should just end it already, she reaches out her hand and touches his arm.

            “Would you like to have dinner at my place?” he asks, and she feels compelled to answer him quickly. He has a habit of switching from normal to stupid in the blink of an eye.

            “I can’t,” she says, which is true. And her brain screams, Dump the guy already. “I can’t.”

            Kevin has been on many, many diets. Some days, when he’s bored, he tries to think of all the different ways he tried to lose weight during his lifetime. It started when he was six and his mom bought nothing but carrots and apples one week. He had gone over to his friend Bobby’s house every afternoon and eaten a bag of chips or three chocolate bars. When he got home and his mom offered him an apple, he’d tell her he wasn’t hungry. She was proud at first, but then Bobby’s mom had called to complain that Kevin was eating her out of house and home. Then he wasn’t allowed to go to Bobby’s anymore. But there were always M&M’s in a bowl on the table after that.

            Stacy gets on him all the time these days, trying to get him to go to the gym with her. “I can’t tonight,” he always says. “I’m tired from work.” And even though she must know that he can’t possibly be tired from sitting in an air conditioned office all day, she usually drops it. But then she sneaks healthy food into his lunch, as if he wouldn’t notice the rice cakes where his Doritos ought to be.

            At least he always has that jar of M&Ms on his desk, for days when she replaces his Swiss Cake Rolls with orange slices.

            She stays up late some nights, thinking. She doesn’t have time to waste on these silly thoughts during the day, but sometimes she thinks them anyway. She thinks about what it must be like to be like those women who are so free with themselves—the ones who can wear tight clothing to work and smile brazenly at any men who pass them by. She lies stiffly, her arms at her sides, her hair woven tightly into a French braid that lays smooth against the pillow, and she wonders.

            Sometimes she thinks Dwight would like it if she were more like those women. Not that he thinks much about those women, other than to note that they’re hussies and not worth any more of his time. After that redheaded woman had come and gone, he seemed to come to a greater understanding of his place in the world, and it was not with a girl whose bosom bounced when she walked. Dwight appreciated sturdy underclothes.

            But as she lays in bed, thinking, she wonders what would happen if she were to cut her hair a different way, or wear make-up to work. She owns a little—some lipsticks, and one light brown eye shadow. Maybe tomorrow she’ll just try it and see.

            But then she sighs and knows that it won’t happen. She can’t. She’s just not that kind of woman.

            He can’t walk into the office without knowing that things aren’t how they're supposed to be. This isn’t a new feeling. He’d had the same sensation every morning since the day Pam Beesly came to work at Dunder Mifflin. Things were not as they should be.

            The only time he’d ever felt like things were right, maybe even perfect, in this office, was one night, a long time ago, when the lights were dimmed and her hair was curled and he had finally been brave. He hadn’t even had to think about it—he had just gathered her up, because he had always known she was supposed to be in his arms. And he had kissed her, because that was the way it was meant to be.

            Some mornings he blames her. Some mornings he blames himself. Lately, he has found himself blaming Karen, as though it’s her fault that she’s not Pam. He can’t even bring himself to walk through the door with her, because that just makes everything more wrong and more painful, and so when she asks for a ride to work, he says, “I can’t.”

            She knows something’s up with him, but he knows that that’s nothing new. She should probably have known all along. Then again, so should he.

            She hasn’t had a drink in almost four days, and she thinks she is going to die. She spends most evenings curled up on the couch in her tiny apartment, trying to think about anything but the fact that she’s not drinking. She lives alone now that Jake has gone to live with his dad full time. She knows another mother, a better mother, would fight to get her son back, and she hates herself for feeling relieved rather than guilty that he is gone.

            Last month, she and her sponsor went through the entire apartment and got rid of every bottle she had, even the ones she’d forgotten she’d hidden. Mark, her sponsor, knew about hiding places that she thought were all her own. Apparently all drunks are alike.

            She calls Mark because she knows she needs to do something.

            “You’re going to be fine,” he says, and she wonders if she should invite him over. “I know it’s tough, but you’re a strong woman, Meredith.”

            “But I really need—”

            “Try to think about other things you need. Think about how you need to treat yourself better. Think about how you can feel better without a drink.”

            She breathes heavily into the phone. “I can’t,” she says. “I can’t feel better.”

            I can’t stay here, she thinks to herself. She has thought this to herself every night for the past four months, from the first night she slipped into bed in a rented hotel room to the first night she slept in her new apartment—why did she sign a year-long lease? At least leases, among other things, can be broken—to the first night Jim decided he was going to go ahead and sleep in his own bed that night, alone, no big deal. And last night, after they talked about applying for that job in corporate, she lay next to him in his bed—even though it’s smaller and the sheets aren’t as soft—and thought, I can’t stay here.

            They can leave. They can go to New York, get a great little loft that will cost more than both of their apartments here in Scranton, hang out at clubs that he’s not quite cool enough to get into—but she knows some people, a couple of hostesses, some bouncers; they’ll get in—and have real jobs that have real potential. She has explained all of this to him, and she knows that he knows that she’s right.

            He would be an incredible boss. Probably the best boss this branch has ever seen. Michael tries, because Michael is a good man, but he is too soft. Dwight would get this office back in order. He could turn this place around. Fact: Dwight K. Schrute doesn’t know the meaning of the word “can’t.”

            This is easier than she thought it would be. Running over the coals, interrupting Michael, everything. She hasn’t been able to look Jim in the eye like this in months, and suddenly she can’t think of a single reason to look away. And he’s startled, and she loves that she’s startled him.

            She knows that he’s going to have to tell her no, even though she never really asks him anything. She doesn’t have to speak the words—“I love you. Do you love me anymore?”—but she knows that she’s sort of said them anyway. In front of the whole office. That maybe wasn’t the best idea.

            But she’s done it. She did it. And even if Jim tells her that he can’t, she’ll be happy. She isn’t the one walking away this time. She finally figured out how to do it. She finally knows how.