Summary: A colorful look at the evolution of Pam and Jim's relationship.
Categories: Jim and Pam,
Present,
Past,
Future Characters: Jim/Pam
Genres: Angst, Humor, In Stamford, Romance, Weekend, Workdays
Warnings: Adult language, Mild sexual content
Challenges: None
Series: None
Chapters: 7
Completed: Yes
Word count: 14547
Read: 39955
Published: August 14, 2008
Updated: September 04, 2008
Story Notes:
I have this in mind as a snapshot of different days of the week and the colors of the rainbow, which, conveniently, are both seven in number. Some will be fun, others...not so much. I have it all outlined but not entirely written, so I'm hoping to get something posted every couple of days.
1. red delicious by callisto
2. oriental poppies by callisto
3. yellow mustard by callisto
4. lime green lingerie by callisto
5. midnight blue by callisto
6. indigo arts by callisto
7. african violet by callisto
red delicious by callisto
Author's Notes:
Standard disclaimers apply. Just having fun.
This one takes place right after the Dundies.
* * *
Sunday
So I kissed Jim the other night. At the Dundies.
I was drunk, so I can blame it on that. And strictly speaking, it’s not really a lie; I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t have let it happen otherwise. But it wasn’t really impulsive. I’ve been wondering what it would be like for a long time. If he would kiss me back. If his lips were as soft as they looked.
They were.
I should be really embarrassed, and I guess I am, but mostly I’m kind of glad. I wanted to know and now I do and it was…nice. Better than nice. Even though he was too surprised to really kiss me back. Much.
He’d met me halfway, though; pressed his lips against mine for just a second. And now I keep thinking about that and wondering if it means anything.
There have been a few times that I’ve seen him looking at me with an expression I can only describe as longing. It’s a look that makes my stomach tighten, my skin tingle.
I wonder if he’s ever dreamed about me. If he’s ever thought about me on the weekends, wondered what I was doing.
I have.
* * *
I usually did my grocery shopping on Sundays. It was an opportunity to get out of the house while Roy was watching football, and it gave me some time to myself that he didn’t question. During Eagles games were the best times, when the stores were comparatively deserted and the whole process a lot more relaxing. I sometimes ran into people I knew, but it was mostly a chance to be alone. That day, though, the Sunday after the Dundies, I saw Jim in produce.
We seldom saw each other outside of work and for an instant I didn’t recognize him, unshaven and rumpled as he was. He looked different with a two-day scruff; older, less boyish. He was wearing jeans and a gray Boston College t-shirt over one of those white waffle-weave thermal shirts, and I paused for a moment to watch him, smiling at his expression as he contemplated the apples and pears, scratching thoughtfully at his chin, an uncertain frown creasing his forehead.
He hadn’t seen me, and he didn’t appear to be with anyone. I strolled toward him in an oblique line, pretending not to notice him until I practically knocked into his cart. “Oh, sorry…hey, Jim!” I feigned surprise, feeling ridiculous and transparent and inexplicably shy.
“Pam!” His eyes lit up, green and warm and friendly, and I felt a familiar happy warm glow at the way he looked at me, his obvious delight to see me. “How are you?” He turned away from the fruit display and bent down to give me a hug.
“Great, just doing some shopping.” I smiled up at him and squeezed him tight for just a second too long before releasing him. “What are you doing here? You’ll miss the game.”
“It’s a bye week, Pam. Didn’t Roy tell you?” he teased.
“Oh…yeah.” I shrugged. It didn’t matter if the Eagles were playing or not; Roy would watch any game, any team. “You just get here?” I asked, glancing a question at the empty cart parked beside his hip.
“Yeah. You?” He squinted at my cart, empty too, and broke into a smile. “Cool, you can shop with me,” he said casually.
“Yeah, totally.” I shivered with clandestine thrill at the thought of an hour with Jim, outside of work, alone. I could count the number of times that had happened on one hand.
“Excellent.” He clapped his hands together once and turned back to the display, gesturing to the rows of red delicious and Granny Smith apples beside green Anjou and amber Bosc pears. “Okay, so… I need your advice. Apples or pears?”
“Apples,” I nodded.
“Wow. Very prompt decision.” He smiled, reaching for a plastic bag. “So…red or green?”
“Red. Green apples are for baking.”
“Really. You can’t eat a green apple just on its own?” he asked doubtfully, picking up two small members of the red delicious variety and rolling them around in his palm like those zen stress-balls before dropping them into the bag.
“Jim.” I shook my head in sad disapproval. “Maybe you should stick to bananas and oranges. Things you know.”
He gave me a sly sidelong glance. “You wound me, Beesly. You know how I like to live on the edge. Always trying new things, pushing the boundaries,” he smirked, adding a couple more to his bag before dropping it into his cart. “What are you gonna do? Nectarines are out of season,” he teased.
I couldn’t quite suppress a smile. He remembers my favorite fruit. “Apples are good enough.” I motioned at him to move aside so I could pick out a few.
He took a step to the side, but it wasn’t quite far enough; I brushed against him twice as I made my selections. Neither of us spoke or made any effort to widen the space between us until I’d slowly filled a bag with more apples than Roy and I would eat in a month.
“You could’ve just gotten one of those,” he said in a low voice, gesturing to the prepackaged five-pound sacks beside the shelves of loose fruit.
My throat went dry. “Everybody knows those are full of the rotten ones,” I joked lamely.
“That’s so not true,” he laughed, backing off a step. “You gotta have more faith, Pam.” He grinned and motioned to the deli. “I need lunchmeat.”
“Ham and cheese?” I mocked, turning my cart to follow him.
“Yep.”
“I dare you to eat something totally different this week,” I challenged.
Jim lifted his eyebrows. “Like what?”
I tapped my chin with my finger, considering. “Peanut butter and jelly.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Couldn’t it be something different that I like?”
I goggled in pretend shock. “You don’t like peanut butter and jelly? Are you sure you’re from this country?”
“What about turkey? Turkey and provolone. That’s branching out.” He gestured to the deli wall.
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t bother.”
“Well, if you’re gonna be like that, I’ll just get what I really want.” He plucked a package of sliced ham and another of swiss off the refrigerated wall of meat and cheese and tossed it into his cart.
“I’m disappointed in you, Jim,” I sighed, shaking my head sadly but unable to keep from grinning as I turned to the salad wall.
He was right behind me, expressing amazement that I was still willing to chop up a head of romaine myself instead of buying one of those pre-washed bags, and giving me grief about my firm disinterest in habanero peppers. I just laughed at him and went to turn the corner when he suggested I try the bonillo rolls from the bakery.
I shook my head. “Roy only likes white bread.”
“Oh.” He shrugged, his smile fading a little. “Doesn’t mean you can’t try something different,” he said lightly.
“Maybe you’re right." I fingered a bag of the rolls in question. “I guess I just like my routine.”
He smiled. It was fond and thoughtful and a little…sad?, but then his eyes brightened and his expression turned mischievous. “I’ll make you a deal, Beesly. We each try something new every week. Before you know it we’ll be hip like Kelly.”
I laughed. “I don’t ever want to be as hip as Kelly, thanks,” I said dryly. “So… if I buy these rolls, you have to put back the ham and cheese.”
“No, see, I don’t eat apples normally, so, I’ve already got my new thing.” He made his I-win face.
I just shook my head and rolled my eyes. But he smiled when I put the rolls in my cart.
* * *
By the time we got to the coffee and cereal aisle, my curiosity got the better of me. “Boston College?”
“Hmm?” He was a really thoughtful shopper. He’d been studying the cornflake options for nearly five minutes.
“Boston College,” I repeated. “Your shirt?”
He glanced down at his chest, then back up at me with a smile. “Oh. Yeah. My dad went there.”
“You never told me that.” For some reason it still surprised me to realize there were a lot of things I didn’t know about Jim.
“I’m a man of great mystery, Beesly.” He flashed me a grin and turned back to the cereal. After all that deliberation, he picked the regular plain Kellogg’s variety.
“I bet,” I deadpanned. “Hey, um…grab me a box of that Cranberry Almond Crunch?” I pointed at the red box on the top shelf and tried not to think about the fact that I had a nearly-full box at home.
“As you wish.” He arched a teasing eyebrow at me. There were a few boxes missing, and he had to stretch up a little to get one, his layered shirts riding up a bit to reveal a thin white strip of stomach above his jeans. I caught a glimpse of dark hair, a contour of abdominal muscle, for just an instant before he was turning back around to me. “Here you go.” He set the box in my cart with a flourish, regarding me quizzically as he looked into my face.
“Thank you.” Was I blushing? It felt like I was blushing. I turned and pretended to debate the tea selections until I felt his gaze shift away and he was pushing his cart down the aisle. “Okay, Beesly, Café Verona or Sumatran?” he called.
I shook my head. “Gold Coast.”
He pressed his lips together in an approving smile. “Definitely.”
* * *
We were parked three rows apart, but he came to my car first to help me load up. “Nice trunk,” he smirked, gazing in amusement at the piles of camping gear Roy was supposed to have put back in the basement a month ago. “You really think there’s room for all this?”
“Spare me the editorial and show me your packing skills.” I rolled the tent against the backseat, using a gallon of milk to hold it in place. “Roy doesn’t like getting his truck scratched up with this stuff,” I explained.
Jim didn’t say anything. He never did. Still, the look on his face made me feel weird. Defensive, ashamed, embarrassed. Sometimes I hated him a little for making me feel so confused and uncertain--and then hated myself for being resentful of him, because Jim was a true friend, someone who would always be only a phone call away.
Why was everything so complicated with him?
“I have mad packing skills,” he asserted finally, gently elbowing me out of the way. “Watch this.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and stood back to let him at it, watching his shoulders move under his shirt as he stacked the bags in neat rows, heavy stuff in the back, bread up front where it wouldn’t get crushed. “Nice,” I conceded. “You’re a man of many talents.”
“Thank you.” He shut the trunk and leaned against his cart. “I’ll have you know I’m surprisingly organized.”
“I do not believe that,” I scoffed. “I’ve seen your desk.”
“My desk is not my house,” he retorted with a smile, and then cleared his throat. “So, I was thinking of having a house party in a couple weeks. Invite everybody from the office.”
“Everybody?” I lifted a skeptical eyebrow.
“Except Michael, of course,” he amended.
“Dwight? You’d invite Dwight into your house?” I laughed.
“Sure.” He shrugged. “My roommate thinks I’m making him up, so…anyway… would you come?”
“Yeah, of course.” I’d never seen Jim’s house. Suddenly I was extremely curious about his roommate, his house, his things. His life. There was so much I didn’t know.
“Cool.” His smile was wide and happy. “So, I’ll, uh, keep you posted. And here’s something for the road.” He reached into a bag and pulled out a Snickers bar. “Bon appetit.”
I grinned. “My favorite! Jim! Thank you. Split it with me?”
“Sure.” He watched me with obvious amusement as I opened it up and twisted off half of it. “You keep the wrapper,” he laughed, downing his half in two big bites and licking chocolate off his thumb. “Thanks for sharing. See you tomorrow, Pam,” he said warmly, strolling off to his own car.
I nibbled at the candy bar, watching from the car as he loaded his groceries into his trunk, and forced myself to drive away before he caught me sitting there staring at him.
When I got home I licked the Snickers wrapper clean, folded it in half, and tucked it into my wallet.
* * *
End Notes:
Thanks for reading! I appreciate all comments and reviews.
oriental poppies by callisto
Author's Notes:
So I have a tendency to flip back and forth in perspective between Jim and Pam. This one is from Jim.
Takes place after The Secret.
Enjoy!
Monday
It’s Pam’s birthday today. I’m really glad it’s a weekday. The last two fell on the weekend, and I felt kind of weird calling over to her house to wish her a happy birthday—especially last year, when Roy answered. “Hallllpert,” he drawled. “You comin’ over for the game tomorrow?”
I’d completely forgotten that he’d mentioned having a few guys over for Monday night football. “Actually I don’t think I can make it,” I lied, “I just wanted to wish Pam a happy birthday? Is she home?”
“Oh, fuck,” he whispered. “Shit, I’m glad you called. Keep her on the phone for a while, wouldja? I gotta go…pick up her present.”
Asshole.
After that, I made sure to always call her on her cell.
I’m sure he’ll come up from the warehouse for her party this afternoon, but she already agreed to let me take her to lunch and my palms are sweaty at the thought of an hour alone with her.
I have to just tell her. Really tell her the truth this time. They’ve set the date, it’s inevitable now. What more do I have to lose? I’ve tried to respect the boundary, here, but fuck, I see it in her. I’m not just crazy or deluded; it’s not just wishful thinking. She looks at me. She’s quick to stop herself, but I’ve caught her. More than once. Many times.
Yes. Say it. Tell her the truth.
I try the words out, rolling them around on my tongue. “Pam, I love you.”
No. That’s not enough. That could mean anything and I could already hear her cheerful, oblivious reply. I love you too, Jim! You’re the best.
It has to be clear. Unequivocal. I try it again, a phrase with absolutely no room for ambiguity. “Pam. I’m in love with you.” I repeat it over and over, until I don’t stumble over the words.
Today. I’ll do it today.
* * *
I took her to Cugino’s for “old time’s sake” and tried not to feel too giddy at the expression on her face when I suggested it. Like it was a good memory, our first lunch there together. Like it meant something to her the way it did to me. It was there, in her face. In her eyes. In her warm little smile as we stepped inside and were led to the same booth we’d had the first time we came here. A memorable moment. “Thanks for getting me out of there today,” she said as she slid into the seat across from me.
I grinned. “You’ll need your strength for the party.”
She rolled her eyes. “Have you seen the card? Is it horrible?”
“Uh…no, it’s, um, it’s okay.” I picked up my menu to avoid her eyes. I’d managed to convince Michael to let me pick it out, and he’d snorted in disgust at the simply rendered trio of birds perched on a telephone wire and the equally simple message—Have a wonderful birthday and a year of wishes come true. “I haven’t seen what he wrote in it yet, though,” I admitted.
“Well, you know Michael. Something… inappropriate, I’m sure,” she chuckled, picking up her menu. “Anyway, this is probably the most fun I’ll have today.”
“Nothing planned for tonight?” I didn’t want to ask, but I couldn’t help myself. What’s douchebag doing for you? Something romantic and meaningful, I’m sure.
She shrugged. “Nah, I think Roy’s taking me out to dinner, but he’s been quiet about it, trying to surprise me I guess.” She smiled tightly. “Keeping it simple. Saving for the wedding, you know.” She glanced away from me at wedding and went back to staring at her menu.
There was a brief awkward silence, one that arose every time she mentioned the wedding these days. “Well,” I said finally, lightly. “I hope you like surprises.”
She looked up at me with the delighted expression of a little girl, her eyes so green, bright with anticipation. “What have you done?” she demanded.
I shrugged, smiled. “I’m flattered that you assume it’s me, but really…”
“Of course it’s you,” she said carelessly. “Who else?”
Right.
I cleared my throat. “It’s not…I just, um, I got you something?” For some reason it came out as a question.
“I think you just ruined the surprise,” she grinned.
“Yeah…” I chuckled nervously. I had no idea why I called it a surprise to begin with. “It’s, um, it’s in my car.”
“You didn’t have to get me anything.” She smiled warmly.
“Pam.” I gave her my fake-stern look. She said that every year, just one of those comments meant to be modest or self-deprecating or whatever, but it stung a little every time. Like I was just a casual office acquaintance. Like she had no expectations from me.
I wanted her to expect things from me.
“But since you did, you should go get it, and give it to me now.” She nodded and grinned and waggled her eyebrows at me, and I laughed because she’s so irresistible when she makes her faces. “I can’t,” I admitted. “It’s…well, you’ll see, but it’s kind of…big,” I admitted.
“That’s what she said."
"Pam," I groaned.
“Well now I have to know,” she insisted. “Can we go see it after we order? Please?”
“Sure.” I shrugged, resigned. I could never resist her.
“Goody.” She clapped her hands together and motioned for the waitress. “We’re gonna share the pepperoni and mushroom calzone,” she said decisively, then glanced at me in sudden uncertainty. “Is that okay?”
“Yep.” I couldn’t keep from smiling. It was more than okay. It was the same thing we’d ordered the first time we came here. She remembers.
I practiced the words again in my head, tried forming them on my lips. I’m in love with you, Pam. I think about you, all the time. I dream about you. I wonder what you’re doing every night. I—
“Jim?”
For a second I thought I’d actually spoken my thoughts aloud and I stared at her in terrified anticipation until her smile became a pout as she motioned toward the door. “Can we go see? Or are you just teasing me?”
“Oh. Yeah, let’s do it.” I took a sip of my Coke and grabbed my keys off the table. “We’ll be right back,” I told the waitress as she passed by, her eyebrows drawn together in a confused frown.
So a few months ago, Pam brought in a huge book of 20th-century art that she wanted to look through for inspiration; she wanted to start doing watercolors again. We leafed through it together at lunch, debating the merits of Matisse and Dali—or rather, I listened to Pam debate the merits of Matisse and Dali—when she paused for a long moment at Georgia O’Keeffe’s Oriental Poppies.
I was struck by it too. I’m the first to admit I’m no art expert, but something about this painting just leaped off the page. It was just a close-up of two vibrant orange poppy blossoms, but the highlights on the petals, the velvety darkness of their black centers, was nearly abstract in its simplicity. “Wow,” she’d breathed. “Maybe I’ll try this one.” She smiled wistfully. “I’d really love a print of this.”
I ordered it for her a week later, and got a good deal at the frame shop. It was still probably too expensive to be a gift from a friend but I couldn’t care; I just wanted to see her face when she saw it.
It was too big to wrap, so I’d covered it up with the blanket I kept in the back seat for winter emergencies. Pam rocked back and forth on her heels, keeping her back to the car like I’d told her while I pulled off the covering and propped it gently on the ground against the car door.
“Okay, you can turn around,” I said nervously, suddenly wondering if it was too much, too obvious.
She turned, and her mouth fell open. Her eyes flicked over to me for just an instant before she stepped forward to touch the frame. “Jim, it’s…” She couldn’t look away from it, and my heart warmed and swelled at how obviously moved she was. When she finally looked up at me her eyes were shining. “It’s… wonderful. Thank you.” She reached up and touched my face, staring at me for a long moment before she stretched up on her tiptoes and kissed my cheek, her expression so soft and full and warm I thought my heart might explode. “You’re so…” She shook her head and glanced back at the print. “Thank you,” she whispered again.
I love you. I’m in love with you.
She looked so happy and the words just died in my throat.
“Happy birthday,” I managed instead.
She wrapped her arms around me and pressed her face against my chest and I let myself put my arms around her, breathing in the clean floral scent of her hair. She hugged me tight and she was trembling a little, and when she drew away she took a shaky breath and pushed her hair behind her ear. “I should, um, can I use that blanket? So it doesn’t get nicked up?” she asked, and I could hear in her voice that she was near tears.
“Of course.” I put the print back in the backseat, tucking the blanket around it to protect it. As we strolled back into the restaurant she reached over and hooked her pinky through mine.
I love you. I’m in love with you.
Not today.
It’s not too late. I still have time.
* * *
End Notes:
Thanks for reading! I really appreciate all your comments.
Georgia O'Keeffe print: http://www.art.com/asp/sp-asp/_/pd--10050098/Oriental_Poppies_1928.htm
yellow mustard by callisto
Author's Notes:
There is a gorgeous song by Del Amitri called "Tell Her This" that seems to perfectly describe so much of what was happening at this point in their relationship. I'm not normally a fan of incorporating songs into stories, but this one seemed uncannily appropriate.
http://tinyurl.com/5js72y
This chapter is a little different in that I wanted to give them both a voice.
Many thanks to Vampiric Blood for her excellent suggestions!
Takes place between Casino Night and The Initiation.
Tuesday
I heard this Del Amitri song on the radio the day I found out he was gone. It’s an old song, one I’ve heard a hundred times, but it never spoke to me before as it did now.
Tell her not to go
I ain’t holding on no more
Tell her something in my mind
Freezes up from time to time
I chickened out and called in sick on Monday. The Monday after the casino thing. It wasn’t really a lie; I’d barely been able to get out of bed all weekend, and Sunday night, at the thought of having to face him, I started throwing up. Roy insisted I stay home and I wasn’t in any position to argue.
My mom told me to go with my heart, but my heart was a baffled mixture of uncertain and hopeful and terrified. I knew I needed to set him straight about things—that he hadn’t really misinterpreted things; that I’d said that out of guilt and fear—but I also needed to know what he really meant when he said he was in love with me.
Six weeks ago he told me unequivocally that he was totally over it. Something inside of me that occasionally whispered maybe had splintered with those words, and in the weeks that followed I thought I’d found some kind of peace. So it’s not like that. He just likes flirting with me, or whatever.
Roy was the one who loved me. Roy was the one who knew me, who’d seen me at my worst. Roy was the one who brought me my homework and kept me company every afternoon for a week when I got strep throat. It was Roy who rescued me when my car broke down coming back from my parents’ that weekend, and it was Roy who held my hand when I had to put down Chloe, my cocker spaniel I’d had since I was eight. It was Roy whose blue eyes glinted with tears in the light of the Christmas tree when he asked me to marry him.
Roy loved me. I had a good life. Maybe it wasn’t exciting but it was real. It was dependable and comfortable. Those are good things, right? Isn’t that what I want?
It was all I’d ever thought to want. But every time I closed my eyes I felt Jim’s arms around me, his soft hair in my hands, the warmth and love and longing in his kiss, and I knew he’d lied before. He loves me. He’s always loved me.
I wasn’t sure what to say to him, but we had to talk about it. When I got ready for work on Tuesday I dabbed extra powder under my eyes to hide the bags and put on the pink pinstripe shirt and cardigan Jim once told me he liked. I felt brave and frightened and strangely exhilarated. Things are going to change.
He was gone. His desk was bare, no evidence that he’d ever been there at all.
“Jim transferred to Stamford,” Michael explained dully, pushing a toy race car aimlessly across his desk planner. “He put in for it a few weeks ago, I guess. Didn’t he tell you?”
Transferred.
Weeks ago.
He’s gone.
I bolted out of my chair and ran to the bathroom.
I didn’t really believe it for at least two weeks. Somewhere in the back of my mind I kept thinking he would come walking in the door with his teasing grin firmly in place and Surprise! Gotcha! on his lips.
He didn’t.
On June seventh, I spent probably six hours searching flights to Australia. I started eight emails to Jim that alternated between pleading, accusing, and apologizing, and left them all in my draft folder.
At the end of the day I went home and broke up with Roy.
* * *
I keep listening to this Del Amitri song. I heard it on the radio when I was driving to Stamford to look at apartments, and I can’t get it out of my head.
Tell her not to cry
I just got scared, that’s all
Tell her I’ll be by her side
All she has to do is call
I can’t eat.
I can’t sleep.
I’m a hundred and fifty miles away and still I see her face every time I close my eyes.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t entirely sure I’ve lost my mind. Gone round the bend.
I’ve had a headache every day for so long I can’t remember the last time I woke up without one. I can’t think straight. I can’t remember anybody’s name at the new office. No matter how much coffee I drink, I feel like I’m sleepwalking.
I want to call her so badly I find myself clenching my hands into fists at least ten times a day until the urge passes. It never really does, but so far, I’ve managed to resist. It’s a bitter kind of victory, but it’s the only one I can cling to.
It’s been two weeks since I left, and she hasn’t called. I’m starting to think she won’t.
What have I done?
* * *
Tell her the chips are down
I drank too much and shouted it aloud
Tell her something in my heart
Needs her more than even clowns need
the laughter of the crowd
June seventh.
I’m supposed to be packing for a trip to the other side of the world, but I never bought the ticket. It was an empty threat, a challenge, a plea; not enough, as it turned out. She doesn’t want me. I was wrong.
Misinterpreted.
Right.
She kissed me back and admitted she’d wanted it, too, but I misinterpreted.
I’m sick. My chest hurts. I’m not going to work today. Bad form for the new guy to call off so soon, but I don’t care.
Maybe I’ll get fired.
I don’t care about that either.
* * *
Tell her what was wrong
I sometimes think too much but say nothing at all
Tell her from this high terrain,
I am ready now to fall
June tenth.
I’m supposed to be getting married today. Instead I’m at my parents’ house in Syracuse, Mapquesting the route to Stamford.
I already know I won’t go. Partly because I’m a coward, but mostly because I can’t believe he left without a word. He dropped this on me and I’m sick and terrified and completely alone, and I hate him. I hate him.
I don’t, though. I love him, I miss him, I need him. And he’s gone.
I want, so badly, to call him. He’s my best friend, one of the only friends I have, really, and I need him; I need his advice, and his reassurance, and just to hear his voice. But then I remember he’d arranged to leave weeks ago. What did that mean? What had he expected? What would he have done if I’d given him a different answer?
I honestly don’t know.
He must hate me now. He knows I lied about not feeling it too. He has to know.
* * *
I can’t say why I answered the phone that night. But I think it was because of the mustard.
The refrigerator hadn’t been cleaned out in ages. One quiet Monday afternoon when I went for my yogurt, the stale stench of somebody’s week-old leftover Chinese finally became too much to bear and I began throwing out everything that was freezer-burned or rendered unrecognizable by age. In fifteen minutes the shelves were nearly bare and the kitchen counter was piled with warped and moldy Tupperware containers.
I ran a sinkful of hot soapy water to soak everything and turned my attention to the door, tossing out loose packages of McDonald’s ketchup and near-empty bottles of salad dressing, until I happened upon the bottle of Heinz yellow mustard and stopped cold.
--I’d have pegged you for a Gulden’s Spicy Brown kind of guy, Halpert.
--Nah, not for a ham and cheese. Too overpowering.
There was a capital J written in black Sharpie ink on the lid; Dwight insisted “all items be marked by their respective owners if left in the company refrigerator.” I ran my thumb over it and remembered how he’d smirked—It’s a condiment, Dwight; I really don’t care if anybody else uses it--and tears filled my eyes.
It’s not like I ever stopped thinking about him. But it had gotten to a point where I could almost kind of stand it, where it wasn’t quite so nauseating to see Ryan at his desk, where I didn’t feel his ghost in every corner of the office. It was stupid to get so emotional over a bottle of mustard.
I washed it, careful not to remove his initial, and took it home with me.
So the next night, when the phone rang at twenty past five, the brief, fleeting thought of maybe pulled me back to pick it up.
“Hey.”
It was weird at first, but in the space of a few awkward, halting starts, we were talking. Just like we used to…complete with all the unacknowledged tension and things left unspoken. But we were good at ignoring that.
He laughed and joked with me. He sounded happy to talk to me. Like he missed me, too.
He doesn’t hate me.
I dreamed about him that night, not for the first time, and not even the kind of dream that left me flushed and breathless. It was an office dream, something bizarre about paper not being sold in reams anymore, and it included Dwight and Phyllis, but Jim was there and we were laughing and I felt lighthearted and happy for the first time in so long.
And then I woke, and he was still gone.
* * *
Tell her not to go
I ain’t holding on no more
Tell her nothing if not this,
All I want to do is kiss her
I dreamed about her that night. After we accidentally talked.
I lied to her, of course. I knew Kevin’s extension perfectly well, but I couldn’t very well tell her that. I went through the system so I could hear her voice, however brief and impersonal, on the voicemail message. You’ve reached Dunder-Mifflin paper supplies. Our offices are currently closed. Business hours are Monday through Friday, eight a.m. to five p.m. If you’d like to leave a message, please wait for the tone.
But she answered this time, and I nearly slammed the phone down in shock. Instead I managed a “Hey,” and wondered briefly if she would recognize my voice.
“Oh my God.” She sounded stunned. Like she’d thought she’d never speak to me again.
It was awkward at first. No surprise there. What time is it here? She was right, though. It felt far.
But then we were talking, just talking like we used to. We were always good at that, talking about nothing. We didn’t discuss the reason I had transferred, we didn’t talk about her cancelled wedding. For nearly an hour, it was like nothing had happened, except she had new stories about art classes and a new apartment and movie-rental mishaps. I told her about Josh and Andy, and made stupid small talk about typing just to keep her on the line, and the whole time I kept calling her Beesly because it just felt so good to use that name and know it was still true.
It had almost gotten to a point where I didn’t see her face everywhere, didn’t leap at the phone every time it rang thinking maybe. But that night I dreamed of her, a vivid memory-dream from last year’s company picnic at Nay Aug park, and when I woke up I held my head in my hands and wept in despair.
I’m still here, and nothing has changed.
* * *
End Notes:
Thanks for reading! I really appreciate all reviews and comments. So, you know. Leave one! :)
lime green lingerie by callisto
Author's Notes:
I can't wait till they start talking again.
My thanks to the mods for the ribbon! And my thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing. Makes my day.
Takes place between Cocktails and the Job, including a deleted scene from Cocktails.
* * *
Wednesday
For the first time in a long time, I feel sort of optimistic that I’m making the right decisions. I’m back with Roy and it’s been really good. I don’t want to be all cliché and say he’s changed, but it really seems like he has. Roy still loves me, and I can’t believe I’ve been so blind. I broke up with him and moved out and I’ve barely talked to him for months, but still he’s there, wanting to be with me, trying to make me smile. I was a fool to give him up out of some misguided feelings I had for a guy who can’t make up his mind if it’s love or a crush.
I guess I was just idealizing Jim. He and I just got so close, and Roy and I were growing apart; so naturally things got kind of intense, emotionally, back before he left. But he’s with Karen now and he seems happy. The look on his face, the way he smiled down at her when they were dancing at Phyllis’ wedding, said it all. He’s over me, and I guess it was just a crush after all, since the kiss apparently didn’t mean anything to him.
It was just a kiss.
I don’t know how to believe that. But apparently that’s what he told her. Was he lying? My instinct tells me he was, but I can’t read him anymore. We don’t understand each other anymore.
Like today. He looked so hurt when I teased him about being the “boss.” He heard it as an insult instead of a joke, when I didn’t mean anything by it. Well, maybe it was meant to be a little barbed. Sometimes it’s weird seeing him act like the ARM, I guess.
Jim and Karen make a nice couple. He deserves somebody confident and beautiful and ambitious. I’m trying, and I’m proud of all the changes I’ve made, but I don’t think I’ll ever have the kind of steel I see in Karen. And maybe that’s better for him. She’ll give him the push he needs to get ahead. Like that cocktail party they’re going to tonight. I never in a million years would’ve thought Jim would want to go to one of those corporate schmooze-fests, but I’m sure he’ll make a bunch of new contacts and impress everybody like he always does. So, good for him. He deserves so much more than wasting away here doing cleanup for Michael.
Roy’s not Jim, and that’s okay. He doesn’t make me laugh like Jim used to, but he’s a good man, and he’s been trying so hard. He’s not perfect, but neither am I, and it feels good to be wanted. He’s never stopped trying to win me back, even when I was short with him and didn’t return his calls. And he’s been so sweet since we got back together, bringing me flowers and taking me out and calling me all the time. He’s got this shy uncertainty about him like he had all those years ago when we first started dating.
Of course, he’s not a completely changed man, and I can see that he really just wants to fall back into the old pattern. But I’ve figured a few things out and I’m not afraid anymore, and I won’t tolerate being taken for granted. I think if I’m more honest about things, like about how I feel and what I want, that it could be really great between us. Tonight, for instance. He was always weird about going out with people from the office, but I want to go out with my friends tonight and if he wants to be with me, he’ll be there.
Maybe things will start getting better now.
* * *
I don’t know what to think about anything anymore. All I know is that I am sick of talking about it. Karen knows I’m holding back, and the lying is starting to wear me out. Lying to her. Lying to myself.
It was just a crush. We kissed once. It was no big deal.
Lies, lies, lies.
And now, since Roy tried to take my head off, it’s set off another whole round of late-night talks and lies and sleight-of-hand. No, I don’t know what she could have told him. Nothing happened. I don’t know; we’re not really friends anymore.
Well, at least they weren’t all lies this time.
She said she’s sorry. She’s sorry. She waited all this time to tell Roy what happened between us, and now she’s sorry and I’m supposed to just…what? She had to have known what she was doing. Did she want him to kick my ass? Does she hate me so much for finally telling the truth? For ruining our happy little “friendship” with my inconvenient feelings? What the fuck? I cannot understand her at all anymore. I can’t fathom why she told him now, when she’s made it so clear it didn’t mean anything.
Maybe it did.
No. I wasted five years of my life thinking those kinds of thoughts. I can’t do it again. I won’t.
I have to get out of here. It was a mistake coming back here. I don’t know what I was thinking. Hoping. Whatever. But I can’t do this anymore. I have to separate myself from her, physically, emotionally, everything. I was just starting to remember how to really laugh again before I came back here, so I know it can be done. But not if I’m here. Karen keeps making remarks about New York and career moves and better opportunities; maybe I’ll start listening.
* * *
It wasn’t quite what I wanted to say. It wasn’t I’m in love with you, too; please say it’s not too late. Maybe I should’ve pulled him aside and told him what I really meant, but it wasn’t just Jim I wanted to say those things to, either. I’m sick of being invisible, I’m sick of being excluded, I’m sick of feeling like Cinderella picking lentils out of the fireplace while the stepsisters go to the ball. And I realize that my own timidity and uncertainty has played the larger role in that, but this is a good start. I said some things that needed to be said. I told him the truth, that I called it off for him. I asked him to come back. I don’t think he will, but I had to ask.
He got a haircut for the interview. It’s all smooth and up off his face. Corporate Jim. It’s like he’s already decided.
He and Karen are leaving early to go spend the night in New York. I can’t think about that. It actually hurts. Physical pain.
This must be how he felt. I understand, now, why he had to leave. If he gets the job in New York, I’m going to quit. I’ll just disappear, like he did, and start over. Like he did. My sister said I can stay with her for a while. She and Rich just bought a new house in Willow Grove with two extra bedrooms for the family they’re hoping to start soon, but there’s plenty of room for me to get on my feet in a new place.
I’ve been looking at the art program at Penn. I can take out some loans and get my BFA. I can teach art, or go even further; get my MFA and find a job in a gallery or museum. I can become someone else. I don’t have to be this person.
Jim taught me that much.
So I can be proud that I told him. I looked him in the eye and I asked him to come back, and now I have to respect his decision. The way he respected mine.
* * *
“You seem a little distracted, Jim.” Karen pulled away from me and sat back, crossing her arms over her chest, her expression a mixture of dismayed and irritated.
I sighed inwardly, leaning back against the headboard. “Sorry. Just…thinking about the interview, I guess.” Another lie.
“Worried?” She arched a cocky eyebrow at me and climbed back onto my lap, perching back on my thighs in a saucy pose meant to impress. Which, admittedly, it did. She was wearing the lime-green bra and panty set she’d picked up when Michael took all the ladies of the office to the mall that day, and the contrast against her mocha skin was just gorgeous.
She’s gorgeous. She’s smart. Witty. Upwardly mobile. She doesn’t make me laugh like Pam does, but I’m lucky to have her. She loves me, I think. She hasn’t told me that she loves me, but I haven’t said it to her, either. All things considered, I’m still amazed she didn’t just kick me to the curb after our first round of talks.
And I’m looking at her, gorgeous and smiling and wanting me, and I’m wondering what it was Pam had in her Victoria’s Secret bag that day.
It all feels like a mistake.
* * *
End Notes:
Hmm. I wonder if anything will happen at the interview.
As always, thanks for reading. I'm hoping my view of what was going on in their heads is believable. Feedback, as always, is welcomed and appreciated!
midnight blue by callisto
Author's Notes:
So at the last minute I got a completely different idea for this chapter and rewrote the whole thing. This version is much better, I think.
Takes place in the summer after the Job.
Enjoy!
* * *
Thursday
He’s sleeping now, but I woke up early and haven’t been able to fall back under. Still, for close to an hour I kept my eyes closed and listened to him breathe, lulled by the steady rhythm of his chest rising and falling against my back, his arm a warm weight wrapped loosely around my waist.
It's six weeks ago today that he came back from New York and burst into the conference room to ask me out. Six weeks since the second time he kissed me. Five weeks since the first time he spent the night with me. Four weeks since we’d spent a night apart.
It’s still a little strange, I’ll confess. Amazing, yes, but still with an element of the unreal about it. Two months ago we’d barely been speaking, and now he has a key to my apartment, a toothbrush in my bathroom, half a dozen changes of clothing in my closet and dresser. At the same time, there’s something so comfortable and ordinary about it, like we’ve been together for years.
We got home late from watching fireworks last night and didn’t go to bed until well after midnight. We’re both taking a long weekend, and tonight I have a surprise for him, something I’ve wanted to do with him since the first time I experienced it last summer. I think he’ll like it.
I start to carefully ease out from under his arm, thinking I’ll load a few things into the car before he wakes up, but his grip on me tightens immediately and he pulls me back. “Going somewhere?” he murmurs, his voice thick and gravelly with sleep, lips warm on the back of my neck.
I can do it later.
* * *
Jim was not good with surprises, I was discovering. The skeptical look he’d given me when I told him to get onto eastbound 307 had turned into a steady barrage of questions as we headed into the countryside. “Pam, just admit that you meant to say 380. It’s not a big deal.”
“I am not lost, okay?” I repeated impatiently, for what must have been the twentieth time. “Just drive. I’ll tell you when to get off.”
“You don’t have to get me out in the middle of nowhere to do that,” he murmured, using his low-pitched sexy-voice as he cast a suggestive glance over at me. I started to roll my eyes but then our eyes met; only for a moment, but my throat suddenly went dry and I felt a flush heat my cheeks.
He smirked, turning his attention back to the road. Making me blush had become one of his favorite new games. “It’s really dark out here,” he complained.
“That’s the idea,” I muttered.
“What?”
“I said, it’s only a couple more miles.”
“To what? There’s nothing out here.” He glanced at me suspiciously. “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you.”
“You’re onto me.” I sighed and tapped my fingertips against the thermos I held in my lap, giving him a rueful smile. “I poisoned the hot chocolate.”
“You said that was peppermint schnapps!”
I grinned.
“Seriously, what are you wanting to show me?” he pouted. “It’s kind of late for a trip to the lake, don’t you think? Or—wait, I got it. Midnight fishing.”
“Just…okay, slow down, it’s coming up,” I breathed, relieved. “Right past this road, see right there, there’s a little turnoff. Pull over.”
He squinted at the pulloff in disbelief. “Here? Seriously?”
I gave him a look. “Don’t you trust me?”
He lifted a skeptical eyebrow but said nothing as he put the car in park and turned off the headlights, turning in his seat to face me. “Yes,” he said decisively.
I smiled and nodded. “Good. Now pop the trunk.”
His eyes widened in horror. “Oh my God, you are going to kill me.”
I shook my head with a sigh. “Jim, we’re out in the country at eleven-thirty at night. Obviously there’s only one thing we could be doing.”
He glanced into the back seat, then back at me, and his smile widened.
I had to bite back a grin at what he was obviously thinking. Although that wasn’t such a bad idea, either. “Stargazing,” I said patiently.
“Stargazing,” he repeated, staring at me for so long I began to wonder if this was a terrible idea. Then he chuckled low under his breath, a slow smile coming back to his face. “That’s… very cool.”
Was he mocking me? Hard to say. Yes. “You won’t be sorry,” I promised, reaching for the door handle. “Help me set up the chairs.”
* * *
“Shooting star,” he pointed. “Make a wish.”
Ten thousand more nights like this one.
“Admit it, this was a good idea,” I said.
“This was a great idea.” Jim tapped his mug against mine. “I have to admit I never really pegged you for a night owl, Beesly.”
“Yeah, ’cause I’m so cheerful in the morning,” I deadpanned.
His teeth flashed in a ghostly grin as he scooted his director’s chair closer to mine so our thighs were pressed together. “How did you ever discover this place? We’re literally in the middle of nowhere.”
“Actually we’re just a couple of miles outside Tooley Corners.” I sipped my snuggler and cradled the mug in both hands, grateful for its heat. It had been warm the past few days, but it was chilly out here away from the city.
“Cold?” Without waiting for an answer he pulled the blanket up over my chest and slung his arm around my shoulders, bending to nuzzle my neck. “So, what now?” he murmured.
“Now we gaze at stars, Jim. That’s why they call it stargazing.” I elbowed him lightly, smiling up at him in the darkness. “You’ve never done this before?”
“Nope.” He squeezed my shoulders as he settled deeper into his chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “So. What are we looking at.”
“Hmm.” I stared up for a few minutes, then pointed vaguely to the east. “ ‘Well, there’s Gabby, the small… and annoying,’ ” I quoted.
He smiled appreciatively. “Oh, I see it. That big shiny one there?”
I grinned. How wonderful it was to always be understood. “That’s the moon.”
He kept smiling as he looked down at me, studying me with that soft, fond expression I used to catch only in brief unguarded moments. I switched my mug to my left hand and pointed into the southwestern sky. “You see that very bright star, shining steady?”
“Yes.”
“That is Jupiter.”
“Really.” He tilted his head a little, considering. “You sure? I think it’s Venus.”
“Shut it,” I said sternly, handing him the binoculars, “and look.”
“Can I see the Great Red Spot?” he mocked, pulling his arm back to bring the binoculars up to his face. “I don’t—wait.” He fiddled with the focus knob, frowning a little as he peered up into the sky. “What am I supposed to—oh holy crap, look at that! Moons?” He let out a surprised laugh, full of wonder. “Wow! I’d think you’d need a telescope…” He trailed off, staring up at the sky with his mouth hanging open a little.
“Nope, just an ordinary pair of binoculars.” I grinned, impressed and delighted by his enthusiasm.
“You have to see this!” He handed the binoculars back to me, his expression so excited and rapt I wanted to kiss him. “Look!” he insisted.
Adorable. I took them back, laughing at him a little under my breath as I aimed skyward. I’d done this a few times last year, but there was something awe-inspiring all over again about sharing it with Jim, seeing it through his eyes for the first time; our biggest planet and its four largest moons, alien worlds all circling our same sun. It made me feel small and insignificant and unique, all at once. “Pretty amazing, hmm?” I murmured.
His arm circled my shoulders again. “Oh yeah,” he breathed against my neck. “Since when are you into astronomy?”
I cast a chiding glance at him over my shoulder. “I have a lot of interests, Jim. I don’t just doodle on steno pads and watch Law and Order reruns.”
His eyebrows shot up in clear disbelief. “Oh, I think you do.” He grinned when I laughed, but his smile faded a little and he pressed, “Seriously, when did you turn into Ellie Arroway?”
I brought the binoculars down but couldn’t quite get myself to look at him. “Just…last summer, it was something I got interested in.”
Jim stiffened just a little, his arm tightening around my shoulders. “Yeah?” he asked lightly.
“Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “All right, then. Right underneath Jupiter…you see that bright red star?”
He squinted. “Red?”
“Yeah. Reddish. Orangish.”
“Okay…” He nodded. “Got it.”
“That is Antares. And see, that’s Scorpio… those three stars that kind of fan out—those are the pincers—and see how it wraps around to make the tail?” I traced the pattern in the air with my finger but when I looked back at him, he was looking at me, not the sky. “You’re not listening.”
“I am! Antares. Scorpio.” He smiled apologetically.
“Jim.”
“Sorry. Guess I’d rather look at you.” He kissed the top of my head and dutifully returned his gaze to the sky. “You were saying.”
“Shooting star!” We pointed to it at the same time, but I turned to him first. “Make a wish.”
His expression softened as our eyes held for a long moment. It was pretty clear what his wish was.
* * *
“We’re gonna get arrested,” I gasped, tearing my lips from his and sitting back on his thighs. We were in the passenger seat, which we’d extended all the way down but it was still pretty cramped, and I bumped my head on the roof as I tried to straighten up.
His eyes snapped open and he stared up at me blankly for a second. “What? No, nobody’s coming.” He slipped his hand into my hair and pulled me back down to kiss me again, sliding his other hand under my shirt, fingers splaying over my back, pressing me down against him.
Still, I couldn’t relax or shake the feeling we were about to get caught like a couple of teenagers. I thought he’d be angry when I pulled back again, but he just studied me for a moment with a searching expression and then sighed, wrapping his arm around me and pulling me down to lie on top of him. He kissed my forehead and I felt his fingers in my hair and I thought about how pissed Roy would’ve been if I’d tried to stop halfway like this.
Jim’s not Roy, and that’s a very, very good thing.
“How many times have you come here?” he asked idly, twirling a curl of my hair around his thumb.
“A few.”
“Last summer.” His voice was soft, full of questions he wouldn’t ask.
“Yeah.” I sighed. “Dwight was going on about how it’s important to slaughter your pigs at the right time of the moon or the bacon will shrink up to nothing when you cook it. And I was, um, gonna pull a prank on him,” I admitted, “so I was looking up stuff about meteors and how celestial events have been considered omens, and there was an article about a meteor shower at the end of July. So I went for a drive to find a dark place and I ended up here.”
“By yourself? In the middle of nowhere? Are you crazy?” he exclaimed. “What if something happened?”
I shrugged. “I have a phone. I can change a tire.”
He frowned. “Yeah, but what if you, you know…there’s a lot of scary people in the world, Pam.”
That thought had, in fact, occurred to me the first time I drove out here. But I was sick of fear and excessive caution ruling my decisions, so I trusted the map and kept going. I was feeling brave then. I thought I was brave about a lot of things that summer, but it turned out my courage kind of came and went. There hadn’t been enough for me to call him, tell him how much I missed him.
“Well, like you said, it’s the middle of nowhere,” I pointed out.
“A great place to hide a body,” he said darkly.
“Anyway,” I continued, talking over him, “I ended up signing up for weekly updates from Space.com. It turns out Dwight actually knows a lot about constellations and lunar cycles.”
“Hmm,” he murmured musingly. “How are we going to use that against him?”
“I told him you can see the space station go by every day at exactly three-seventeen in the morning. He did it for a week before he called me on it,” I grinned.
He pressed his lips together in one of those admiring smiles, shaking his head a little as he gazed down at me. Then he shifted his shoulder, wincing a little. “Ready to go back?”
I slid back over to straddle his waist. “Let’s…finish what we started,” I suggested, bending down to kiss him.
His eyes went wide. “You’re just full of surprises, miss Beesly.”
I grinned, feeling bold and brave again. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me yet, Jim Halpert.”
He smiled. “Yet,” he echoed softly.
* * *
End Notes:
It's good they're talking again, yes?
Two more to go. Thanks for reading! As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Extra points to those who caught the Shrek and Contact references. :)
Author's Notes:
The last part of this chapter tried to kill me. Seriously.
Takes place a few weeks after Money.
Enjoy!
* * *
Friday
A few weeks after that bizarre experience at Dwight’s farm, I called in the agreement Pam and I had made that night on our pushed-together homemade Schrute mattresses; namely that the next time we took a trip, I got to decide where. So when I arranged for us both to take a half day one Friday and told her I wanted to go to Philadelphia for the weekend, she rolled her eyes and teased me—Philly? Really going outside your comfort zone, Halpert—but she had no choice but to pack up a bag and get in the car.
“Are there going to be sports involved?” she asked, tracing a figure-eight pattern on the window condensation with her index finger.
“I wouldn’t do that to you,” I promised.
She glanced over at me with a small frown. “I wouldn’t mind, you know,” she said, then smiled. “Just as long as you don’t leave me behind.”
“I have other things in mind.” I gave her a suggestive leer, which unfortunately just made her grin wider and laugh at me, until I had to laugh too. “I dunno, I just thought, nice dinner, hotel, check out the art museum tomorrow?”
Her smile was huge. “Art museum?”
“Sure.”
“I’m so spoiled,” she said happily.
“Yes you are.” I brought out the seductive sidelong glance again and pitched my voice lower. “I’ll be expecting compensation,” I said, holding her gaze long enough to see the flush color her cheeks.
It’s still sort of shocking to realize I can do that to her. I don’t know that I’ll ever get used to it.
* * *
It was mid afternoon when we got to the hotel, so we dumped our bags and decided to go for a walk and look around at the local shops. It was chilly and damp and Pam wound her arm tightly through mine, pressing up against my side as we strolled down the narrow streets. “I wonder if we’ll run into Ben Franklin,” she mused.
“I knew it. You’ve been carrying a torch for him all along.”
“I think I really missed out. There was definitely electricity,” she grinned.
“Does the eighteenth century turn you on, Pam? Should I make a trip to the costume store? Invest in pantaloons?”
“Might be interesting…” She squeezed my arm and then abruptly let go. “Can we go in here?” she asked, stopping in front of the blue awning of a store called Indigo.
“Absolutely.”
We stepped into a two-story gift shop that smelled like my aunt Cassandra’s house; patchouli incense, I think. Pam immediately went over to look at the primitive folk-art paintings on the walls while I wandered around checking out wooden boxes from Ghana, Indian silk scarves, a collection of human figures made of bottle caps and Coke cans.
“Jim! Look!” Pam held up a little green teapot from a table of Vietnamese tea sets. “It’s just like the one you gave me. Well, almost.” She fingered the bamboo handle and glanced up at me with a smile. “I like yours better,” she said, putting it back.
I grinned. “Nice save, Beesly.”
She wrinkled her nose at me as she ambled over to the table where I was looking at woven baskets. “I like this,” she said, picking up the one I’d been eyeing. It was medium-sized, black, with a single wide band of rainbow colors that swirled to a point in the center.
“They’re made of recycled telephone wire.” I pointed at the description card in the middle of the table.
“Wow.” She turned it over and around, examining it from all angles. “That’s so…creative, and practical! Look how tight it is. I bet it would hold water.” She handed it to me, watching as I fingered the coils.
It was really well made, and I liked the pattern. Most of the others on the table were kind of gaudy for my taste; striking, just really …bright. This one was still colorful, but more subtle.
I handed it back to her. “You like it?”
“I do.” She seemed entranced by it, tracing the pattern into the center with her index finger. “They’re all one of a kind?” she wondered, glancing up to read the card. She turned it over and blanched, chuckling a little. “So they are,” she murmured, putting it back.
I picked it up and turned it over. $78.
“A little steep,” she said ruefully, wandering off toward a table of African masks.
I went to examine a collection of Bolivian tin masks that vaguely resembled animals: wolves, bears, deer, an armadillo. As always, though, I had an eye on Pam, and I noticed when she went back to look at the basket a second and then a third time, running her finger along the rim, a small, thoughtful smile on her lips.
“You do want it,” I observed, strolling over to her.
She pulled her hand back immediately with a guilty expression. “It’s too much,” she shook her head, stepping away from the table. “This place is kind of expensive. We should go.”
I moved to block her escape and picked up the bowl. “Perfect size for the front table, don’t you think? For mail and keys?”
A smile flickered at the edges of her lips. “Jim…”
“We really should do our part to support the Zulu telephone-wire basket industry.”
“You shouldn’t,” she whispered, glancing around furtively like we were doing something wrong just discussing it.
“No?” I bit my lip, pretending to think it over. “You don’t really like it then?”
She quirked an eyebrow at me, a grin threatening to break through. “I didn’t say that.”
“Well, it’s settled then.” I brought the basket up to the register and tried not to grin too complacently at the way she practically skipped behind me.
* * *
We stopped at a coffee shop and found a corner table near the wall of books. Pam grabbed a thick volume of famous quotations while I split a huge blueberry muffin down the middle. “There’s a whole page of Hitler quotes,” she said.
“Excellent, we can test Dwight. Read some.”
“ ‘Great liars are also great magicians,’ ” she recited. “Yikes. Oh, listen to this: ‘What good fortune for governments that the people do not think.’ ”
“Scary.”
“But true,” she murmured, flipping the page, munching absently on her half of the muffin. “Do you think Dwight’s grandfather was really in the SS?”
“I wouldn’t doubt it.”
“Oh, do you remember that movie Life is Beautiful? How the guy was always quoting Schopenhauer?” She looked up expectantly until I nodded; I’m not normally a big fan of subtitled movies, but she’d told me I had to see it so, naturally, I had. “ ‘All truth goes through three stages. First it is ridiculed. Then it is violently opposed. Finally it is accepted as self-evident.’ ” She looked up and grinned. “Hey, it could be about us.”
“Ridiculed?” I lifted an eyebrow at her. “That’s harsh.”
“Well, you know what I mean. We were both like no, no, we’re just friends. You did it too,” she said sternly, apparently disagreeing with my expression. “ ‘And, Pam, it was like three years ago, so, I’m totally over it,’ ” she mimicked.
I grunted. “Like you didn’t know I was lying.”
“How would I know that?” she asked, softly, all the teasing abruptly vanished from her tone. “I believed you.”
I stared at her. She was serious. “Pam, I got an email from every single person in the office when you called off your wedding,” I reminded her. Except you, I wanted to add, but I left that out. “Pretty transparent, I think.”
Her expression went blank. “Well, I believed you,” she said woodenly, fiddling with her swizzle stick as she stared down into her coffee.
An uneasy silence fell.
I didn’t quite have it in me to crack a joke and lighten the mood this time. She’d admitted that she thought I had a crush on her, so she hadn’t been oblivious. Maybe she’d pretended not to see it, but to say she truly didn’t know? Everyone else had seen through me, but not her? My best friend?
Impossible. She had to have known.
“We should get going,” she said finally, pushing her paper plate away. “Are you ready?”
“Yeah.” I gestured to the book as I shoved my chair back and got up. “Did you want that?”
“No,” she said flatly, wrapping her coat tightly around her and stuffing her hands in her pockets. “Sometimes I just like to look at things,” she muttered, slinging her purse over her shoulder.
I stared at her. “What?”
She glanced at my face and her eyes grew wide. I had the distinct impression I wasn’t meant to hear that. “Nothing,” she mumbled, darting for the door.
* * *
If I hadn’t envisioned our first trip away together having anything to do with Dwight, I really hadn’t thought our second would be marred by one of our weird almost-fights. Almost because it never quite turned into yelling or open confrontation. We’re not good at arguing. Truthfully, there isn’t much we disagree about, so we haven’t had much practice.
When we did fight, though, it was generally with silence. This was one of those occasions. Dinner was quiet and tense. We drank a bottle of wine and pushed our food around and made awkward small talk and kept a small but conspicuous distance between us as we walked back to the hotel.
“I’m gonna take a bath,” she said, shedding her coat and heading immediately for the bathroom.
I sighed and clicked on the TV and flopped down on the bed. This was so not what I wanted for this weekend.
She was gone a long time. After what seemed like an hour I gave up waiting and changed into a t-shirt and boxers and climbed into bed. I left the TV tuned to the news but mostly kept my eyes trained on the strip of golden light under the bathroom door, wondering if she was going to spend the night in there.
I must have fallen asleep; the next thing I knew it was dark in the room and she was sliding under the sheets beside me. “Jim,” she nudged me gently.
I opened my eyes. “Hmm.”
Her eyes were filled with fear and worry. “I’m really sorry,” she whispered.
The remorse in her expression softened whatever resolve I might have had to hold a grudge, and I heaved a sigh. “Me too,” I offered. It was stupid to let the past continue to have a hold on us. Maybe she should have known, but I shouldn’t have lied. We both lied; we both made mistakes. Would it always be so painful to talk about it?
“I really love the basket,” she said softly. “You’re so…so… and I… that was just mean.”
I stared at her. “Is that what we’re talking about? The basket?”
“No,” she admitted. She edged closer to me, eyes wide, hesitant. Afraid? I lifted my arm and caught her around the shoulders to pull her to me, and she pressed herself against me immediately, wrapping her arm around my chest and burying her face in my shoulder. Her hair was still damp, her skin warm and soft, smelling of her cucumber melon body wash.
“Can I tell you something?” Her voice was muffled but it sounded like she was near tears.
I closed my eyes in sudden dread but managed to nod.
She sniffled; she was crying. “I’m scared you’ll never forgive me,” she whispered.
My eyes snapped open. “What?”
She lifted her head and her eyes were wide, terrified. “I’ll never be able to make it up to you,” she said desperately. “I wish I could take it back and just—tell you I needed some time, and…but I can’t,” she wept, “and I need you to forgive me, really forgive me.”
I hadn’t seen her cry very often, but it tore me up every time. “Pam, it’s not—I love you,” I said, softly.
“I know you do. And I love you too. So much.” Her expression became even more anxious and fearful, her eyes wide as they searched my face. “I love you, and I need you to believe that, to… know it.”
“I do,” I promised. I didn’t have any doubt about that, actually. It was there,unmistakable in her every smile and gesture, in the little notes she left me all over the place, in her surprisingly extensive and detailed knowledge of the things I loved and hated. “I do, Pam.”
She didn’t seem reassured. Her eyes stayed on my face, searching for something she wasn’t finding. I sat up a little, alarmed now at her palpable fear. “We both probably should have done a lot of things differently,” I said carefully. “Would you agree?”
She nodded, sniffled.
“Okay then.” I wiped tears from her cheek with my thumb. “Let’s make it official. I forgive you. Everything.”
She drew in a watery breath that turned into a hiccup, smiling weakly as she reached up to swipe at her face. “Really?”
“Everything,” I insisted, and because I couldn’t resist, added, “except for the quesadillas.”
She let out a shaky but genuine laugh. Last Sunday, I’d spent half the afternoon pulling shredded chicken off the bone and chopping up vegetables for fresh pico de gallo, only to have the whole thing ruined by the nasty white American cheese she’d picked up by accident. “I told you, I thought it was Jack,” she protested, shoving me gently.
I pulled her down on top of me with one hand, stroking her hair with the other. “Sure.”
“It’ll never happen again,” she promised, wrapping her arms around my neck and burying her face into the hollow of my shoulder.
The air felt different. Lighter. I heaved a sigh of relief. “Pam?”
“Mmm.”
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “For just… everything.”
She lifted her head and stared at me for a long minute, her expression soft and gentle and, most importantly, no longer afraid. “I forgive you,” she said finally, then added, “Everything.”
I rubbed her back and kissed her forehead. “Can we be done fighting now?”
Her smile turned mischievous. “That was not fighting, Jim. That was the silent treatment, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“Was it?” I laced my fingers together at the small of her back, pinning her against me.
“Hmph,” she snorted. “I’m surprised you couldn’t tell the difference. I can be pretty loud.”
“Don’t I know it,” I grinned, and laughed aloud when she turned crimson. “Should we put that theory to the test?”
“You’re impossible,” she muttered.
“So is that what we’re doing when you’re being loud?” I pressed. “Fighting? ‘Cause—”
“Oh shut up,” she groaned, stretching up to silence me with a warm open-mouthed kiss.
Now that’s what I had in mind for this weekend.
* * *
End Notes:
One more to go.
Incidentally, Indigo Arts is a real store in Philadelphia. indigoarts.com
Thanks to everyone who's been reading, and for all the lovely reviews and support on the boards. As always, I'd love to hear thoughts on this. I always wonder if my interpretations ring true.
african violet by callisto
Author's Notes:
So in light of Season 4 coming out and the general happiness of Jam, it seems appropriate to end this on an unapologetic fluff-fest.
Takes place at the end of Pam's time at Pratt.
Enjoy!
* * *
Saturday
I’ve been sick a lot this last month. Exhausted, mostly, but also queasy at times, headachy. I know it’s just the stress of final projects coming due, that frantic last push before it all winds down and I go home. I know that’s all it is. But when Jennifer Watson leaned over in our Illustrator class and whispered, “Maybe you’re pregnant,” I seriously thought I was going to have a panic attack. I hadn’t let myself consider the possibility.
I missed two days of pills back at the beginning of August, but I doubled up like I was supposed to and I didn’t even see Jim that weekend. So it’s not likely I’m pregnant. It’s just stress. I don’t really need to worry for another week anyway, so there’s no point in getting Jim all worked up about it. I already know what he’ll say. He wants a family. If it happens sooner rather than later, he’ll still be happy.
He’ll be such an amazing father, and I already know he’ll dote on me to an embarrassing degree. I’m looking forward to it, really. The back rubs, the foot massages, the midnight runs to Giant for my favorite Ben and Jerry’s. He’ll do all of it and with a smile, and I’m so, so glad for the day I met him. I want it too, all of it.
Just…not yet.
* * *
We left Brooklyn early on Saturday morning, having stayed up half the night getting my room cleaned out and catching up on everything else we’d missed out on in the past two weeks. No amount of phone calls, text messages or emails could replace the simple warmth of his thigh pressed against mine on the couch, the steady rhythm of his breathing beside me at night. I couldn’t get enough, and it was pretty clear he’d missed me too.
I hadn’t been sleeping well, especially in the last couple of weeks with all the deadlines looming, and I fell asleep as soon as we entered New Jersey. I didn’t wake up until he was pulling into the parking lot, and gave him a guilty smile as he reached over to stroke my cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Good nap?” he teased.
“Sorry,” I murmured. “I just couldn’t keep my eyes open.”
“Ah, that’s okay. Gave me a chance to listen to NPR without you chattering all the way through it,” he grinned, skillfully dodging my swat and jumping out of the car to come around and open my door. “Are you sure you’re okay? I think you’re getting sick,” he said critically, taking my hand to help me out.
“Just tired,” I repeated my mantra, and gave him a big mischievous smile. “Did you ever call for them to fix the dishwasher?”
“I did, and I’ll thank you not to look so surprised,” he retorted, pulling my luggage out of the trunk.
“When?” I prodded.
His face fell a little. “Monday,” he admitted grudgingly. “Here, you get this, I’ll get the box.”
* * *
I smiled as I dropped my keys into the Zulu telephone-wire basket he’d bought me in Philly last November. He’d obviously cleaned the apartment before coming to get me. Everything was dusted and tidied, the carpet recently vacuumed, and I laughed a little, amused and touched but somehow not really surprised.
He’d changed a few things since I was here last. He’d moved the bookcase over to the wall under the breakfast bar, and shifted my big double-sized armchair over by the fireplace so it made a cozy reading corner. A watercolor I’d made of the gorge at Nay Aug hung on the wall between the coat closet and the front bathroom. It was still a little strange to see my things so seamlessly intermixed with his own; my pictures on his walls, the afghan my mom crocheted for me hanging over his couch.
Our walls. Our couch.
There was an African violet in an eggplant-colored ceramic planter at the center of the dining room table. It was in full bloom, its clusters of white flowers edged in deep purple. I reached out to finger one of the fuzzy leaves and glanced back at him curiously. “When did you get this?”
“Last week. Those are your welcome-home flowers,” he said, dropping his duffel bag in the entranceway and setting my big box of sketches, paintings and supplies next to it.
“I love African violets.”
He gave me a knowing smile. “Really,” he said lightly.
When had I even told him that? The extent of his obscure knowledge about me was sometimes a little eerie. Then again, I’d surprised even myself with the extent of tiny random details I’d memorized about him over the years. It had become kind of a joke between us. “Stalker,” I’d tease. “Obsessed,” he’d shake his head.
“These are better than cut flowers, ‘cause they won’t die,” he explained, dipping his head down next to my ear as he wrapped his arms around me from behind, swaying side-to-side a little.
I put my hands over his and twisted my head to grin up at him. “What makes you think they won’t die?”
“That was one plant, Pam. Don’t be so hard on yourself. Besides, you see this thumb here? It should be green. Seriously.”
That was true. He had three or four plants in every room and they were all thriving. Good thing, because my luck with green things had always been sort of hit or miss.
I leaned back into him with a contented sigh. “It’s good to be home.”
Technically, though, this hadn’t truly been home for me yet, despite all the time I’d spent here over the last year. We’d moved my things over the weekend before I went to New York, and I’d come to Scranton a few times during the summer, but this was the first time in two years that I didn’t have my own place. It felt a little weird.
“Kinda weird, isn’t it,” he murmured, echoing my thoughts. Another thing he does with uncanny frequency.
“A little,” I admitted.
“But good, right?” His tone was light, but I felt the weight in his question, the soft stroking of his thumb over my engagement ring.
I rubbed his thumb with my own, turned to smile up at him again. “Perfect.”
He squeezed me tight before letting me go. “So what do you want to do on your first day back in exciting Scranton? A little shopping at the mall? Bowling? Lunch at the world-famous Cooper’s seafood house? Take a tour of the Everhart museum?”
“Done that.” I sat down at the kitchen table and stared out at the window of our neighbors across the way. “I think I’d like to just…be home? If that’s not too boring?”
“Please,” he waved a hand dismissively, moving over to run water into the coffee pot. “Are you hungry yet? I got stuff for subs. Turkey and ham and those asiago cheese rolls you like?”
“That sounds great, actually.” He tried to wave me off when I jumped up to spread out paper towels and started pulling out condiments, but I nudged him firmly back to the coffee pot and paused for a moment to watch him measure out the grounds.
This is my life now.
Jim, sliding around the kitchen in his socks, literally humming with contentment as he finished starting the coffee and came over to help me assemble sandwiches—Jim is my life now. Every decision I’ll make, every decision I’ve made in the last year, has had him at its heart.
It was like that with Roy, too. Everything I did was aimed at keeping him happy. Every decision I made was ultimately subject to his approval, his needs; his whims, even. I thought I’d never live my life like that again, but in the last year I’ve found myself doing it all over again for Jim.
The difference, this time, is that he does that with me, too. I know I’m first in his mind with everything he does, and that makes me want to put him first, too. For the first time I feel like I’m in a real partnership, and it seems like anything is possible.
“What’s on your mind, Beesly?” Jim folded the paper towel over to wipe off the knife and transferred the sandwiches to paper plates.
I smiled at him, watched his green eyes flicker over my face in a mixture of curiosity, affection and concern, and shook my head. “Nothing. It’s just…really good to be home.”
“I definitely second that.” He cast me one of his happy-mischievous smiles and pulled a bag of my favorite Sun chips out of the pantry, shaking some out onto both our plates. “In fact, I was kind of hoping we’d just hang around here and, um…be home, this weekend?”
I laughed. “How many movies did you rent?”
“Only three.” He ducked into the living room and came back with one hand behind his back. Whipping it back around with a flourish, he declared, “The Illusionist—for you, obviously,” he smirked, because I’m a huge Edward Norton fan, “Elektra—for me,” he admitted, “and The Nightmare Before Christmas, for both of us.”
I had to fight not to grin too widely as I looked up at him. “Jim, we’ve seen all three of these movies.”
“I know.” He smiled. “I put your DVD player in the bedroom.”
“Oh boy,” I murmured.
“I bought new sheets,” he said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.
I pushed his plate at him. “Hurry up.”
* * *
Jim put in The Illusionist first, but we were naked even before Eisenheim pulled out the trick with the orange tree less than ten minutes in. Still, I really love that movie and when he caught me watching it over his shoulder he followed my gaze and started to laugh as he rolled off of me. “Seriously, Pam? You’re ignoring me for Paul Giamatti?”
“Certainly not. I’m ignoring you for Ed Norton.”
“He’s prettier than me,” Jim sighed, flinging his arm melodramatically back behind his head.
I reached over to trace his eyebrow with my thumb, and he closed his eyes at my touch, leaning into my hand. “Nobody’s prettier than you, Jim.”
He smiled but didn’t open his eyes. “That’s a lie. But thank you.”
“You are so very pretty, Jim Halpert. Much prettier than Ed Norton. You’re even prettier than that guy in the Mattress King ads—”
“Stop!” He was laughing, but his cheeks were pink. “I’ll settle for prettier than Paul Giamatti?”
“Indeed.” I kissed his lower lip and reached over him for the remote, clicking off the TV. “Now where were we?”
“I was unsuccessfully trying to seduce you.” He slid over on top of me again, running his hands through my hair as he kissed my eyes, cheeks, jawline. “Now you are very pretty,” he murmured.
“Mmm?” was all I could manage.
“ ‘A violet by a mossy stone, half hidden from the eye,’ ” he whispered, his lips skating over my neck, lingering over the juncture where my jaw met my ear. “ ‘Fair as a star, when only one is shining in the sky.’ ”
Holy god, I’d never thought something as corny as whispering poetry in my ear could actually be such a turn-on, but that was just about the most erotic thing he’d ever done. All my nerve endings tingled deliciously as his lips slid warmly over my throat.
“Browning?” I wondered.
I felt him smile against my skin. “Wordsworth.”
“You’ve been watching Spider-man 2 again, haven’t you,” I lifted my head up, grinned down at him.
He smiled again and moved down a little, tracing my collarbone with the tip of his tongue as his hand snaked down to my thigh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he asserted, looking up at me wickedly through his eyelashes, and then he was moving further down and that was the end of our conversation for a while.
* * *
I woke up sometime after dusk, and gently disentangled myself from Jim to go to the bathroom. He was asleep on his stomach and had the sweetest half-smile on his face, like he was dreaming something pleasant.
Definitely good to be home.
There was blood on the tissue when I cleaned up, and I stared at it for a second, filled with relief and regret.
Mostly relief, but definitely some regret.
Not yet.
But maybe…soon.
* * *
End Notes:
On my way to my orientation for grad school, so this might be it for a while. I really appreciate all the great feedback I've received! You guys have made me really want to get back into writing again. Thanks so much, and I hope this was a satisfying wrap-up till the premiere. As always, please let me know what you thought!
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.