Disclaimer: I still own nothing. Okay?
After a week or so, the flowers completely wilted and the petals had all but completely shriveled up and fallen off. Jim and I have anything but died, though. The shiny polish; the ‘new and exciting’ feeling wore off after a month or so.
I think I prefer it this way.
I discovered I actually really, really enjoy sleeping in my bed…I mean, the couch is nice and all, but nothing beats a full-size bed with a layer of feather bedding. Except maybe a king-size, according to Jim. He tends to toss and turn in his sleep, I’ve noticed. I don’t mind, because I guess I sleep pretty heavily…It’s just that some nights, I wake up to his arm draped across my forehead. I don’t mind. I’m able to just move his arm and go right back to sleep.
I also discovered that I like the left side of my bed, closest to the window. See, there’s a television in the corner of the room, now, and we can watch it from bed. I ended up moving the curtains down so the sunlight doesn’t glare on the screen, should we ever decide to waste time just watching TV. Of course, that takes away some of the curtain that used to keep the sun from peering through the blinds and into my room on the right side of my window. Now, most mornings, sunlight spills in through the blinds onto the bed, in my face. I don’t mind that, either, because most mornings, I wake up to a beautiful day, a beautiful picture Jim and I had taken while visiting his parents, and Jim. Even on the mornings I only wake up to sunlight and the picture (or just the picture – Scranton weather’s nowhere near always nice), I still wake up smiling.
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"Hey, Beesly." He walks up behind me and kisses my cheek.
"Um, hey, Jim? Your mom wants to take me one day next week to this gala in Philly…Do you mind, or wanna come with us?"
"Um...No, thanks." I knew he’d say no, but I’m still disappointed. He kisses my cheek, and tells me it’d be fun for his mom and I to get to know each other better.
Larissa smiles to herself as she turns away from the sink. She’d been doing the dishes. "Aw, look at this. As if I weren’t wrinkled enough…" She laughs as she picks up a dish towel from the counter beside the sink. She calls Jim over, tells him he needs to shave, and kisses him on the cheek. "Don’t worry, we’ll be fine; won’t we, Pam?" She winks at me.
And it’s not that I mind going. I’m really excited about it, actually. It’s not that I’m mad, or upset, by the fact that Jim doesn’t want to go. I know he supports me, but I also know that art just doesn’t strike him the way it does me. I’m just…The idea of spending time, alone, with someone else’s mother makes me a little nervous. She likes me fine when Jim’s around, but I really have no idea how she’ll be once it’s just her and I.
Jim tells us he's going to go watch the game with his father, and get some "quality male-bonding" done.
She watches him duck his head so he doesn’t hit his head on the door frame. We hear his deep voice, a pause. Then he laughs like I haven’t heard him laugh in forever.
"Pam, would you reach into the freezer and pull the cake out? If you’ll just set it on the picnic table out back, I’ll go ahead and get the balloons aired up and ready." She smiles at me softly, obviously in thought. She sets the dish towel back on the counter and heads outside.
It’s Jim’s birthday, and he said he didn’t want a party…But, as Larissa explains, this is not a party. It’s a celebration.
So I take the ice cream cake from the freezer and smile to myself at the red and white icing, his team colors. And I let out a little chuckle at the message:
"Happy Birthday," in pink, and "Jim!" in red, per my request. I hope he gets it. It hadn’t taken Larissa two seconds, since she’d been the one to give him the flower trick.
I help Larissa finish getting the balloons aired, and we tie them three at a time to the backs of the chairs. She goes in to get Jim and his father as I light the candles.
He comes out, and we all sing to him and let him serve his cake.
I take his slice, though, and inform him that he can’t have it and eat it, too. He tells me it’s his birthday, and he’ll cry if he wants to, so I hand it back, laughing hysterically.The music from the little boom box on the table is playing some old country song we’ve never heard, but his parents seem to love it.
I walk over and just as I’m about to grab the plates and take them to the kitchen, Jim walks up behind me and places his hands on my hips, forcing them to sway with the rhythm of the song. He ducks his head and kisses my neck. I turn my head into his neck, and we just stand there for a moment, smiling at each other, and it’s like the Booze Cruise all over again. It’s quiet, and we’re speaking, screaming, ripping each other apart (in every sense of the term), all without saying a word.
And then a flash, and Larissa laughing. She promises to get doubles made of that roll of film.
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I don’t dread my job, anymore. I think Jim might be getting bored with his, but for now, we’re not going to push it. We’ve been able to keep things pretty under the radar, and for now, I think that’s the way to go.
That’s one argument I’ve won.
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"I don’t understand why you don’t just go," he tells me.
"Go where? Live where? Do what?" I ask. I’m scared, I can’t read his face. Is he asking me to leave him?
"Anywhere. Anywhere. And anything." He smiles and pulls me closer to him. He seems to like just sitting on my bed, even though his feet hang off the edge once he lies down, and I only have the one body-pillow. "We could just go, Pam. Pack up and leave."
"I don’t want to leave," I protest. Scary, but true. I’m not done here. "Not yet, anyway. Scranton’s not all bad, Jim. It’s nice and quiet, mostly safe and I think it’s family-friendly." Did I really just say that? No, really. I can’t remember. I must’ve, because he’s giving me the look.The "Jeez, Beesly, I know we’re young and in love and all, but I’m not too keen on the idea of having to marry a girl because you were dying to be eating for two" look.
"Don’t give me that look. I just meant that in case we ever decide to go that route…"
He cuts me off with a kiss, and it deepens as he gently moves to lie me on my back.
My phone starts to ring.
"Oh, oh, let me up!" I say, hurriedly. No luck.
He pins my arms over my head and kisses my face; my cheeks, forehead, nose, lips. He keeps telling me I’m gonna have to ask nicely.
"Please?" I beg. He answers it for me and strikes up a conversation with my mother like it’s no big deal, telling her I’m in the shower, but I’ll call her back.
And I hope to God she knows it’s Jim. She’ll understand if she knows it’s Jim.
He makes plans, we’ll see them Sunday. Yeah, I’ll call her in about ten minutes. He hangs up.
"Ten minutes?" I ask, and raise an eyebrow at him, smiling.
"Mmhmm." He goes back to kissing me, but that’s as far as it goes that night.
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Some mornings, I wake up to the smell of cinnamon, and even though they’re the store-bought, place-in-a-tray-and-bake cinnamon rolls, they’re still the best I’ve ever had. On some of those mornings, the sun shines and causes the ring on my left hand to sparkle, sometimes catching me in the eyes. I don’t mind. I kind of like it. I especially like how he got the size right on the first try, and how he knew to go about asking.
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"Are you sure?" I keep asking. I love Jim’s parents, they’re wonderful people, I just don’t know if they’d love my parents, or if my parents could love them. They came from two different worlds, and it’s not to say they’re intolerant, just different. His parents are grandparents; my parents got four days away from their only daughter’s wedding.
"Positive." He keeps telling me, kissing the back of my hand.
Jim’s parents follow us to my parent’s house, and I’m relieved to see them get along instantly. Jim kisses me on the forehead, and tells me he’s going to watch some of the Phillies game with the fathers before he starts up the grill. I go with our mothers into the kitchen, and mostly listen to them chat about how silly sports are, and how odd it is that something as simplistic as baseball or football can hold a man’s attention for three-plus hours.
And I pray Jim isn’t like that. I enjoy baseball on occasion, but only on occasion. And now I feel kind of bad, like I should already know if Jim’s the kind of guy who needs to watch every sport, every day.
And now I feel worse, because I know he’s not. So I just smile and nod, and sip my tea.
Jim kisses the top of my head as he grabs the food from the refrigerator, and heads out back. I excuse myself, and go stand out by him as he’s starting up the propane grill. Once he gets it going, he puts an arm around my waist and tells me he loves me.
"I love you, too." And that’s the first time we’ve really talked about it, said it out loud. We’ve known it all along, but the "pink-zone" was just too comfortable.
My mother and I set the table as Jim’s mother gets everyone a glass of iced tea and bringing them out, two-by-two and placing them on the table.
My parents have a lovely patio behind the house, with a large garden and in-ground pool. The whole house is like something out of a story book, and I can only dream of living someplace this magnificent.
Jim calls our fathers outside and begins to serve up the food. We sit around for nearly an hour; eating, drinking, laughing, being a family.
I’m so relieved our parents get along, and he knows that’s what’s on my mind because he gives me a little kick under the table and winks.
And then he stands up and goes into the kitchen, without a word. Our parents seem oblivious, and just as I turn my head to see where he went, he’s coming back out with two boxes in his hands.
They’re both black with velvety surfaces. One’s long and skinny; one’s square and short.
He looks at my father, and once he gets the nod of approval, Jim drops to one knee, and asks me to choose a box.
I point to his left hand, the square one, and hope that didn’t seem over-anxious. I’m surprised to see it’s a pair of earrings, cheap and not worth the tears, really.
"No, they’re perfect. I love them." I smile and kiss him.
"Nah. Pick another box." He smiles at me as I pick the only remaining box: the long, skinny one.
He smiles as he opens it to reveal a silver locket, and tells me to open that.
Inside’s a miniature version of the picture hanging in my bedroom. Engraved are the words, "I love you."
And I’m smiling and crying (tears of joy, I swear), and I almost don’t notice a third box has been placed next to my glass.
"Third time’s a charm." He encourages, and I freeze. He opens the box and holds out his hand, waiting for me to give him mine.
"Pam," he starts. But he can’t finish. He’s crying, too. I look back, and our parents are smiling to themselves; our mothers gripping one another’s arm and biting back any words. "Pam, I love you. If you say yes, tonight, I’ll set a date, tonight." He kisses me softly, encouragingly.
He smiles, and looks so vulnerable and cute.
I hold out my hand, placing it on his.
"Marry me." He doesn’t really ask, but he doesn’t need to. He knows my answer.
And he smiles and picks me up, spinning me in the air before setting me down and asking if I’m sure.
"Is there a reason I shouldn’t be?" And when neither of us can come up with one, our parents finally feel free to step over and congratulate us.
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And some Saturday mornings, when it’s cool out and everyone in Scranton’s still sleeping, we walk down to the park and walk the trails for about an hour, talking about everything. Jim has decided he doesn’t want to not know anything about me. I don’t think I mind.
We’ve been engaged nearly a month, now, and I know I don’t mind how it’ll only be another two months until we’re wed.
