Okay, it wasn’t actually fourteen beers. You’re not Roy. But it was almost all of Jim’s beer, two strawberry margaritas, and a regular margarita. Plus all the ice.
Roy wouldn’t be caught dead with a strawberry margarita in his hand. You don’t think he’s ever actually eaten a strawberry. That’s why he’s at Poor Richard’s getting drunk on Jack Daniels with his friends, and you’re at Chili’s… getting drunk with your friends…
Whatever. You don’t miss him.
How could you when you’ve got a Dundie in your hand, all your coworkers returning your hugs, and Jim’s hand at your back as he walks you through the parking lot? He’s being so light with his touch, as if he’s doing it subconsciously.
His caution is only fair, you suppose, since you haven’t put him in an easy position tonight. It’s not like you to act first and think second, but your fight with Roy and the four drinks you had eliminated any chance at rationality. Now a persisting pinprick of guilt is ruining the warm exhilaration from icy tequila. You kissed someone other than your fiancé, in a bold move that could have ruined your safest relationship.
Drunk or not, you don’t want to think about why you actually went and kissed Jim. You’re starting to feel dizzy, too, so Jim finds a place to sit while you wait for Angela to get you. He doesn’t have to stay, but you love that he’s waiting with you. You close your eyes and try to focus on the warmth in your heart instead of the sour in your throat.
“I feel bad about what I wrote on the bathroom wall.”
“No, you don’t.” He laughs before he finishes his sentence, and you blush all the way up your cheeks as you stare at the trophy in your hands. He doesn’t need to know that your first dabbling in bathroom graffiti was originally about him, or that Roy only laughs this much when he’s testing your limit of offensive jokes.
“Oh, here she is,” Jim says as Angela pulls up to the curb. He pulls you to your feet and doesn’t let go until you’ve taken the step down off the sidewalk.
Suddenly it hits you that you’re going to turn into sober Pam again tomorrow morning, into the Pam that doesn’t listen to her heart without consulting her head first and thinks taking a chance means drinking caffeine after 5:00 p.m.
“Hey, um,” you say, still scrambling for a way to elongate this moment. “Can I ask you a question?”
You’ve seen him smile a hundred times before, but this one seems new. “Shoot,” he whispers.