--





It’s really happening. They set a date.

She’s making plans for the wedding in earnest now; she bought her dress, bought her veil, picked out the flowers. I hear it all, every detail of place settings and side dishes and cousin Laura’s allergy to shellfish and on and on and on, and I can’t very well tell her to just stop, to do it at home, can I? I’m the best friend. I’m supposed to be happy for her. I’m not supposed to be sick, and sleepless, and feeling so fucking hollow and empty inside like I have a terminal disease.

I can’t be here for this.

There’s no way I can actually go to her wedding. And she’ll invite me, that’s for certain. I’m her best friend, and she’s mine. The closest we’ve ever come to admitting we have feelings for each other is that admission.

What am I supposed to do? I’m a lost cause. I’m in love with her. I’ve given up trying to lie to myself about it; I’m in love with her. And she belongs to another man. What kind of asshole goes after another man’s woman? I need her to make the first move, just an acknowledgment, a hint, a glimpse, anything that would give me an opening.

I’m so fucked.


* * * * * * * *


Stupid Ryan. You really think you’ll go? It stung a little to think I was so contemptibly predictable. It’s bad enough to think those things about yourself without having some twerp’s snide little snort to confirm your worst fears.

I spun the globe around, wondering how far was far enough.

The other side of the world looked good.

Australia. That might be far enough.


* * * * * * * * *


Turns out Australia is almost exactly the opposite side of the world from Scranton, Pennsylvania. (The exact spot being out in the Indian Ocean.) It would take over half my savings to spend a single week there.

As long as I wasn’t here, it would be worth it.

“Yeah, I’m actually leaving on June eighth, so…” I hesitated, unable to look her in the eye for more than a fleeting instant. “And I’m really sorry about that…” I glanced away, really uncomfortable now, that familiar tightness in my chest making it hard to breathe, but I forced myself to look back and meet her eyes long enough for her to see into me. She could always read me, surely she’d see what I was doing. Please, Beesly. Figure it out, please…

Her eyes were wide and hurt and surprised and for a fleeting instant I felt that spark of hope that she would have to face it now. But then she nodded and said, “Yeah, no, sure, that’s…”

To be honest, I don’t really know what she said. Some kind of mumbling assent that it was unfortunate or whatever and my heart plummeted into my stomach and kind of roiled there for a few seconds.

It doesn’t matter, she doesn’t care.

I forced a tight smile. “Want me to take these?” I indicated the stack of save-the-dates. Like they were just bills or letters and not invitations to my own funeral.

She shook her head almost imperceptibly and I managed the slightest nod and a twist of my mouth into another imitation of a smile before making my escape. I listened for her footsteps behind me, her voice calling after me as I headed for the stairs, but she wasn’t following.


------


“Australia,” Mark repeated.

“Yep.” It sounded ridiculous even to my own ears. Ask anyone and they’ll tell you I’ve never had a lust for world travel. I’ve never been further from Scranton than my cousin’s wedding in Chicago. It’s hopelessly fucking transparent and still she didn’t pick up on it.

It doesn’t matter, she doesn’t care.

Just keep repeating that. Maybe it’ll sink in and I can finally find a way to be free.

Mark poured two more shots and pushed one at me. “That’s…far,” he said carefully.

“Yeah.” I took my shot and downed it. The tequila burned a pleasantly hot path down to my empty stomach and I knew I’d be sick tomorrow but I didn’t care. Numb, I just wanted to be numb. Just for a little while.

He followed suit and looked at me squarely. “What did she say?”

I shrugged, not looking at him. “She’s disappointed I won’t be coming to her wedding.”

He bit his lip, looking like he wanted to say something, but in the end he just sighed and poured us another round. “Sorry, man.”

I nodded and clinked my glass to his.


----------


I was drunk when I stumbled up the stairs, and had just fallen onto the bed when my cell phone buzzed and started vibrating across the table. I picked it up just before it fell off the edge and stared blankly at the glowing face.

Pam cell.

I squinted at the clock. 11:32. Can’t talk to Pam now. Too drunk.

It was Pam. I couldn’t not answer it.

I cleared my throat and flipped open the phone. “Pam?” It came out a hoarse croak.

“Hey.” She paused before adding uncertainly, “I know it’s late, but…”

“No, that’s okay,” I said instinctively, rubbing at my eyes. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. I mean no actually,” she said quietly. “I just…I haven’t been…and I just…can I ask you something?” she asked abruptly.

Her tone was hard to identify precisely but there was that undercurrent of upset and frustration she so often had when she vented about Roy. And I wasn’t really up to dealing with that just then.

“Jim?”

“Yeah. Of course.” Like there was any other answer I could ever give.

“Okay. Good.” She coughed. “So, um…why are you going to …Australia… two days before my wedding?”

I sucked in a breath of desperate hope. She understands.

“I just mean,” she added quickly, “I mean…just…well, why?” Her voice was soft, uncertain. “You couldn’t wait two more days?”

She’s fucking oblivious. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t secretly want you, she isn’t haunted by thoughts of you. Follow your own advice, suck it up and move on.

“The ticket was cheaper if I left on a weekday,” I said neutrally.

“Why not leave the next week then?”

I blew out an exhausted, miserable breath. “Just because…it’s better this way.”

She was quiet again for a moment. “Why?” she finally asked softly.

And in one brief fleeting moment all the caution and patience I’d cultivated over the last three years flew out the window and I blurted, “I can’t watch you get married, Pam.”

She was silent for so long I thought maybe she’d hung up. Then she whispered, “Why not?”

I closed my eyes. Oh God.

“Why not, Jim?” Her voice was stronger, tinged with anger.

My heart was racing. “He’s wrong for you.” It was the first time I’d ever said it so plainly.

“He’s wrong for me,” she repeated. “That’s why you can’t be there? Because he’s wrong for me?” she challenged.

“Pam,” I whispered.

“So you’re a…a …a concerned friend.” She laughed shortly. “If you were my friend,” she drew the word out bitterly, “you’d be at my wedding. You’re not my friend.”

“Pam, that’s not…I’m always your friend.” Christ, that’s not what I mean. Just say it, say it. “I mean—”

“Whatever, Jim. Good night.” She hung up abruptly, before I could sputter an objection.





-

----







I was shaking all over when I hung up, and as angry as I’d been two minutes earlier, now I just felt kind of sick. Embarrassed beyond belief that I’d thought he might be covering up feelings for me, terrified by the knowledge that I’d ruined our friendship.

He doesn’t want me.

Whatever his reason for not wanting to be at my wedding, that wasn’t it.

”I’m always your friend.”

Oh God. Oh God. So humiliating.

I’d spent the evening trying to think of good, plausible reasons why my best friend, who’d never been out of the U.S. in his life, should choose to fly to the other side of the world two days before my wedding. The most obvious, of course, was that Jim did not like Roy. He’d never said so, not in so many words, but I knew how he felt. It was my own fault, really, for using Jim as a sounding board over the years. He only knew about the bad times with Roy, the stuff that drove me crazy. And I knew he wanted more for me than to be stuck behind the reception desk forever.

But it was more than that.

Ever since that weird incident in the kitchen three weeks ago, when Jim told me he’d had a crush on me—once, a long time ago—and now he was “totally over it”—there was an awkwardness between us that I couldn’t explain, couldn’t define. Didn’t want to define. Yet I’d caught that pained, melancholy expression on his face more than once in recent days, enough that I’d stopped discussing my wedding plans when he was around.

Then there was that remark Ryan made. “You’re inviting Jim?”

And I’d thought, maybe…

I buried my face in my hands and drew my knees further up into my chest. It was chilly out tonight but I didn’t want to go inside yet, even though Roy was still out at his poker game and I had the house to myself. I’d thought the cool night air would give me courage.

He doesn’t want me. He’s…totally over it.

The tears came abruptly, hot and fierce, and that made me angry all over again. What the hell was wrong with me?

I shouldn’t be crying. I shouldn’t be thinking about Jim. I shouldn’t be thinking about anything but my fiancé and the wedding I’d been planning since I’d first started writing Mrs. Roy Anderson in my spiral notebooks during second-year French.

So what if I had more in common with Jim. Jim didn’t love me. He just had a crush on me once. A crush that ended a long time ago. He was totally over it now.

Still, there was no denying the tension and awkwardness that had slowly infiltrated our friendship. And oh, God, the look on his face, in his eyes, on the boat that night. He’d wanted to say something and it didn’t look like let’s always be best friends. It looked more like…like…

Well. If he had feelings for me, he was going to have to say so. I couldn’t just throw my life away for maybe.

Roy loved me. I had a good life. Maybe it wasn’t exciting but it was real. It was dependable, comfortable. It was what I knew.

Those are good things, right? Isn’t that what I want?

Oh, God.

I wasn’t sure about anything anymore.


-------


Roy called at midnight (when he was supposed to be home) to say the game, at Kenny’s this week, was running late. “Another hour?” he said, a question, feeling me out.

“You should probably just stay over there,” I heard myself saying, glad of an excuse to be alone, to avoid having to put on a normal face. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Ahhh, not too much. I can drive,” he objected.

“Just be safe. If it goes too late, you should just crash in the basement.”

He chuckled. “You tryin’ to get rid of me?”

I forced a laugh. “I just want you to be careful, okay?”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right.” He coughed. “Tell you what, if I stay, I’ll call you, otherwise I’ll be home by one. One-thirty,” he amended.

“I’m going to bed, I think. Just make it a one-ringer if you stay over there, okay?”

“You got it. Love ya.”

“Love you too,” I murmured.

I was never so relieved at the prospect of Roy getting too drunk to drive home. So when my cell phone rang a few minutes later, I picked it up with a smile, glad he’d already made a decision.

Jim cell.

I stared at it for a long moment as it rang a second and third time, snatching it up just before it cut out during the fourth. “Hello.”

“Pam – don’t hang up.” His voice was rough, pleading. “Okay? Just – don’t hang up. Please.”

I pressed my lips together, waiting.

“Pam?”

“I’m here.”

He cleared his throat once, twice. “You wanted to know why I can’t watch you get married.”

I caught my breath.

“You kissed me once.” His voice was soft. “Do you remember?”

I closed my eyes, remembering his surprise, that brief moment in which he’d returned it, the chapped warmth of his lips. “Yes,” I whispered.

He was silent for a long minute before he asked, very quietly, “Did it mean anything?”

Yes. No. God, I don’t know. I wanted … Did it mean anything to you? Were you just indulging your drunk friend?

“Pam?”

He sounded so sad and confused and I wasn’t sure if I should be angry or despairing. The way he looks at me and totally over it. I don’t know who he is sometimes.

“Jim, I…”

I trailed off. I had no idea how to finish that sentence.

There was a long moment of silence before he cleared his throat again. “Yeah, okay. Um. I’ll, uh… I’m sorry. Just forget it. Bye.”

He hung up, leaving me staring at the phone.










-----

-----







Nice, Halpert. You’ve really done it now.

I banged my hip on the edge of my desk and barked out a curse as I stumbled to the bathroom in search of aspirin, which I knew already wasn’t going to do anything to stop the throbbing behind my eyes. I poured out three tablets into my hand and tried to dry-swallow them, but one got stuck in my throat and that horrible dry chalk made me choke until I forced it down with a few handfuls of tepid water.

Mark, you fucking cheapskate, can’t you ever buy the coated stuff?

I gripped the counter and stared at my haggard reflection.

I wasn’t always like this. I used to be happy. I used to enjoy things. I used to go to movies and listen to music and play the guitar and read Bukowski. Now it seems like all I do is think about Pam. I don’t enjoy anything the way I used to unless she’s with me, and outside of work, that’s pretty much…never.

Hopeless. Pathetic.

I hung up on her. I’ve never done anything like that before, ever. But I can’t take this anymore. The starts and stops and almost-truths; I can’t live like this. All along I’ve been so afraid of fucking up our friendship and being left without even that, incomplete and insufficient as it is, and now I’ve gone and ruined it all anyway.

She’ll never say it. Never. Give it up, you pathetic fuck.

I wanted to go over there and see her. I wanted to force her to admit that it wasn’t all in my head. I wanted to shake her until her tongue came loose and spilled out the truth. I wanted to feel, just once, her face in my hands, and hold her against me, and kiss her senseless until she just…surrendered.

Excellent plan. It’s foolproof!

I smiled sourly at my reflection and splashed handfuls of water on my face, then gave up and dunked my head under the tap. Flipping my hair back, I shook my head furiously, flinging water everywhere.

Still drunk.

I went back to my room and fell onto my bed, willing sleep to take me. But my mind wouldn’t give me any rest, and I lay there staring at the ceiling with the phone in my hand, alternately debating calling her back and wondering if she’d call me, until I couldn’t take it anymore and went back downstairs.

The bottle of Cuervo was empty. Probably for the best. I poured a glass of orange juice instead and took it into the living room, clicking on the TV just to have somewhere to put my eyes. It was nearly one in the morning, so there wasn’t much on, but Adult Swim was always diversionary. I’d tried explaining Aqua Teen Hunger Force to Pam once but I got only as far as “Meatwad” before she dissolved into giggles and I had to give up.

Stop thinking about Pam.

Right.


------


For at least ten seconds, I thought the knocking had been some part of the cartoon that my confused brain wasn’t comprehending. But then it came again, just two short little raps.

My feet got tangled in the blanket as I tried to get up, and it seemed to take a long time for me to extricate myself and make my way to the door. By then my heart was pounding and I was shot through with a wave of desperate hope as I reached for the handle.

It’s not Pam it’s not Pam she wouldn’t come here it’s the middle of the night don’t be stupid it’s not Pam.

But it was Pam. Right there, on my doorstep.

She looked up at me with wide eyes, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle, her nose and cheeks pink from the cold. She was wearing jeans and a moss-green shawl I’d never seen before, and her hair was down, and she was so beautiful I couldn’t speak, just stared at her stupidly.

“You look terrible,” she said finally, frowning at me.

I ran a hand through my hair, which, judging from the smirk that replaced her frown, only made it worse. “Can I come in?” she asked quietly.

I nodded, my tongue still frozen to the roof of my mouth, and stood aside to let her in.

She waited in the entrance, rubbing her arms, looking around nervously as I shut the door behind her. I gestured to the couch, and she moved toward it uncertainly, veering at the last second to take the chair instead.

I perched on the edge of the couch, waiting. I had a thousand questions, relevant questions like what are you doing here? But as the silence stretched out and she avoided my eyes, staring down at her hands, fiddling with her ring, I heard myself ask, “Do you want… something to drink?”

She shook her head, still not looking at me.

I sighed and leaned back into the cushions. Tired, still a little drunk, not entirely in control of my tongue, I said, “What do you want?”

She looked up and met my eyes with what appeared to be some difficulty; she looked like she wanted to bolt, but was forcing herself to stay put. She licked her lips, swallowed, and then whispered, “It meant something.”

I stared at her, my heart starting to hammer triple-time again. “It did.”

She held my gaze, her eyes wide and frightened, and nodded almost imperceptibly.

A surge of wild hope bloomed up in my chest, and I bit the inside of my cheek to keep my face neutral. Don’t push. Let her speak. Oh, Jesus, is she…?

“I’m getting married,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m not supposed to be thinking about…” She shook her head, looking down again. “This,” she finished helplessly, waving at the space between us.

This. The unspoken thing, the bond, the connection we never talked about. I felt suddenly light, like something huge and heavy had dropped away from me at the acknowledgment of its existence.

She took a deep, quavering breath and met my eyes. “Roy’s my fiance,” she said firmly.

And just like that, I fell back to earth with a thud.

She’d come here to remind me of my place. There was no space for this in her life. Whatever this was, to her.

“Right.” I couldn’t keep the bitterness out of my voice.

She tilted her head and looked at me with an expression I couldn’t decipher, a mixture of sadness and anger and confusion in her eyes I’d never seen before. “I don’t understand you,” she frowned.

I frowned back at her. What couldn’t she understand? Did I have to fall to my knees and beg?

“Did it mean anything...to you?” Her eyes didn’t leave mine, but she was twisting her ring, back and forth, back and forth.

I stared at her, incredulous. Did it mean anything to me? Was she serious?

“You said you were over it.” She stopped playing with her ring and crossed her arms, holding her elbows. “You said you were totally over it.”

What…?

Oh, fuck. I’m such an idiot.

She stared at me levelly, pinning me there with her eyes. “Are you? Over it?”

God, I was terrified to answer. This could be the end of everything, or the beginning of something, and looking into her eyes I had no idea which it would be. She had never been so unreadable.

Tell her the truth. Just once, tell her the truth.

I shook my head, just barely, and somehow found my voice, though it wasn’t much more than a whisper. “I’m in love with you.”

She went pale, her eyes widening in shock. It didn’t look to be a happy kind of shock.

Instantly the panic set in, and I cast about wildly for some way to qualify it, but it was too late; for better or worse, it was out there now. I looked down at my bare feet on the carpet, unable to meet her gaze, and wondered briefly if that job in Maryland was still open. I couldn’t face the pity I knew I’d find in her eyes.

I saw her feet move in their fur-lined clogs (never seen those before), heard her get up, and I clenched my hands into fists against my thighs. She’d have to see herself out; I was paralyzed, rooted to the spot.

Instead she crossed the space between us and sat down beside me on the couch, so close her jeans-clad thigh pressed up against mine and sent an electric quiver down my spine. “Jim,” she said quietly.

I couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, couldn’t look at her, could barely breathe. My heart was pounding so hard all I could hear was the blood in my ears.

She reached over, took my hand, gently pried my fist open to slip her hand into mine. The heel of her tiny hand pressed into my palm as she wound her fingers through mine and now I really couldn’t breathe.

She reached up with her other hand, touched my chin to turn my face toward her, and I was so afraid, so fucking terrified to meet her eyes. It was going to break me to see her compassion and sorrow, her struggle to let me down easy.

“Jim…really?”

Her voice was so soft. Her fingertips on my chin moved delicately along my jaw until her whole palm was cradling my face, and I closed my eyes, unable to bear it.

She shifted against me, and in the instant before her lips touched the corner of my mouth I felt her breath on my face, her fingers tighten around mine as she clutched my hand.

I gasped my surprise, and she moved to take my bottom lip between hers, exhaling a soft sound into my mouth, and when the tip of her tongue touched mine I thought I’d die right there. Her eyelashes on my cheek, her hand on my face, her whole body pressed up against me. I wondered momentarily if I were dreaming and then she made that sound again, oh sweet Jesus that sound, and something inside me just…broke free.

I reached up with my free hand to cradle her face, and she leaned into me, her hand sliding up off my face into my hair as we sank into each other. She let go of my hand and wrapped her arm around my neck and I wound my arm around her waist and she was kissing me, her mouth warm and open on mine, her hands moving in my hair, her back arching under me when I slid my hand around her waist and pulled her against me. It was…well, not every one of my fantasies come to life, but it was definitely where they all began and it went on for what seemed an hour but was probably only a couple of minutes before the sound of footsteps on the stairs broke the spell.

Pam sprang backwards with her hand over her mouth, staring up in horror at Mark as he wandered through, yawning, on his way to the kitchen.

“Jesus, Jim go to bed,” he muttered, squinting at the TV, and it was only then that he saw Pam and absolutely jumped back in shock. “Oh—fuck, sorry—” His face contorted in astonishment as he stared from her to me, and then he turned around and scrambled back toward the stairs.

She was already on her feet, reaching for her purse. “I have to go,” she mumbled, and I was barely able to get to my feet before she was out the door, slamming it shut behind her.


-------


“Dude,” Mark said for the fiftieth time in twenty minutes. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t—”

For the fiftieth time, I waved him off. “Not your fault. How could you know.”

“You told her,” he marveled.

“Yup.”

“She kissed you.”

I just looked at him. Christ, I was so tired. None of it seemed real now.

“No, I mean she kissed you.” He made a face, that’s significant.

I shrugged at his optimism. What difference did it make? She was gone. She ran away like it was a mistake, a terrible mistake. Which, to her mind, it apparently was.

“You don’t think that’s a big deal?” he persisted, rooting around above the fridge until he emerged with a bottle of Skyy vodka. He held it up triumphantly and proceeded to pour a generous shot into my warm glass of orange juice.

I shoved it away, shrugging again. “She’s gone, isn’t she?”

“Yeah, but still. Keep hope alive.” He picked up my screwdriver and took a big swallow. “She wants you, man. Give her some time to figure it out.”

Time. Right.

“I’m going to bed,” I sighed.


--------


It was near two-thirty in the morning—which I knew because I was staring at the clock, watching the digits change, utterly unable to sleep—when my phone buzzed and chirped with a text message alert.

Two words.

I’m sorry

Sorry for what? Sorry I was in love with her? Sorry for kissing me?

I typed back, sorry for what

The reply took a minute. It was not what I expected, although really I wasn’t sure what I expected.

Running out

For a long time I just stared at the screen, not daring to hope what that might mean. As I stared down at the screen, the phone rang, startling me so much I dropped it and did a brief juggling act to pick it up before it could cut out.

“Did you mean it?” she asked, without waiting for me to say hello.

“Yes,” I said simply.

“Really?” Her voice was soft.

“Pam,” I sighed. Please don’t do this, not unless you’re gonna say it back.

“How long?” she whispered.

I swallowed hard. “Years.”

“Oh, my god,” she murmured.

“Yeah.”

She was quiet for a long minute, until finally I blurted, “So, you? Anything?” And I held my breath and closed my eyes, conjuring up the memory of her warm skin under my hands. Just once I’d wanted to feel her. At least I got that much.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Yes?” I echoed, stunned.

“Yes.” She swallowed noisily. “Not years, but…yes.”

“Oh my god,” I thought, and she chuckled, and I realized I’d said it aloud. “So…now what.”

“I have to tell… to take care of some things.” She paused, then asked very softly, “Will you wait?”

I laughed; I couldn’t help it. Would I wait. “Um…yes.”

“Okay,” she murmured. “I’m glad.”

“Glad. Yes. Me too.” I was afraid I was about to start laughing hysterically. Too many emotions tonight; I felt like I was going to have a heart attack. But in an almost kind of pleasant way.

“Good night, Jim.” I could feel her smile.

“Good night, Pam.”

I turned onto my side and stole one more glance at the clock. To mark this moment.

2:37.

Before it was 2:38, I was asleep.










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