She chose the purple turtleneck because she liked it that the sleeves were too long. There was something strangely alluring about the feel of the whispery fabric clinging to her wrists, the delicate heels of her hands, tempting her fingers down toward her palms in a gesture that seemed comforting somehow. The jumper was purely a sentimental thing; she'd worn it in high school - senior year, when she'd attended the ceremony to accept a plaque for her contribution to Chrysalis, the school's literary and arts magazine.
She'd done a still life of the flagpole outside the front entrance to the school, all black and white but for the red stripes in the flag.
It had resonated with some of the teachers and a small proportion of the students, so she'd won the third place prize. When she'd gotten the thick, creamy envelope in the mail, complete with an official seal, she had rushed into the house, calling out for her mother because she knew what the contents would hold – and she wanted to share that moment with her mom.
Her mother had helped her pick out the jumper, declaring it stylish enough ("Black is always classy"), yet just esoteric enough for an aspiring painter. ("A jumper just seems to scream artist, don't you think?")
While she'd never forget her mother's genuine enthusiasm, which she later recognized made the whole experience that much more amazing, it had not prepared her well for Roy's oblivious indifference.
…Which, incidentally, she’d never forget either.
She'd driven over to his house, which she usually didn't do on school nights, rushing out of the car to scramble up the stairs of his front porch, bouncing on her heels as she waited for him to answer the door.
He'd read the contents on the page, his brow furrowing; when his eyes met hers, she was startled to see pity there...nothing remotely akin to the bursting pride she'd seen on her mother's face.
"Third place? Oh babe...I'm sorry. But you know, this doesn't matter in the long run; it's just a stupid high school publication. Doesn't mean a thing." He'd flashed her that dimpled smile.
All she could do was stare at him, afraid to blink.
-----------------
"Roy said that?"
He hadn't been able to look at her, his jaw taut with anger.
It was the first time that she'd ever seen Jim truly mad. Sure, after years of working with him and Dwight, she'd witnessed his exasperation a hundred times. Yet frustration could easily be managed with a retaliatory prank.
But this? It was a kind of disheartened wariness, as if she'd really wounded him by giving up so easily.
"Is there something you'd like to say?"
It was easier to get defensive than to face the fact that he was right to be upset - that she ought to be upset. Ought to be elated, too, that someone cared enough about her to react in the way that he was now.
Such a difference from Roy: "Pam, there's no guarantee it'll ever amount to anything; it's too expensive, and it's not worth the gamble.... It just doesn’t make sense, babe; you need to let it go."
Jim shook his head, then: "You've got to take a chance on something sometime, Pam. ...I mean, do you want to be a receptionist here...always?"
"Oh...excuse me!" The volume of her voice startled her, but it had been second nature to react with righteous indignation - so much easier than honesty. "I'm fine with my choices!"
Whenever she actually yelled, Roy unfailingly gave up - either he'd be intimidated enough to step forward, pull her into his arms, whisper to her that he was sorry and that they just needed to forget about it; or he'd get so frustrated that he'd storm out with a wave of his hand, a shake of the head – and they’d never talk about it again.
He had never challenged her - because he didn't know her well enough to do so.
Strange that the realization hadn't occurred to her until she stood there forcing herself to glare at Jim – who had no qualms about challenging her.
Never mind that he was slowly dismantling her defenses every single fucking day.
He didn't break eye contact, his shoulders slumped, voice incredulous. "You are?"
"Yeah." She'd been aiming for sarcasm, but had only succeeded in managing a weak, defensive inflection that sounded even to her own ears like a petulant teenager.
She had stood then, brushing past him to storm out.
Twenty minutes later, he sent her a simple email, its honesty intensifying the ache she'd long since learned to live with:
I'm sorry if I pushed you too far; I just can't stand seeing you settle.
Things could be so amazing for you, Pam - there's so much more out there, but you'll never have it if you don't take a chance.
And it kills me to see you discouraged or settling, when I know - I know - you can have anything you want if you'll just be brave enough to take the leap and go for it.
She'd known even when she read it that he wasn't just talking about the internship; she had, in fact, read it with tears hovering, her throat swelling and aching so much that it hurt to swallow.
It had taken her a week to find the courage to thank him - and even then, she'd done so in an email:
I wanted to say thanks for what you did last week. I'm sorry I was so mean; I know you were just trying to help.
That was as far as she allowed herself to go; he knew her too well - frighteningly so - and if she were to say more than that, she worried he'd push further.
She worried she'd break and say all the things she tried so desperately not to think.
It meant so much to me to see how upset you were - Jim, I know you really care, and it's so hard to deal with sometimes. Because you're my best friend, but it's so complicated, because it isn't always black and white. I mean, he's my fiancé; I've been with him since I was sixteen years old.
It's just....sometimes when I think about you, I'm terrified.
-------------------------
She stood alone, adjusting and then re-adjusting her drawings. When more than forty-five minutes passed with not one recognizable face, she told herself that it didn't matter; this wasn't about any kind of public recognition. It was symbolic of the steps she'd taken over the last eight months.
As if to punctuate her thought, Roy came around the corner. The self-loathing was biting when she heard herself say, "Hey babe..."
The words sounded so wrong, mere echoes of her high school self.
His too-evident pride at the fact that he'd not only shown up (it's something you should be rewarded for?), but had also brought his brother, who was dismally out of place (God, I miss Jonathan so much sometimes…all the time) made her hesitate; when he'd pointed out the absence of all her co-workers as if it were a good thing, she'd swallowed hard, the space seeming very small all of a sudden.
At the door, she kissed him goodbye, trying to ignore the implications in what he said so proudly: "I looked at all of them."
Mommy, I did all my homework; can I go outside and play now?
When he'd asked if she would meet him at his place, saliva had filled her mouth, the bile rising in her throat without warning.
I don't love you; I don't even want you anymore.
It was easiest to just throw out an excuse about being tired. Because he was Roy (not Jim), he bought it, offering her a compliment that made her cringe ("Yours is the prettiest...of all the artwork").
As she watched his truck back out of its parking place, she knew that she shouldn't beat herself up for slipping backward a bit; more than that, she felt a sense of relief (my god, it never would've worked) that offered closure, but no real consolation.
----------------
She watched Michael's profile, struggling not to cry. His earnest, so enthusiastic response was like a salve on the raw wound Gil's words had so carelessly wrought. Even as the realization struck her, she waited for Michael to ruin it - to be insensitive, maybe do something totally inappropriate like claim that the stapler drawing was phallic or something.
Instead, he simply looked over at her, lips pulled back in a small smile - the kind of restrained smile that speaks volumes, emotes so much more than even full-on laughter or a beaming expression can.
"I'm proud of you."
As she stepped forward instinctively, putting her arms around his neck, she realized then that those were the words she'd never heard Roy speak. Not once.
Nor would she ever, because he just didn't get it.
But she did.
Finally.
--------------
She drank half of a bottle of wine and began composing emails to him, all of them in Word so she could edit them. ...As if she'd ever send them.
Jim,
I had my first art show earlier. No one came (except Oscar and Gil - both of whom slammed my art, which is really bad, considering that they're gay and therefore should be authorities on the matter, right?).
Did that sound homophobic? Because I totally didn’t mean it that way – you know that.
Anyway, it was miserable.
I know it would've been better if you'd been there.
********************************
Jim,
I had an art show - my first - earlier tonight. It was sort of exciting, but also kind of a letdown.
I'd envisioned swarms of people asking me all kinds of complicated questions about my method or my subjects. Instead, I had a conversation with a nice old lady who reminded me of my Nana. (The one I told you about who had the hickory she'd make to spank us with. Except this lady was nice - she didn't try to spank me, even though I think she secretly wanted to.)
...Did that sound too dirty?
Anyway, I had all that time to stand there and think about nothing (other than those weird metal springy things that stick out of the wall - you know, those contraptions that supposedly keep doors from closing all the way - and I decided that they're creepy. Did I tell you that I had a puppy once who pawed at one of those things? He did, and when it made that weird sound - if you were here, I'd totally do it for you - it freaked him out, and he peed all over the floor.)
...Where was I?
Oh yeah, stood there with lots of time to think.
Was contemplating all the awesome things we'd have done to pass the time. Like draw moustaches on other people's work. Cliched? Yes. For a reason? Absolutely.
***************************
Jim,
I had an art show tonight for the first time; I thought it would be such a big deal.
Turns out that only Oscar and Gil bothered to show up, and Gil said my stuff was "Hotel Room Art."
The capitalizations weren't an accident; I'm thinking of marketing the concept:
HRA:
H: Homely (which would be appropriate in a hotel, as it seeks to make patrons feel at home - get it???)
R: Regretfully, not renderings of peasants' hands. (Gil thought it appropriate to point out that Van Gogh started out with far more stimulating subjects than just a stapler and a coffee mug. Okay, so maybe he had a point there. …But Van Gogh? Seriously?)
A: Anything but honest (Turns out that courage and honesty aren't my strong suits - this information comes to you courtesy of Oscar and Gil.)
So yeah...it kind of sucked.
But Michael showed up at the last minute, and he really... I don't know, Jim; it might sound crazy, but he made it all seem okay.
******************************
Jim,
I'm halfway into a bottle of wine, and I've got a pile of paintings scattered out on my living room floor.
They're relics of the mistakes I've made in the last two weeks - stupid, mindless things like a stapler, a coffee mug, the building...
I've got a drawer full of other stuff that's so much more...revealing.
So yeah, I had my first art show - why didn't I choose to display the good stuff, the personal stuff?
Because no one deserves to see it but you, and I knew you wouldn't be there.
And I know it's totally wrong and insane and inappropriate to drop all this on you now - this crazy succession of emails - but if I'm being totally honest, I have to tell you that you've kind of haunted me this whole night.
I'm laughing now, because that was an incredibly stupid thing to say.
...But Jim, you've haunted me for such a long time, and most especially ever since you looked at me in that parking lot and said the words I only wish I'd had the guts to say back.
It's too late, I know, but just for the record...now I do.
I'm in love with you.
My god, there's so much more I want to say, but I'm forcing myself to send this now. And I'm praying you don't hate me for it - it's too late, I know, but...as you said, I just needed you to know.
Once.
