“It’s my fault, Jim, so stop apologizing.”

“No. Please explain to me how it’s your fault that I chose to devote so much time to Madden 2008 that I neglected my assignment for the Finer Things Club. This is all on me, Pam.”

She shook her head as she came behind him and leaned over his shoulder, pouring more of the Italian chardonnay into his glass. He picked at his broccoli nonchalantly. “I should have paid more attention. I’m the one who invited you to join the club, I should have been more aware that you weren’t reading the book. It sat unopened on your nightstand for two weeks.”

“Damn, Beesly, your deductive reasoning needs some serious work,” he chuckled as he took a sip from his glass. She rolled her eyes at him from across the small table.

She dropped her fork and knife onto her plate with a loud clang.

Jim raised his eyebrows mid-bite. “What?”

She lowered her head, seemingly engrossed in her chicken marsala.

“Nothing,” she said softly.

“Nope,” he shook his head, rubbing his hand through his hair in frustration. “You’re not getting away with this now. We’re going to talk about it.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said simply, taking a bite of chicken and chasing it with a large gulp of wine.

He chuckled. “Except the fact that I embarrassed you in front of Oscar today – and Toby, who already loves to take me down a peg every chance he gets. Besides the fact that making me look bad somehow makes him look better.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? Toby and I have been friends for years, nothing more,” she stabbed a piece of broccoli violently with her fork.

“Kind of like how we were friends for years, nothing more?” His eyes pleaded with her.

She laughed bitterly as she filled up her glass of wine. “You’re honestly comparing what happened between us to my friendship with Toby? Do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound right now?”

He lowered his head and sighed, grabbing his plate and walking over towards the sink.

“What if you decide that all that finer stuff is what you want, every day – that’s not me, Pam, and it never has been,” he turned the hot water on in a rush, rinsing his plate quickly and turning around to face her. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I haven’t opened a book since college. I like basketball and video games. My favorite band is Death Cab for Cutie. I could eat grilled cheese sandwiches every day of my life – you know, the pre-sliced cheese, not the fancy imported kind. I’m not exactly a Renaissance man.”

She leaned back in her chair, sipping her wine slowly as she took in his expression. He looked pale, nervous, scared. The fact that after almost six months together he still doubted her commitment to him made her feel off-balance, weak, wrong.

“Sit,” she pointed to the chair beside her at the table. He stood in place for a moment before her eyes pushed him onward. She walked into the living room and grabbed two sheets of paper and two pens from the computer desk. She placed one piece of paper in front of him at the table and handed him one of the pens. She took the other for herself.

“What's this?” he asked.

“I don’t think I’ve been completely honest with you lately – so, we’re both going to sit here, take a few minutes, and write down what we want on these pieces of paper.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “What do you mean, ‘what we want’? A Hawaiian vacation? A Ferrari? The end of the war?”

She shook her head and sighed. “No,” she squeezed his fingers, her eyes pleading with his. “What do you want, Jim?”

His eyes sparkled then, something shifting in his expression. He put pen to paper then. She was so wrapped up in writing her own list that she never noticed that he only wrote one thing (with a look of complete determination).

“Done yet?” he asked, smirking as she stuck the tip of her tongue out of her mouth in concentration. She nibbled on the end of her pen, giving one last look to her list before handing it to him.

“I want to read yours,” she attempted to snatch the folded piece of paper in his hands but he held it over her head, out of reach. She laughed and punched his shoulder playfully.

“No, I’m going first,” he said, opening her list and reading it carefully.

I want to be with you, only you.
I want to finish art school.
I want to work in graphic design.
I want to have a house with a terrace and a garden.
I want to get a dog.
I want a boy, Julian.
I want a girl, Emily.
I want to be healthy and happy and loved without question.

He ran his finger over the names “Julian” and “Emily” and smiled at the last sentence.

“So, what do you think?” she asked him expectantly.

He nodded, a slow smile spreading across his face as each word painted vivid pictures in his head. As she reached for his list, he suddenly found it hard to breathe. He watched her face as she opened the sheet and her eyes crossed the page.

I want you to marry me.