She looks calm. Too calm. Maybe calm enough, I don’t even know, but I gesture to my booth and she slides in cautiously.

“Did you get my messages?” I ask, avoiding her eyes as I pick at my paper napkin.

“All seven of them? Yeah, I did.” She doesn’t sound exactly happy, but not seething mad either. There’s an unsettling indifference about her that makes me feel like for all my talk about knowing her, I haven’t a clue who she is.

“Pam, I’m so sorry. Like, you have—I’ve been a wreck. I was ready to use the ‘it’s happy hour’ somewhere excuse so that I could start doing tequila shots—“

“Jim, stop. No jokes, okay?” She raises her voice loud enough so that the lovey-dovey couple actually turns around to look at us. “Can we just please, please, for once in our lives have a normal, adult conversation?”

Ouch. I ignore the stabbing pain in my stomach and let her continue. She has every right to be mad, and I have no room to try and stop her.

“Where did all of that come from? All that anger…I had no idea, Jim. None.” There’s panic in her eyes and I can tell she’s starting to wonder if there are other things she has no idea about. “If you have something you need to say to me just say it. No more of this passive aggressive bull. Just say it. Please.”

I think I might throw up. It would be so easy; so easy to do as she asks. And she’s looking at me with those eyes, still a little angry but mostly nervous, and all I want do is just say it.

“I just want what’s best for you,” is all I manage to choke out and I feel even more nauseous. Roy may not be the right guy for her but at least he had the balls to ask her out once upon a time. That’s more than I can say for myself right now.

“That’s it.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement dripping with disgust. “After all of that, you just want what’s best for me?”

“Pam—“

“No, I’m serious. I mean after all the yelling and humiliating, you would think that there might be something other than ‘I just want what’s best for you.’” Each time she says it, it’s like a punch in the stomach. I know she’s egging me on, really looking for some kind of confession that will make my earlier outburst seem vindicated. Justified.

But I can’t. I just swallow hard and shake my head again.

“No, I…I really want you to be happy. And if this is what makes you happy then…” I shrug, hoping that’s enough to finish the words I can’t bring myself to say.

She just nods, drops her head a little bit like she’s disappointed, though about what I can’t even begin to guess. Disappointed in me? That’d make two of us. Once again I find myself completely and utterly stuck. Nothing more than a stupid cliché: damned if I do and damned if I don’t. All I can do is try and salvage what’s left of this day, make it so that she doesn’t completely regret every saying yes to this ridiculous idea.

We sit in silence for a bit, fidgeting with napkins and cutlery till the tension becomes unbearable.

“So…what did you do?”

“To be honest, I was planning on just going back to Scranton. Then I figured out what that would cost and had the cab driver drop me off at a park nearby. I just needed time to think, you know?”

I nod, and almost let the subject drop at that, but curiosity gets the best of me. “What’d you think about?”

She makes a defeated sound and looks at me with a bittersweet smile. “How you were right.” My eyes go wide and she quickly corrects herself. “Not about everything, I mean, a lot of what you said and did was really crappy but…I’m kind of a doormat. Not just with Roy, but at work, too. I don’t speak up for myself because no one will even hear me, and the one person who does hear me…” she gestures toward me and I feel my cheeks burn. “You’ve called me out on it before and the fact that you had to call me out on it again means that I haven’t really done anything about it so…thanks. I guess.”

“You’re welcome?” I make it a question because really, I don’t deserve thanks. What exactly is worth thanking: the fact that I stand by and let her be treated like a doormat by the man she’s supposed to marry? For as happy as she makes me feel, I also feel sick, torn between wanting to constantly save her and letting her do what will make her happy. Even if that means marrying Roy.

“So,” she says flipping through the menu. “What does a girl have to do to get a cup of coffee and a chef salad around here?”

And there it is. Back on shallow, yet solid, ground.

“Chef salad? No, I’m sorry, not allowed.”

“What? Why not?”

“Pam, we are on a road trip. An adventure, if you will. Have you ever heard of someone eating healthy on an adventure? It’s all about survival, and you cannot survive on mixed greens and assorted deli meats.”

She giggles and throws her hands up in defeat. “Fair enough. What would you suggest?”

“Let’s see…chocolate chip pancakes are always a good choice. Or if you’re in a lunch-y mood, the Tex Mex burger sounds dangerous.”

Her face becomes much more interested. “Guacamole?”

“You and guac, I swear. You’ve got California blood in you.”

"So do I actually get to have this burger or are you just going to tease me all day?"

“The waitress and I are good buddies now, I’ve got you covered.” I motion towards the waitress and place our order. Pam and I make mild, meaningless conversation; the kind you make right after a huge fight when nothing’s been really resolved but you decide to go on with your lives anyway. Outside our little booth, the unspoken truth glares at us, desperate and itching to makes its way through the safe, laugh-filled bubble we’ve created for ourselves. But we don’t let it. We eat our Tex Mex burger and tuna melt (a first for me, I’m not sure I like it), talk about reality TV, and evaluate whatever stupid thing Michael did the other day. It’s how we exist; whether inside the office or at a diner in Stamford, Connecticut, this is us. And I’m starting to realize that will never, ever change.

“Well,” she says, pushing her empty plate away from her. “I’m full.”

“I’d say so. Your plate looks like Gettysburg.”

“I’d throw a napkin at you, but I can’t muster the strength.” She holds her stomach with a content smile but I can see in her eyes that no sleep is catching up with her.

“You’re tired. How about we just drive around for a while? See the sights?”

“The sights of Stamford?”

“I happen to know for a fact, Beesly, that Stamford is home to late night comic genius, David Letterman.”

Her face breaks into an infectious grin. “You’re kidding!”

“It’s true. We can drive by his house like a Hollywood tourist.” I smile proudly, happy to see that the day may be salvaged after all.

“That settles it, we’re stalking him,” she says, sliding out of the booth.

“Spoken like a true fan.” I reach for my wallet and feel a gentle hand on my arm.

“Hey, I got this one.”

“Are you sure?” I ask skeptically. “I really don’t mind.”

“I know, it’s just…even with all that’s happened today…” her mouth hangs open as she shakes her head, searching for the right, careful words.

“I owe you one.” She shrugs and gives me a smile that lets me know we’re okay. For now.

I smile back in thanks as she throws down some money on the table. She chatters excitedly about how we’re going to find the house, joking about finding a kiosk that sells star maps. I open the car door for her, laughing in all the right places and I think that this is enough.

For now.

2:59 pm