I need a drink. 

Even as tears trickle down her face and sobs threaten to overtake her, Pamela Beesly knows she needs to get wasted. Anything to make this feeling go away. She feels ill, absolutely physically ill. She pulls over to the side of the road and scrambles out of the car and wretches, aching to throw up- anything for some release. Nothing happens other than a few painful dry heaves, which only serve to make her cry harder. She isn’t sure how long she sits there as she cries and heaves and hopes that somehow all this pain can just be over.

God, it had really come to this. 

If she never saw any of them again it would be too soon. All the love she had felt for Jim, the love that used to make her feel giddy and free now only serves to choke her. She can’t breathe.

She just wants the sadness to stop, for it to be over. But she isn’t sure how she can do that, if she left she would just be cutting them out of her life, leaving a gaping hole so big that she isn’t sure if there would be anything left to start over with.

She could just never speak to them again, just watch in silence as they all live out their lives; but wasn’t that what she Had been doing, isn’t that what brought her here.

She could go home and drink enough to never wake up again. As soon as the thought enters her head she shakes it out, whispering to herself the word no. As if saying it aloud would make it less likely that she would do it. She suddenly feels so scared and so alone that she isn’t sure exactly how she can leave the place where she is sitting.

Somehow she makes it to her car and shakes her head as she reaches for her seatbelt, dropping it back, if God could cut her enough slack to let her get into an accident she wasn’t putting anything in the way of ending this misery. 

So this was desperation. 

She really meant to drive home, she really did. But before she knows it she has pulled into the grocery store. She walks in as if on autopilot towards the liquor aisle and in the process knocks over a small display, as she flails to catch its contents before they spill all over the floor she connects with something solid.

Or someone, and suddenly all of this is just too much for her to bear. And she begins to sob, softly, silently and the arms attached to the body she has just hit are pulling her up and then she is sitting and a box of tissues are placed in her lap. She looks up and sees the kindest eyes she has ever seen looking down at her.

“You ok?” he asks.

She shakes her head affirmatively, then again negatively.

“Bad day, huh?” he asks.

“The worst of my life.” She says simply, “Thank you for helping me but…”

“Uh uh,” Says the stranger with a strange accent, part Texas twang, part southern lilt. “No ma’am where I come from we don’t let beautiful crying women out of our sight until we’re sure they’re ok.”

“There are a lot of crying women where you come from huh?” she asks with a watery smile.

“Only when I’m leaving,” he replies with a good-natured laugh “So I see you can smile, that’s a start.”

“I really should get going,” she says as she half-heartedly reaches for her purse.

“How about I buy you some coffee,” he says as he points to the Starbucks counter behind them, “and you tell me about why you were heading in a trance towards the alcohol.”

She has the good grace to blush and for the first time takes a moment to survey this stranger. He’s dressed in faded jeans and a faded, fitted Beastie Boys t-shirt, one that she can tell that he’s had a long, long time. Over which he has on a corduroy blazer complete with leather elbow patches. He’s really handsome in an indie rock kind of way with dark wavy hair that curls over his ears and dark rimmed glasses. He seems like he just stepped out of the East Village and if Pam didn’t want to bang her head against the table she would have thought that he was really quite cute.

She manages to shrug her shoulders ok and he rises up and ambles over to the counter.

By the time he returns she’s composed enough to not need more tissues and be able to drink her coffee without incident. He continues to watch her kindly and she finally sighs, “It’s a long story, I mean a really long one.”

“I’m a reporter,” he says with a shrug, “Obviously my current story on Scranton’s municipal water supply, has interested me so deeply that I’m doing my grocery shopping at 11:30 on Tuesday morning- trust me I got time.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” she asks without malice, just a tinge of wonder.

He laughs and shrugs his shoulders, “I dunno,” he says smiling to reveal two perfectly placed dimples and straight white teeth, “I guess I come from a family full of women, three older sisters, a Mother, an Aunt, my Grandma and me living under one roof growing up- and if they ever knew that I left a crying young woman alone in a grocery store they would have my hide.” He pats her hand good naturedly, “Besides I don’t know anybody in this town other than at the newspaper, and maybe I’m trying to selfishly make a new friend.”

“So you choose someone who appears obviously mentally unstable,” she replies with a wry grin.

“Only somewhat unstable,” he grins back, “and I’d say some of my best friends are all completely unhinged.”

“Where is home?” she asks, “I can’t place your accent.”

“Well, I just moved here from New York, but I don’t think that’s home for anyone really, but maybe that’s just the Texan in me talking. I’m originally from Austin, TX. I went to UT and moved up to Brooklyn to write the great American novel a few years after graduation, as you can tell that didn’t work out so I just took a job as a reporter at the Scranton Daily Standard.” He shakes his head, “And I feel like that guy from the Kleenex ads now, but I want you to tell me your story now,” he said as he dramatically pushes the box towards her.

She laughs, and swallows another few tears, “Ok but you asked for it,” and somehow she manages to get through the whole thing without breaking down. Like a good reporter, he only asks a few pointed questions of clarification and lets her talk. Other than letting out a low whistle when Jim kissed her on Casino Night and one when she recounted today’s events, he merely nods along with her story and occasionally squeezes her hand in friendly support.

When she finishes, he regards her silently and says, “One sec I’ll be right back,” and he jogs over to an ice cream case and quickly grabs something, paying at the register in change. He jogs back and holds out a dove ice cream bar to her, “That my dear deserves some chocolate and some ice cream,” he says with a smile.

She smiles back, as she unwraps the treat, “That’s very perceptive of you.”

“I told you I had three older sisters, I know that heartbreak calls for chocolate and break-ups for ice cream.” He says as playfully lists them on his fingers. “Now come on, you must be starved, I know I am,” he says as he pats his lean stomach while stretching out his long body in the plastic chair. “Let’s grab something to eat at the dinner across the street and you can tell me about your Art and I’ll tell you a break-up story that will make your hand stand on end,” he says as he throws his arm over her shoulder.

“I don’t even know your name,” she says shaking her head sadly, “And you’ve been so nice to me.”

“It’s Jack,” he says extending his hand, “It’s actually Jackson but Jack is fine.”

She giggles, “That’s quite a first name,”

“It was my mother’s maiden name and since her family is blessed exclusively with women other than myself, I was designated to carry down her family name as my first.” He says with a smile. “Most people think it’s a little pretentious.”

“Well, I’m Pamela, but just Pam is fine,” she replies.

“Do you mind if I call you Pamela?” he asks looking at her askew, “I had a really scary Aunt Pam growing up and I’d like to avoid those memories if at all possible,” he says with a fake shudder.

She laughs and says “Sure,” as they leave the grocery store, stepping out into the sun.